by Deana James
"Very attractive," he murmured. "Now?"
She would have liked to tell him no. But above him, above all else, she hated and despised Sebastian Dawlish. Her guardian's greedy machinations had brought her to this pass while Piers had only done what she had asked him to. Moreover, she had agreed to the marriage. Struggling between honesty and revulsion, she allowed her new husband to lead her from the room.
The downstairs parlor fairly steamed with the exhaled breath of rage. Sebastian Dawlish strode up and down the center of the room, his comments to Rowling interlaced by curses. The London solicitor sat straight in a brocaded French chair, his fingers curved tightly over the arms. His face had a distinct gray cast around the mouth. Thoughts of his reputation, even his position with his father's firm skittered about in his head as he wished himself anywhere else but in this cold, inhospitable house.
Frances Eads, looking hideously discomfitted, perched on a chair on the opposite side of the room, her traveling cloak drawn tightly around her against the chill. Penstaff had sidled to the door which he kept eyeing with unsuppressed longing. He clasped his hands behind him and rocked back and forth on his. heels.
Leaning against the wall, one polished boot crossed over the ankle of the other, Captain Rory MaePherson regarded Dawlish and Rowling. His quick mind noted all the heavy man said to his solicitor. More than once, Rowling shushed Dawlish, but the man's rage was too great to bottle up. Forth it spewed, and with it the information that the lady was possessed of a considerable fortune which Dawlish had managed as if it had been his own.
Suddenly, the door opened. The butler ushered in the earl, his cane tapping, his white hair lifting in the fierce draughts that rushed from the room. "Will you gentlemen be joining us for an extended stay?"
At the unmistakably ironic tone, Penstaff blanched. "No, sir. Not at all. I must be leaving. I hate being on the roads so late. But I came with, that is, I was brought by Mr. Rowling." He looked anxiously at the solicitor. "I really must be leaving."
Rowling looked at him, then back at Dawlish. "Shall I send him in the carriage?"
"No!"
"I shall be happy to lend Mr. Penstaff the use of one of our vehicles," the earl said smoothly.
"Very good. Oh, very good. I do hope this unfortunate incident... that is ... precipitant visit ... that is ... awkward ... um ..." Penstaff bowed and then bowed again before either of the men could protest. As the butler was closing the door, he slipped through.
"Would anyone else care to leave now?"
Frances Eads half rose out of her chair, but a look from Rowling dropped her back into it. The corners of her mouth curled in a sneer.
"My son and daughter-in-law will be down in a minute. Being newly wedded, they were naturally drawn upstairs." The earl smiled silkily. "May I suggest that you not plan to stay past tomorrow when they will be departing on their honeymoon?"
"She's a prisoner here," Dawlish declared angrily. "He was raping her."
"Did you hear her scream for help?"
"She can't scream," Dawlish pointed out instantly.
The earl nodded. "Ah, you are right. I forget." He turned to the captain. "The dear lady is so remarkably self-sufficient. She nursed my late wife, you know? Had much to do with making the countess's last days easier. I assure you if she had wanted to impart any information to you, she would have done so."
"Nonsense," Sebastian interrupted angrily. "I shudder even now to think of her helpless body. Kidnapped and abused. A tragedy. I shall not leave here unless she goes with me."
"Ah, but she retreated up the stairs away from you. Strange that she should not have run down to you to rescue her." The earl made the statement directly to the garrison captain.
"She misunderstood what happened to her in London. She is not what she should be. That is why I have continued to be her guardian. I would have set her down and explained everything to her slowly and carefully in a way she can understand, but she was kidnapped." He turned to MacPherson. "You hear that, don't you? Damn it, man. She was kidnapped. She's being held here against her will. What we witnessed was the torment of a poor helpless girl."
"A girl whose life you have been guiding with such vigilance," the earl remarked ironically.
"We’ll, of course. She couldn't be expected to manage—”
"—the huge estate-unentailed, I might add-and the accounts by herself," the earl continued for him. His lips peeled back from his teeth in a wolfish grin directed pointedly at Rowling. "Of course, she did have the help of a very old and reputable London law firm. Although her account was not handled by one of its senior members."
The solicitor bridled, his face red, his breathing pumping as MacPherson and the earl both scrutinized him. "I—My father—”
His explanation was forestalled when the door swung open again. Vivian, dressed in her blue riding habit, walked into the room her hand laid formally on Piers's arm.
MacPherson straightened away from the wall.
Within arm's reach she passed him, so close he could see the faint trace of a blue vein throbbing in her temple. Her back was as straight as a lance; her skin, as pale as her hair and fine-grained as silk. Her mouth was set as if she would never smile again. In that moment the captain fell in love.
Dawlish sprang forward. "Vivian, my poor dear child. What an ordeal! You were never meant for this life at all." He signaled to Frances. "We’ll take you away from this ravisher." He glared at Piers. "Monster. These are modern times. You can't treat a woman like that. Even if she is your wife."
Rowling stepped forward and bowed low. Hot color flamed across his cheekbones. "My dear Miss Marleigh, I assure you that whatever misunderstanding may have arisen in London can be easily clarified."
"I doubt that will be your problem from now on," Piers spoke coldly. "Lady Polwycke's affairs will no longer be handled by Barnstaple and Rowling."
The color drained from Rowling's face. He actually stumbled in his haste to stretch out his hand to Vivian. "No. Miss Marleigh, I beg you to let me explain. You mustn't allow that. You know we have always handled the Marleigh estates."
Her look was arctic ice, but desperation made him bold. He reached out and clasped her free hand to draw her away from Piers's side.
Furious at his presumption, Vivian jerked out of his grasp.
Even as she turned, Sebastian too lurched forward. He threw a heavy arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his corpulent body. "Vivian. Vivian. Poor child." He glared at the others. "She doesn't know what she's doing. Poor sick thing. She needs the care of the good sisters."
Quick as thought, Vivian spun away. Rage, frustration, helplessness, the agony of betrayal all combined in one burst of violence that shook her whole slender frame. Teeth bared, she swung at Dawlish, not with an open palm, but a double fist. She swung with all her might and caught him full on his lying mouth. His lips smashed against his teeth, his head snapped back, and he staggered. With a muffled cry of pain, he clapped his hand to his face and, rubber-legged, dropped to his knees.
The earl gave a triumphant bark of laughter. "Bravo, Boadicea!"
"Miss Marleighr
At Rowling's cry, she spun and came at him fists flying. Frances Eads sprang shrieking to her feet and dodged behind the chair.
The earl laughed again.
Captain MacPherson shook his head, an admiring grin spread over his honest face.
Only Piers moved. He caught Vivian around the waist and lifted her back off her feet. "Easy," he murmured in her ear.
She kicked back and jabbed at him with her elbows. The skein of blond hair lashed around and sprayed across the dark superfine of Piers's coat. Rowling hastily backed away.
"Easy," Piers chuckled in her ear. "YouVe made your point."
"I suggest to the three of you that you are no longer welcome here." The earl's voice soared in triumph. "Perhaps, Mr. Rowling, if you will assist Mr. Dawlish—”
Sebastian staggered to his feet. "You havent heard the last of
this. She's not in her right mind."
Vivian clawed herself out of Piers's grasp and sprang at her erstwhile guardian again.
When Dawlish cringed, Captain Rory MacPherson stepped between them. Vivian stopped, brought up short against the broad chest covered in coarse blue wool and brass buttons. "I think 'tis time for us to be leavin'."
Piers came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. "I couldn't agree with you more, Captain. Glad you could come by though. Nice to know that our shores are safe, so to speak."
MacPherson shot him an intense look over the top of Vivian's head. **I try to do my duty, sir." His eyes dropped to Vivian's. His gaze was warm and admiring. "Would you like to speak with me, milady?" He paused meaningfully. "Alone."
Every person in the room tensed. Sebastian shot Rowling a frightened look. The earl's eyebrows rose. Piers sucked in his breath.
Vivian drew in a deep breath and pushed automatically at a lock of fine hair that had tossed across the front of her riding habit. With one hand she smoothed it while she tugged at the bottom of her jacket disarranged where Piers had held her. She was conscious that Piers had dropped a proprietary hand on her shoulder.
"With your permission, sir?"The captain inclined his head.
Piers's fingers clenched. He shook his head. "I don't see—”
Rory MacPherson was adamant. "Perhaps I can just satisfy myself that the lady is really where she wants to be."
Even the cold air seemed to freeze between them. A half-dozen pairs of eyes trained on Vivian.
She stepped out from under Piers's hand to a point apart from everyone.
"Milady?" MacPherson bowed formally to her.
"That wont be necessary, Captain. She is where she wants to be," the earl asserted smoothly. "She has made her choice and recited her vows of her own free will. Isn't that right, daughter?" He gave a peculiar emphasis to the last word.
Depression and unhappiness drained the strength |
from her body. The burning ache between her legs reminded her of what had occurred hardly an hour
before. She could barely think, certainly not clearly.
This handsome young captain with the kind eyes
offered her an escape. But to what?
She was not living in a fairy-tale world. She lived in a world where men ruled-by laws made by them for their convenience. She was trapped by them-as they had meant she should be.
She shuddered. Her eyes swept the group of men. The earl's face was grim. Piers waited, his face resigned.
Sebastian Dawlish grinned, his smashed lips peeling back. His expression set off warning bells in her mind. A swift glance at Rowling showed her that he was leaning forward expectantly. If she left this haven- surely a strange and hellish place to find a haven-they would find a way to get her back under their control.
Too late! Too late for her to save herself. When all was said and done, she had never really had a chance. I’ll luck had turned her into a prize, a succulent bone thrown down between savage dogs. She had just as much chance as that bone. She tipped her head back in her effort to keep her tears from falling.
"Miss Marleigh?" MacPherson asked softly.
If only she had met him sooner-known that he might be her friend. She put out her hand to him. The earl's stick tapped as he took a step forward, but Vivian was already shaking her head. She put her hand on the captain's arm and looked up into his blue eyes. Gently she pressed her fingers into the coarse cloth, then stepped back.
Behind her Sebastian's curse covered up the relieved expulsion of Piers's breath.
************************************
"A toast to the new bride."The earl raised his glass to Mrs. Felders.
She knotted her mouth into a purse. "You’ve made a bad mistake," she predicted direly. "That girl's already brought trouble. We've had too many visitors. You should have let me shove her out the door when that captain rode up the drive."
"Nonsense. They went away without suspecting a thing about the business."
"They'll be back. She’ll draw them back again and again, until they'll come at the wrong time."
"She's an heiress," he pronounced gleefully. He leaned forward and held out his hands to the glowing coals on the hearth. "My son now controls her estate. If anyone comes snooping around, we'll simply pay off the men and send them away."
Behind his back the housekeeper scowled. "Beddoes won't like that. This is a sweet business."
"Beddoes will do as he's told." The earl turned his head. The long white hair swung down, glowing red in the reflected light. "He's made more than any man of his station can expect to make in three lifetimes. If I say quit, hell quit."
"He won't like it. And he won't see the point of it. We've got a sweet arrangement. It's not fair to a man who's risked as much as Jack has to tell him to give it up and walk away."
The earl straightened and reached for his stick. The high spots of color on his cheeks were not from the heat of the fire. "He’ll do as he's told!"
"It's not—”
"Emma! He’ll do as he's told. And so will you." The earl stalked forward and caught her upper arm in a punishing grip. "Get busy and serve dinner. Although it's probably inedible by now."
************************************
In his corner of the lurching carriage, Sebastian Dawlish glared at Rowling. "I should have insisted that they search the cellar."
"The cellar?" Rowling had pulled his hat over his eyes. He slouched in the corner, his ankles crossed in the seat on which Dawlish sat. Desperately, he courted sleep to still the thoughts that raged in his brain. Old Barnstaple would have his head when the request came for the Marleigh papers.
The estate was a plum, a long-standing trust of the firm. It accounted for several hundred pounds a year in legal fees and required almost nothing but the most minimal administration. For this reason he had been given it. And when Dawlish had approached him with this scheme, he had seen a chance to make extra money. He shifted uncomfortably as he thought of the incoming bills he would have to find a new way of paying.
"The cellar," Dawlish snarled. "We might have been lucky. There might have been something stashed there."
"Like what?" He would have to put off his plans to make the improvements on the town house. He would have to stave off the carriage maker for the new coach. He would have to refuse to take the order of the new boots.
"The stuff from France."
"France?" Good God! He would probably lose his position. Barnstaple could easily decide to boot him right out of the firm. Perhaps they would keep him on as a clerk as a favor to his father's memory.
Dawlish drove his fist into the side of Rowling's thigh. "Pay attention, you idiot. In the old days, the Larnes were smugglers. That's how they kept up that moldering pile and the dirty acres around it. Land's not worth tuppence."
Rowling sat up, dropping his feet onto the floor. He stared through the dimness at Dawlish's face. How had he ever been led into anything by this man? He had taken a garrison captain of the coast guard into the house of a known smuggler and kept the man searching the upper bedrooms. "Are you sure about this?"
"Of course. Damme." Dawlish scrabbled for his cane on the floor. "We’ll go back. I'll set MacPherson on them."
Rowling stayed his hand. "You fool. The chances are we wont find anything now. They were probably moving it out while we were clambering around in the bedrooms. Besides, it's the middle of the night. Spend the night at the next inn and make our plans."
"Right." Dawlish struck his cane on the roof of the carriage and bawled the new instructions.
Rowling frowned heavily. "The best thing might not be to catch them with the goods in the cellar."
"Why not?"
"The stuffs got to come into land. Set a trap. Bring the viscount out of the house where he can be killed. He's no good to you alive in prison. She'd still be married to him. But dead. She's a widow."
Dawlish grinned. "Very smart, Rowling. Very smart
indeed."
Chapter 10
Vivian's hand trembled against the heavy oak as she closed the door behind her and leaned her forehead against its cool surface. Somewhere in the house a clock began to chime. She counted nine strokes. Nine o'clock. And she could not remember when she had eaten or drunk. Real pangs shot up from her belly.
Turning back into the room, she stiffly crossed to the hearth and bent to poke up the fire. It had burnt out long ago and now the ashes were scarcely warm. She straightened with a sigh. When had her life passed out of her control? When had she lost warmth and food and freedom from pain?
She stood on her wedding day in an old riding habit, in a room she did not recognize as her own, her hearth cold, her stomach empty.
She could not live like this. She would not!
Even as she formed the defiant thought, a knock sounded at her door.
She stiffened warily.
"Vivian."
Her husband had knocked at her door. She shrank back against the mantel. Oh, no. Not now. Surely to heaven, not now. The sudden movement reminded her forcibly that her nether parts were still tender.
"Vivian." He opened the door. His smile faded. "No need to cringe trembling like a frightened rabbit," he said brusquely. "I'm not a monster come to have another go at your tortured body."