by Conn, Claudy
His height and the cut of his clothes did him credit, though his lifestyle and his present plans did not. In truth, he was rather surprised at Myriah’s lack of proper appreciation for his proposal of marriage.
How could she ignore all his exceptional qualities? How came she to run from him? She seemed to enjoy his company. He had hoped by now he would have won her over with his easy charm. He was attracted to her and, of course, to the dowry that came with her hand.
Well, if she would not be seduced by his many exceptional qualities, then he would have no choice but to force her hand. It was an irritating situation, for Roland was usually not the sort that had to resort to force and had no liking for it.
He enjoyed a challenge, and Myriah had certainly been that. She kept his mind active, and though his heart had refused to beat any faster at the sight of her exquisite face and well-shaped body, still, he meant to have her.
He left the inn and called for his horse to be saddled, and it struck him that he had never been in love—not really. Love, he supposed was something he would continue to get whenever he chanced to want it, for marriage would not in anyway interfere with his amatory pursuits.
His steed saddled and ready for him, he mounted and walked his horse over the cobbles down High Street to East Cliff and rounded the corner where the Land Gate Arch loomed up before him.
Abduction had entered his mind. He could perhaps entice her onto the road …?
Not Myriah. She was a fighter and would rather be ruined than be forced into marriage. Besides, an abduction would require a private coach, and he hadn’t the blunt for that.
He saw her riding towards him. At her back was her groom—drat the man!
He pulled out his hand-painted enamel snuffbox and flipped the lid open. With a deft movement he had a pinch up to his nostril and inhaled, hoping its soothing quality would control his temper, for he was much annoyed with Myriah for all the trouble she had put him to.
He waited quietly as she approached, and his eye was not blind to her fresh loveliness. He rarely thought of money when she was this close, only of possessing her. Money was but a comfortable end result to the marriage he planned.
He snapped his snuffbox closed and replaced it in his inner pocket. A warm smile hovered about his sensitive lips.
Myriah’s eyes glittered challengingly as she rode up to meet him, and she looked as wild as the stallion, presently throwing his head, beneath her.
“Dash it, love, but you quite take the breath away,” Roland said, slipping off his horse agilely and putting up his hands for her.
She allowed him to help her dismount and stood with her back to the horse while Tabby hovered in the background with the reins.
Roland attempted his usual play with her. He touched her nose. “Naughty Myriah, you have sent a shaft through me. Promising to marry me one minute and vanishing the next. Heartless creature—kiss me.”
She pushed his chest away and laughed. “Out with it, Roland. I have come as you demanded. Where do we go from here?”
“To the altar, my love! I wish it, your papa wishes it, and you know, deep in your hard little heart … you wish it!” he said glibly.
“But I do not wish it, my friend, and if Papa wished for it in the moment, it was because he was angry, confused. Do but listen to me, Roland … you don’t love me.”
“Ah, but I do, from your fiery ringlets”—he traced a line from her forehead over her nose and stopped at her lips—“to your dainty little toes.”
“That, sir, is not love. That is something quite different.”
“My lovely girl, you simply are not up to snuff yet, though you think you are. Yes, I love you, want you, whatever you will call it,” he said, reaching for her neat little waist and bending down for her lips.
She pushed him away and stepped back. “What you want and need is first my dowry and then my inheritance. Be a man, Sir Roland, admit it—you are dished, you need to marry to stave off your creditors. I can name a dozen young women with nearly as much money as I that would do very nicely for your game. They are willing prey. I, sir, am not.”
He put a gloved finger to her chin. “They have not your eyes, Myriah—they have not your body … and, my dearest child, they have not your name! I do not intend to marry beneath me. Those whose family names are acceptable are devilishly unhandsome. You would not match me with such as that, now would you, Myriah?”
“Oh, Roland, you are horrid! You are cold and calculating, and—”
He cut her off. “And in need!” He took her by the arms and pulled her close. “What do you know of unfulfilled needs, pretty chit? Your papa gives you everything you want.”
“If you had not gamed what you had left to you, sir, you would not be here now begging for my hand,” Myriah shot back.
“Listen to me, Myriah. I have been doing this civilly. I am done with that. I am telling you that you will marry me. You do not have a choice,” he said complacently.
“Roland, Papa did not make the announcement. Therefore, I cannot be held to it.”
“No, he did not … nor did he give you permission to remain under the same roof with two bachelors.”
“That is none of your affair!”
“I am afraid it is. The Wimbornes are not only bachelors—they are also in the business of smuggling. That, my dear, is another matter. After all, I cannot have my future bride involved with such riff-raff!”
“Smuggling?” Myriah exclaimed, admirably feigning surprise. “Roland, if you brandish such statements about, you will lay yourself open for a slander suit you can ill afford. The Wimborne house is an old and respected name.”
“Ah, Myriah, you are not thinking. I am no fool. When I give you warning, take it. Don’t attempt to frighten me off the path, for it won’t fadge. I am no schoolboy, and I am not playing a game. I am in earnest. Now let us understand something. If you persist in your decision to remain in the Wimborne household, I will have no alternative but to report your whereabouts to your father.”
“Do what you like, Roland. I shall leave when, and if, my father insists on it—not at your command!”
“Do you know? You have put a notion into my head,” Roland said, smiling without warmth. “Yes, indeed, Myriah … you are hot to protect these smugglers of yours … aren’t you?”
A chill shot through her. She put out her gloved hand and held his arm. “There is nothing to protect.”
His arm went around her immediately, encircling her small waist and drawing her to him. This time, because she had to know, she waited to hear what was on his mind.
“Sweet Myriah, wild love of mine, what a pleasure ’twill be to tame you. We understand one another. Don’t fight me, and no one shall get hurt.”
She looked up into his hazel eyes, and they were bright with his meaning. “Pray, Roland, who could be hurt by—by my opposing a marriage with you?”
“You know very well what I mean, darling—your friends the Wimbornes, who are already suspected of being moonshiners. I shall give evidence against them.”
“You have no such evidence,” she snapped and pulled out of his hold.
“Leave with me tomorrow for your father’s, and I shall forget their existence.”
Roland frightened her. He was too confident of himself … and he was well able to carry out his threat. How did he know this much? She herself had been unsure just what the Wimbornes were up to … unsure until … oh, faith! How did he know? She looked up at his face. “I … I will think about it, Roland.”
“Tomorrow afternoon, Myriah. I want you ready to leave tomorrow afternoon, and then we shall discuss our marriage plans.”
“I will give you my answer regarding my departure from Wimborne Towers tomorrow when we meet … but I will never discuss marriage with you, Roland! Understand that.” She withdrew from his hold and turned to Silkie, who was being held by her groom. She mounted quickly and motioned to Tabby, who was eying Sir Roland with an expression of severe loathing. They hurriedly depar
ted.
Sir Roland threw Myriah a kiss, for she made the mistake of turning to look at him. She snapped her head back to watch the road, put out with herself and him.
* * *
Lord Wimborne watched them and felt a sharp stab of discomfort. He had come around High Street just moments ago and stood dumbfounded at its peak, watching Myriah converse with Sir Roland.
He couldn’t take his eyes away from them, and his jaw clenched as he watched Roland take her into his arms. What stopped him from going forward and ripping the man apart was the fact that at that moment she did not demur.
He was quick to recognize Sir Roland Keyes, the man who had been sharing a table and conversation with Corporal Stone, the same one who had been asking questions about him. And now Roland was the man whose charms had brought Myriah away from Wimborne and into his arms.
Kit had seen her expression, and it was one of deep intensity as she faced Roland. Bubbles seemed to form in Kit’s veins as he watched her, and they popped, leaving him agitated and confused and bleeding … He felt as though blood was oozing out of his pores.
He watched her pull away roughly and ride off … and he stared at Roland, once again feeling the need to tear him to pieces as he blew a kiss to Myriah’s retreating form.
Every fiber in his body ached. He saw Roland turn his horse about, and Kit urged his own roan into an alley, where he sat upon his steed’s back waiting for Sir Roland Keyes to pass. As he did, Kit noted with a stab of green jealousy that the man was not unattractive. He knew an urge to fly home and confront Myriah—he wanted to face her, to demand her explanation. He wanted to know why she had been in that man’s arms.
What he did was go to the Mermaid Inn and order up a pint of ale and stare into its suds as he told the man at his side, “Women can be treacherous creatures.”
His companion was already in his cups but found this to be a very accurate statement and concurred by clinking glasses.
“The devil is in it … but I think I will go ask her what in blazes she was doing.”
“Wouldn’t do that …” his companion slurred.
“Why not?”
“She might tell ye … and it might not be what ye want to hear …”
However, he put his coin on the table and stomped out of the tavern. He was going home to have a talk with her and confront her!
Her wild, wondrous magic had enchanted his soul and held his heart captive, but he would not be played for a fool. He rode his horse hard and arrived at his stables only a few minutes later, with his temper in full bloom.
Without bothering to call Fletcher to attend his horse, he slid off the saddle and put him in his stall, already stocked with his evening’s hay.
When he walked towards his house, it was with intense purpose.
His front door flew open and away from his hands. The stairs were taken two at a time, and the door to Myriah’s room received no questioning knock but was sent inwards with a masterful show of force.
Her room however, was empty. This in no way assuaged his lordship’s strange fever, and he stormed across the hall, exploding like an erupting volcano into his brother’s room. His gray eyes were mirrors of intent.
Young Wimborne scanned his brother’s face with a deepening frown. “Eh, what’s amiss, Kit—what has happened?’”
“Myriah—where is she?” Kit demanded, his tone a roar that displayed his uncompromising mood.
“Myriah? Why, she said something about taking a walk. Said she had to think. She does that best outdoors.” Billy shrugged. “I rather like to … Kit … Kit …?” However, his brother had already stomped out of the room, leaving him wondering.
* * *
Myriah leaned against the tall white elm and gazed down at the dark seawater below. Whatever was she to do?
All at once she was looking into the stormy gray eyes of Christopher Wimborne, and her heart began beating against her chest, demanding—demanding …
His hands were burning through her sleeves as he gripped her arms, and the fury of his expression shook her with new wonder. Whatever was wrong?
“I want the truth, Myriah! The time for coyness is past. What is Sir Roland Keyes to you, and why, my dear, did you meet him in secret today at Land Gate?”
“Secret?” Myriah said, and her voice was pitched an octave too high. Her lips trembled as she responded, “My lord, I made no secret of it! Why, one could hardly call the Land Gate entrance to Rye a secluded spot!”
“Damnation, woman, don’t play games with me! I want to know why you met with him, and why you chose to do it away from Wimborne Towers.”
She bit her lower lip, and her lashes veiled the expression in her eyes. “Why—why must you know?”
“Lord … but you try a man’s patience,” he spluttered, shaking her. “I will know, and I will know now, my girl!”
She yanked herself out of his grip. “Do you mean to shake it out of me?”
He took one of her arms and brought her up against him. Her face was beneath his own, and a chance observer might have deemed the sight a glorious and arduous one. However, each of the antagonists was beyond such thoughts. “By God, Myriah—do not tempt me! Your friend Sir Roland only last night sat chatting amiably with our friend Corporal Stone, and I will know what your connection with him is!” Kit seethed.
“Oh—is that …” Myriah began as understanding flashed through her mind. So he felt betrayed. She’d thought—she’d hoped—he was jealous. However, she knew there was serious trouble ahead. She was going to have to leave, and her heart was already breaking. She looked into his eyes, and her voice was low as she said, “Well, my lord, I have no notion what all your heat is about.”
“Damnation, woman! You have the audacity—did you not hear me before? I saw you … fiend seize the day and the first moment ever I clapped eyes on your face, but now I will have an answer. I saw you by God in another man’s arms!”
She slapped him across the face, stinging her hand as well as his cheek. “How dare you.”
“You witch!” breathed Lord Wimborne, taking her into his arms ferociously. His kiss was like a sudden, merciless wind, and it left her breathless and hungry for more. His hand went to her hair, taking hold of her long red curls and pulling her head back, enabling him to discover what he felt—what he needed. His kisses were wild, unrestrained, and infinitely deft in their enticing skill.
She was exalted and hurt all at once. He wasn’t making love to her, but laying claim.
This was all so new, and she was going to have to run away from him to save him and Billy from Roland. Now she knew that Roland had met with Stone …
She didn’t have a choice any longer … but now, in his arms, her body trembled beneath his touch, and as he pulled her with him to the soft turf, she knew she would never love any other.
She pushed half-heartedly at his broad chest, attempting to fight the needs of her heart, but his voice came like a slow hiss and jolted her into anger.
“She-devil, my brother calls you, but he doesn’t know the half of it …”
His lips were on hers again, demanding with the force of his desire and the skill of his experience, but Myriah was tense with anger and unwilling to yield. He had never given her the benefit of the doubt. If he cared for her, would he not try and do that first? “Stop it, Kit!” She shouted at him.
He laughed and mounted her, negating her effort at rising. “Oh, no, sweetings—’tis a devil driving me, ’tis you, love, and there is nothing that could stop me now, Myriah.”
That, of course, was all that was needed to unclothe the passion he had aroused in her. With a strength born of fury, her hand once again left its mark across his cheek, and Kit Wimborne found himself off the lady and stretched solidly on the grass.
Myriah was up and running off in one movement, and her legs carried her faster than they had ever done before. Her palm, red and burning, served to remind her that she had enjoyed at least some satisfaction before she discarded the odious brute
she’d had the stupidity to fall in love with! A sob tore through her body and stuck deep her throat.
Well, so much for hurting him—he hadn’t a heart to hurt. She would leave Wimborne Towers and never look back! She would leave on the morrow—never listen to his merry, dear rich and wonderful voice—never …
The tears that streamed down her cheeks were taken by the wind and slapped into her face again and again until at last she reached the house, found her room and her pillow, and buried her heart within its cool softness.
* * *
Kit Wimborne, his face smarting from the blow of Myriah’s hand, his head whirling and his heart in the heavings of unsure waters, watched helplessly as Myriah receded behind the sway of the land.
Plague take the girl—she behaved like a sainted mystery. One moment she was an innocent with childlike eyes, and then the next a woman with a siren’s magic! Devil take it! When she was near, all he wanted to do was make love to her, beyond his bed, beyond the fucking …
He wanted her voice in his ear. He wanted her smile on him. He wanted to hear her laughter in his home … he wanted Myriah in every imaginable way …
What was he going to do? Kit was a problem solver. He didn’t allow things to lay waste from neglect. He had to find out what she and this blade in town had together.
Jealousy had driven him into madness. He knew the only way to banish the misery of his aching heart was to possess her, and he had gone about it poorly—not poorly, miserably. He was a fool, he told himself.
He lay back against the turf and felt the cool blades tickle his cheek. His hand went to his forehead, creating a shield for his troubled eyes. He had to think, he had to clear his head—but most of all he had to get Myriah out of his mind.
He knew he must do that if he was ever to be at peace again—if he was ever to—oh damn! He was in hell and on fire, because he would never get Myriah out of his system!
* * *
Sir Roland rounded the corner and entered the long, narrow alley that led to the Mermaid Inn’s rear stableyard entrance. He had visited his buxom pot-maid in her bed and thereby dispelled some of his frustration. Myriah was turning out to be a real problem.