Surrender Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  “Before we returned to the house, we heard the horse galloping away and, with this rain, no one, poacher or murderous housebreaker, is likely to be skulking about. I suggest that you all return to your duties. Mrs. Sherbrook and I are retiring for the night.”

  Her maid, Peggy, was nowhere in sight when Isabel entered her rooms, but signs of Peggy’s industry were evident in the neatly turned-down bed and the fine lawn nightgown and matching robe that lay across the cream and green silk coverlet. Wasting little time, Isabel stripped out of her damp clothes and slipped into the nightgown. Chilled from the rain, she bypassed the lightweight robe on the bed and, crossing to the dressing room, opened one of the big mahogany wardrobes that lined the wall. Her fingers quickly found the yellow woolen robe she had been searching for. Wrapped in the warmth of the wool, she took a brief moment to take down her hair from the topknot of curls she had worn for the evening. She spent another moment swiftly brushing the thick auburn locks. With her hair waving gently about her shoulders, she stepped back into her bedroom and was pleased to find that Peggy had once more anticipated her needs and was busy placing a tray on one of the satinwood tables scattered about the large room.

  An expression of fondness in her blue eyes, Peggy glanced up from her task and said, “I thought that you might like a spot of hot tea on a night like this. There’s some warm milk if you prefer that. And some biscuits.”

  Nearly twenty years Isabel’s senior, Peggy had been her personal maid ever since Isabel had taken up residence in Manning Court. They had begun as strangers, and in the beginning Isabel had been a little intimidated by Peggy’s brisk manner and blunt ways, but over the years a warm relationship had developed between them, a relationship that went well beyond that of maid and mistress.

  Satisfied that all was in order with the tea tray, Peggy picked up the other robe from the bed and disappeared into the dressing room. Returning, she ran a critical eye over Isabel and, seeing her shiver, ordered, “Now into bed with you! You’re chilled and the last thing you need to do is catch cold.”

  Isabel didn’t argue. Tossing aside her robe, she slipped under the covers, sighing with bliss to find that despite it being the month of May, Peggy had warmed the sheets. With a bank of pillows at her back, Isabel sat up in the bed, the covers folded across her lap, and gratefully accepted the cup of hot, steaming tea Peggy brought her.

  After taking a sip, Isabel said with a smile, “What would I do without you, dear Peggy? You think of everything. A toasty bed and hot tea—wonderful!”

  Peggy snorted. “As if it takes any brains to realize that, on a rainy night, warmed sheets and a hot drink would be appreciated.”

  Her eyes dancing, Isabel said meekly enough, “It is indeed appreciated. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Reaching for the discarded woolen robe, Peggy laid it carefully over the arm of a nearby chair and then cast an eye around the room, as if daring anything to be out of place. Finding all to her satisfaction, she patted the tight bun of light brown hair at her neck and said, “Well then, if that will be all, I shall retire for the night. Unless, of course, you need me for something else?”

  Isabel shook her head. “No. No. I’m fine. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  The big room was very quiet after Peggy left, and Isabel sipped her tea thinking about the incident in the garden. A thrill of fear knifed through her when she remembered that terrible moment when Marcus was nearly killed. But knowing he was safe and nearby, she experienced again the unutterable relief she’d felt when she’d realized that he was unharmed. She bit her lip. It was wonderful that he had escaped unscathed, but there was no denying that someone had tried to murder him! And despite his claim that it was probably a poacher, she wasn’t having any of it. There was no pretending, she thought stubbornly, that if he hadn’t moved when he did he might very well be lying dead in the garden.

  Pushing aside the terror at the very thought of him being dead or even gravely injured, she considered the attack itself. Whoever the attacker had been must have been both foolish and desperate. Foolish because Marcus was respected and well liked, beloved almost, amongst his many, far-flung friends and relatives. His death or injury by a cowardly assailant would have caused an outcry heard all the way to London. And risking a shot at him in the rain, with woodland obscuring the target and under fitful moonlight had been the act of a desperate man. Her gaze narrowed. There was only one person she could think of who was both foolish and desperate and would have had a reason to harm Marcus. Whitley!

  So intent was she on the path of her thoughts, not even Marcus’s appearance in her room distracted her. Frowning, still considering the implications of her conclusions, she watched him enter from the pair of double oak doors that divided their two bedrooms.

  Wearing a black and crimson silk robe, he strolled across the room as if he did it every night. A faint smile on his lips, he approached the side of her bed. She looked, he thought besottedly, utterly adorable. Staring at her sitting there in the bed scowling up at him, her mane of flame-red hair flowing wildly about her shoulders, those incredible golden-brown eyes fixed on him, Marcus acknowledged something he had known for a long time: he was helplessly in love with her.

  Dazed by the admission, he simply stood there staring, mesmerized. Completely under her spell, he took a second to realize that her lips were moving and that she was talking to him.

  “What?” he asked stupidly. “What did you say?”

  “I said,” she replied impatiently, “that your attacker had to have been Whitley. There is no one else who has any reason to try to kill you.”

  There wasn’t much point in trying to dissuade her, and so he met her eyes and nodded. “Yes, I’m fairly certain that it was your friend, the major, who shot at us tonight.”

  “He’s no friend of mine!”

  “I agree. I suspect that Whitley’s only friend is himself.”

  “Most likely, but what are we going to do about him? He can’t be allowed to creep about the neighborhood taking shots at you whenever the mood strikes him.” Her eyes full of fear, she said, “Marcus, you might have been killed tonight... . f anything were to happen to you ...” She stopped, her voice suspended by tears. Looking away, she finally managed miserably, “This is all my fault! I put your life in danger. I should never have asked you to intercede for me.” Her gaze fierce, she glanced up at him. “I should have killed him the moment I laid eyes on him, shot him like the venomous reptile he is!”

  “I don’t disagree that Whitley appears to want killing, but I would appreciate it if you would allow me that task,” Marcus said quietly.

  It was the very quietness of his tone that made her look closely at him, her eyes widening when she saw the resolve in those calm gray depths. Her breath caught. “You really mean to kill him, don’t you?” she asked, half horrified, half approving.

  He sighed. “Probably. It’s not something I will take pleasure in, but you called it correctly: he is a venomous reptile and I can no more allow him to live than I could a viper in the stable.”

  “Oh, Marcus,” she cried, “you will take care? He is dangerous.”

  “And so am I, my dear, so am I.”

  The words were said softly, but it was that very softness that sent a shiver down Isabel’s spine, and she looked at him with new, wondering eyes. Until this moment, if anyone had told her that Marcus Sherbrook could coolly consider the possibility of killing another man, she would not have believed them. Nor would she have believed him capable of actually doing it; but hearing that note in his voice, seeing the icy resolve in his eyes, she realized that there was much behind the calm, polite façade he showed the world. Her heart banged in her chest, memories of his ardent kisses and bold caresses sweeping through her mind. Oh, yes, she thought warmly, there was so much more. So very much more!

  Their eyes met and suddenly Whitley and the events of the evening evaporated. Desire swirled in the air between them. There was only the two of them, alone in her
candlelit bedroom on a windswept, rainy night... .

  Marcus’s gaze dropped to her nightgown, the peaks of her nipples visible through the delicate lawn fabric. She was naked beneath that frail garment and tonight there would be no more delays, no more reasons why he could not make love to his wife. No more reasons why he could not claim his love. His loins tightened and the passion he’d kept so carefully caged sprang free.

  Isabel saw the change in him, saw his eyes darken, recognized the frankly carnal curve to his mouth and, half fearful, half eager, she closed her mind to anything but the knowledge that tonight she would well and truly become Marcus’s wife. Her body tingling in anticipation, when he reached for her she fairly launched herself into his arms, her mouth eager for the touch of his and what would come.

  His lips came down hard and hungry on hers, his hands on her upper arms, pulling her against him. There was no thought of denial in her response, her mouth opening beneath the onslaught of his, heat rising through her as his tongue delved deep. When he lifted his mouth from hers, she moaned in protest, unabashedly seeking his lips.

  He laughed huskily and muttered, “A moment, sweet; we are both wearing far too many clothes.”

  In a second, her gown was whipped over her head and tossed onto the floor; his robe joined it almost immediately and then she was jerked back into his embrace.

  Warm flesh met warm flesh and Isabel trembled at the sensation of her naked breasts flattened against the muscled, hair-roughened wall of his chest. His mouth was insatiable, his kisses more and more urgent as he laid her down on the bed. She jumped when his hand closed over her breast, the gentle kneading, the caressing thumb at her nipples sending spirals of hot longing through her.

  Marcus had meant to take his time, but he’d been bedeviled by dreams of holding her, making love to her for far too many nights to go as slow as he wished. Telling himself he’d be more tender, gentler the next time, he ravaged her slender body with his mouth and hands. Those tempting little breasts called to him and his lips dropped lower and, with a groan, his hot, searching mouth fastened onto a nipple.

  Isabel arched under his touch, the sensation of his warm tongue curling around her nipple unbearably exciting. Her fingers clenched in his thick, black hair, pulling his head closer, reveling in the intimacy of the moment. She was full of longing, aching, yearning, burning to become one with him. His mouth worked magic against her breasts and honied heat cascaded through her as his teeth lightly scraped across her sensitized skin. When his big, heavy hand drifted to the thatch of curls at the junction of her thighs and she felt his fingers exploring the soft flesh he found there, she moaned, surging up against him, inviting, begging for deeper penetration.

  A fierce smile of satisfaction crossed Marcus’s face when his finger sank slowly into her and he found her wet and ready. He wanted to play, to explore, but he dared not. He was so hard, so aching and full, that he feared if he did not take her, he would shame himself.

  He shifted, sliding between her legs. His hands holding her hips to his liking, his lips fastened on hers and, as his tongue took her mouth, his swollen member slowly entered her. She was tight, her inner flesh slick and warm against him and he was so lost in the scarlet haze of pleasure that he plunged through the frail barrier before he realized what had happened ... or the significance of it. But the second after he breached her, he knew. His eyes snapped open and he stared down into her face.

  In a welter of pain, shock, and pleasure, Isabel lay still beneath him. It took all the courage she possessed to meet his gaze. She tried to speak but words failed her. He looked very dark and dangerous as he loomed over her with black hair falling across his forehead and his gray eyes smoldering with desire, but accusation and suspicion were also there in the hard gaze that pinned her to the bed.

  Passion riding him hard, Marcus couldn’t think. Questions flew through his mind, but they were clouded, drowned out by the feel of her soft body beneath him and the primitive desire to seek release from the mating hunger that clawed and screamed through him. He shook his head, trying to concentrate, but he couldn’t; her body singing its siren song, desire drumming so wildly in his veins that it drove all else out of his mind. His eyes closed and his mouth closed demandingly over hers as he withdrew slightly and thrust himself back fully into her. Pleasure jolted through him and he was lost. Again and again, he plunged into her, each stroke coming faster, deeper than the one before, his hips moving in an ancient, urgent rhythm, frantically seeking to prolong the pleasure, yet demanding the sweet release, the scarlet oblivion.

  The first shock of his taking filtered away and, with every stroke of his body, a fire, a desperate ache, grew deep in her loins. Her body no longer her own, she was swept up in the moment, her hands sliding to his driving buttocks, and she caressed him, urging him on, wanting, wanting, oh wanting she knew not what. A spiral of pleasure, pleasure so sweet she cried aloud at its intensity, exploded through her and the world spun away.

  Her cry was his undoing and Marcus gripped her hips tighter to him and with a low groan, he thrust in once more, allowing ecstasy to take him where it willed.

  Except for their labored breathing, the room was very quiet as slowly, reluctantly, Marcus slid from her body. He lay beside her a moment, then, saying nothing, rose from the bed. Heedless of his nakedness, he walked into her dressing room and found the pitcher of water he knew would be there. He poured a small amount of water into the china bowl and, taking up the washcloth neatly laid next to it, walked back into the bedroom.

  Half dazed by her body’s ardent response to Marcus’s lovemaking, small aftershocks of pleasure still radiating through her, Isabel watched him disappear into the dressing room, her gaze mesmerized by his tall, lithe form. She shivered with delight as she remembered the feel of his lips on her breasts, the sensation of his big body moving over hers. But all too soon, reality came crashing back and she jerked upright, looking about for her robe, thinking she’d rather not face him stark naked. The sudden movement caused her to wince just a bit and, at that reminder of her changed state, a small, almost proud smile flittered across her face. She was a woman now. The smile fled as soon as she remembered the look in Marcus’s eyes when he realized that she had been a virgin, and she decided that she definitely needed her robe before he came back. He was going to have questions, a lot of them, and he wasn’t going to necessarily like or approve of her answers, and she’d just as soon have on her robe. Being naked left one feeling vulnerable and this was one time she couldn’t afford to be vulnerable.

  Though she knew he was right in her dressing room, Marcus’s reappearance startled her as he walked back into the bedroom and, before she could stop herself, she shrank back against the pillows of her bed. He halted and stared at her for a long minute before he continued toward the bed. Putting down the bowl of water and washcloth on the table next to the bed, he said bitingly, “Stop that! I don’t believe that I’ve ever beaten a woman in my life—even when given great provocation. I don’t intend to start now.”

  “I d-d-didn’t think you meant to strike m-m-me,” she stammered. “You startled me.”

  Ignoring her comment, he reached over and moved one of her legs, his mouth tightening at the degree of blood he saw on her thigh. His jaw set, he picked up the washcloth and, after dipping it in the water, began to clean away the signs of what had happened between them.

  The silence was so loud in the room Isabel thought her head would burst from the very lack of sound as Marcus quickly washed the stains from her thighs. Embarrassment crawled through her at the intimacy of the moment and she moved, trying to avoid his touch. The tightening of his hand on her thigh warned her to cease and she let him have his way. He said nothing and, staring at his bent head as he worked on her, Isabel wished desperately that he would say something. Say anything. Rail at her. Hurl accusations at her. Demand answers, an explanation.

  Just when she thought she would scream to break the oppressive silence, he asked carefully, “So
whose child is Edmund?”

  She stiffened and her eyes burning gold, she said fiercely, “Mine! He is my son and has been since the moment of his birth.”

  He looked at her then, the gray eyes cool and assessing. “Don’t lie to me,” he snapped. Tossing the cloth in the china bowl of water, he said, “Proof of your lie is right here before us.”

  She glanced away. “In every way that counts, Edmund is my son.”

  “I hate to point this out to you,” Marcus said, “but the last time there was a virgin birth, there was a star over Bethlehem.” His voice hardened. “Tell me the truth. Tell me why you’ve allowed everyone to believe that Edmund is your son, the child of your marriage to Hugh.” His eyes flashed. “From the moment you arrived from India, you deliberately foisted an imposter on the baron and allowed an old man to believe the child he adores is his rightful heir. Explain, if you can, how it comes about that the next Baron Manning will be illegitimate—with no lawful claim to the title or estates. And tell me, if you please, why I should help you continue with the charade.” He leaned forward, his dark face inches from hers and demanded harshly, “Did you even marry Hugh? Or was that a lie, too?”

  Frightened and angry at the same time, Isabel took refuge in temper. Her head snapped up and she glared at him. “Hugh and I were married in London by special license. You can check that out for yourself if you don’t believe me!” she retorted furiously. Shoving him aside, she slid from the bed and snatched up her warm, yellow robe. Yanking it on, she roughly tied the belt around her waist. Feeling better with something to cover her nakedness, and her first burst of anger dissipating, she looked up at him and said helplessly, “It was what Hugh wanted. Even before Edmund was born he insisted that the boy’s true heritage could never be revealed.” Her throat thickened with memories of those first tense, miserable days in India flooding through her. She’d known from the beginning that some decision would have to be made about the coming child, but all during the long, uncomfortable sea journey to Bombay, she’d pushed that knowledge away. She—they all— were trapped in a terrible tangle, one in which an innocent child’s life hung in the balance and it was all her fault. Her damnable, damnable fault! If only she had not been so impetuous and convinced Hugh to marry her... . Guilt smote her and her eyes filled with tears. “It’s all my fault,” she muttered, staring down at her feet.