by Nicole Byrd
She started to shake her head, then realized how dry her mouth was. She accepted the wine with a murmur of thanks. After taking a sip, Lauryn drew a calming breath and said, “What do you mean, my lord?”
What had she done, or not done, that he objected to? She had armored herself to undertake this role of lover for hire. She had tried to bring him pleasure. He had forbidden her to speak of love. Had he changed his mind? Surely not!
What did he want from her now—perhaps it was simply true that she had not been, would never be good enough at the art of love for such a practiced lover? Lauryn hugged the blanket closer to hide her naked body and looked away, refusing to meet the earl’s stare…. She should have known she would never be able to pull off such a charade.
Marcus gulped his wine, a sad abuse of a good vintage. He was acting like a fool. He had asked—made a business arrangement—for her company, for the pleasure of her beautiful body. When had he ever before expected a lady of the evening to offer him her total devotion? Oh, they pretended, of course; his mistresses often spouted words of extravagant affection, but it was only a token display, and both parties knew it. He would be only asking for trouble.
Except that nothing about this pairing was as usual; for one thing, she was not really a woman of the evening, and he had known that from the beginning, although she still did not know that he knew. And she did seem starved for physical affection, and he had almost at once come to crave her touch. The delicate beauty of her face, her body, her fair hair and unusual green eyes which revealed so much intelligence and spirit and sensitivity—and so much emotion that she couldn’t seem to completely hide…it awoke an answering hunger inside him, and he wanted to see her respond fully, he wanted to see her smile, dammit, and allow her eyes to open candidly to his, not slide away from his gaze to veil themselves beneath lowered lids.
Yet, he knew had no right to ask it—how could he?
But he did.
Anger simmered inside him at the injustice. He knew he was behaving irrationally—he had not contracted for her total devotion—he had no right to expect it. He wanted so much that made no real sense.
’Ware your heart, Marcus, he told himself, swallowing the rest of the wine with one gulp. You are no green lad to wear it on your sleeve. Recollect the last “lady” you tossed back into the street—she was greedy and lascivious enough to please a king’s regiment.
And just to consider his former mistress and Mrs. Smith—he wished to hell he knew her real name—in the same breath was to do the latter an enormous injustice!
But nonetheless, he glanced at her—still curled up on the rug, pulling the blanket around her, as she watched him uncertainly. Had he frightened her? No, she met his glance with her chin up; she had courage enough. Her gaze was wary, however, and he tried to soften his expression. The smooth white shoulder with its lack of covering, the wisp of red gold hair that fell over her bare neck—already desire was rising once more inside him. Damn, the effect this lady had on him was unparalleled.
She was like the drug that kept a opium-crazed man asleep for days in an opium den, lost to the world. He couldn’t get enough of her. Almost despite himself, he moved closer, bent to kiss that soft, tender skin, and he felt her shiver with response.
But to his surprise, she stood and drew her blanket around her, unsmiling as she met his eyes. “If I am not satisfying you, my lord, perhaps we should reconsider our arrangement.”
Let her go? When adders sang and pigs could fly!
He put one arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer. “Do I satisfy you, my dear Mrs. Smith?”
She looked at him in surprise. “Of course.”
“Then why should you suppose that you should not satisfy me?”
“I—” She flushed. “I–I suspect I lack your experience in the art of lovemaking, your lordship.”
“You have a natural zest that makes up for any possible deficit of well-practiced technique, not that I find you in any way lacking. If I did, that is an expertise we should devise together,” he told her, allowing his hand to slide beneath her cloaking blanket and cup the soft skin of her breast. She quivered with response, and he felt his body react to hers with a hunger that surged through his whole consciousness. He held himself in check, careful not to reveal the effort his self-control demanded. “And besides, perhaps I simply prefer you the way you are.”
Blinking in apparent surprise, she looked up into his eyes.
“There is no one else I would rather have in my bed tonight,” he told her, his tone very gentle.
Her lovely green eyes widened, and then for the barest moment, he saw it—that shadow that passed across her face at inauspicious times. Then she looked away again. And this time he could not leave it alone.
“And who do you think of now?” he said, almost gritting his teeth, steeling himself to hear the answer. “Who is the man you would prefer to me? Who is it that comes between us?”
“No, no,” she protested. “You misunderstand, my lord.”
“Tell me who you are thinking of!” he demanded, his hands moving to grip her by the shoulders, his voice suddenly stern.
She gazed at him in alarm, but there was no denying that at this moment he had her undivided attention.
“Who is it?” he demanded.
“My husband,” she said faintly.
A long moment of silence, and he felt his jaw go stiff. “You are not a widow?” Had he been taken in by a more clever ploy than he had suspected? Had he been completely mistaken in her? The hurt implicit in that thought sent cold icing through his whole being.
She paled. “No, no, my lord. I am indeed a widow,” she protested. “That is the truth, I swear on my sacred oath!”
His relief was palpable, and it took several moments—and the look of pain in her face—before he realized he was gripping her shoulders much too tightly. He loosened his grip, though he did not let her go completely—he could not let her go! Something inside him echoed the words again and again.
This woman was meant to be his. She belonged to him, whatever her name, whatever her marital status; but thank all the gods she did not have a living husband. And yet, still—
He tried to think what this complication meant to him, to them both.
“So I must compete with a dead man,” he said, his voice low.
Eyes wide, she chewed on her lower lip and did not answer.
Of course she was not experienced, or she would have better hidden the truth, he thought. She would not have allowed him to glimpse her abstraction. And he was a madman that he cared. Her husband was buried, dust, fed to the worms; why should it concern him if her thoughts still turned to her late spouse?
Because it did. Because her heart must still be there. Because he wanted her heart, dammit.
He wanted her attention, her total concentration. Perhaps it made no sense, what he felt about this woman who had walked into his life, but that hardly mattered. He desired her beautiful body, but it was so much more than that; he discovered that with every passing day he wanted more and more from her—far more than their “business arrangement.” He did—he would not, could not let her go.
And he did not dare tell her so now. He feared he would frighten her away.
So he pressed his lips together and reined in his regenerating passion. She watched him with a touch of distrust that he could not allow to build.
“You must be tired,” he said instead. “Would you like more wine?” He held out the carafe, but she shook her head. Her goblet was still half full.
“Shall I leave you to your rest?”
He hoped she would refuse and offer to share her bed with him instead, even if they did not make love again. Lately, he had been too aware of how empty his own bed was when she left it. He had never had that feeling before, when his mistress of the moment had turned away. In fact, he had usually been ready to be alone.
To his disappointment, she smiled at him, but did not dispute his suggestion.
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sp; “I am weary,” she agreed. “And you are a most considerate lover, my lord.”
Keeping his expression courteous, refusing to reveal any negative emotion, he stood and bowed as gravely as if he were fully dressed.
“I shall see you in the morning,” he told her. “The servants will return to see to our breakfast. Then we shall ride into the harbor town to see what I can learn about the Brave Lassie’s cargo.”
Lauryn nodded, remembering the real reason they had come to the area. It was not, of course, just to make love in the privacy of this lovely little hunting box. When the earl had shut the bedroom door behind him, she rose and put on a nightgown and finished making herself ready for the night.
She really was tired, and the jumble of emotions inside her made her feel even more drained.
Why had the earl demanded to know about her husband? Why did he want to know her private feelings—why on earth did he care?
She’d never heard that a courtesan was supposed to have emotions—oh, just say it—was supposed to love the man she served. And he had said there was to be no thought of emotions between them. She must have misunderstood his meaning tonight.
Snuffing the candle beside her bed, Lauryn pulled the covers up and lay back, trying to still the thoughts tumbling around in her mind so that she could sleep. Tonight, even past the usual guilt that dogged her, she was puzzled by the earl’s behavior. It would not help that she did not understand his reactions—she didn’t even understand her own! Sighing, she changed position again as she tried to push the mishmash in her mind aside. Eventually, she slept.
When she woke to hear the first birds singing outside her window, she blinked and yawned and found herself little refreshed. When she rose and glanced in the looking glass, she saw she had dark circles under her eyes, the sign of a restless night.
A maidservant soon brought up a tray and warm water and was there to help her dress.
Lauryn was glad to sip the hot tea and sample the fresh-made bread, still warm from the oven, and the other equally tasty foodstuffs that filled the tray. Shaking her head at her reflection, she washed and dressed and did what she could to disguise her wan complexion. When the earl sent word, she was ready to join him downstairs.
She found him pacing restlessly in the hall. He was dressed for riding. Expecting to once again be left alone in the carriage, she was startled by his first words.
“I should have asked earlier, but do you ride, Mrs. Smith?”
He saw the answering flicker of anticipation that lit up her eyes before she mastered her expression.
“After I married, I learned to ride and enjoy it very much,” she said slowly. “But I’m afraid I do not have any riding clothes with me.”
He could hear the disappointment in her voice.
“We will not be stopped by such a small thing as that,” he said, smiling. “It’s a beautiful day, and I have a nice little mare in my stable here that I think you would enjoy. There are several riding habits upstairs in the clothespress.” He did not have to look at her hips and waist and the sweet curves of her breasts to judge their size—he remembered them well from having them encased delightfully inside his palms. “I’m sure you can find something that fits well enough.”
She brightened at once. “I will be swift,” she promised, turning to ascend the stairs.
She was true to her word, and when she returned, he escorted her outside, where the groom had brought two horses to await them. One was the earl’s usual steed, the other a mare of medium height, an attractive chestnut with bright eyes and long mane.
Lauryn exclaimed, “Oh, what a beauty!”
Marcus smiled. It pleased him to see her excitement about her chance to ride. He motioned the groom away and helped her up into the saddle himself, watching her settle herself easily into place.
He mounted his own horse, and nodded to his companion. “The harbor is not far; we will have only a short ride.”
It was almost a shame that the distance was not longer. The sky was blue, the breeze light and off the sea, and they had a good road so they could canter side by side.
He was happy to see his companion’s eyes sparkle and her manner freer than he had so far observed. Her diffidence was not in evidence today, and he relished the easy laughter that greeted his attempts at humor as they rode through the countryside.
Watching her open countenance, her bright eyes, her unguarded mien, for once he could picture her as she was surely meant to be—the genuine person, Marcus thought, beneath the counterfeit. He only wished he could observe this side of her more often. How could he convince her that he could be trusted?
As they neared the town, they had to rein in their horses and proceed more slowly as they encountered other riders and vehicles on the roadway. And to his regret, Mrs. Smith reclaimed her facade of discretion, even as she slowed her steed to a more manageable gait.
The more crowded roadway also made them now unable to ride side by side, instead moving into a single file procession, so they could no longer talk, and they made their way down to the harbor without any more pleasantries being exchanged. When they came to the harbor, Marcus helped his companion dismount, then located the office of the official he needed to speak to. He found someone to look out for their mounts while they went inside.
The local official was ingratiating but hardly a fount of information. “Aye, me lord, the Viscount Tweed was on ’and almost before the ’Ampton Court docked, the ship carrying the recovered cargo from the ship ye lost—what was it, the Bonnie Lassie? All the recovered cargo ’as been taken to the company’s warehouse. We ’ad a look, and ye can see it there, as well. It all seems in order. Quite remarkable that such a quantity of it ’as survived. Amazing that it should turn up from the depths of the ocean, eh, yer lordship?”
“Yes, quite a surprise,” Marcus agreed. He knew that his tone was dry, and that Mrs. Smith glanced at him from beneath her eyelids, but he didn’t think that the Harbor Master detected anything singular in his tone.
“I’ll write out an order giving ye permission to get past the guard and visit the warehouse, me lord.”
“Thank you,” Marcus said. He took the paperwork, and after a few more courtesies exchanged, they were bowed out of the office and could remount their steeds and proceed down the docks toward the warehouse where the remains of the recovered freight were stored. The air was redolent of dead fish and brine and filled with the noisy shouts of seamen busy as other ships at anchor nearby were emptied of their own hauls of barrels and boxes or else being resupplied as their crews prepared for new passages to faraway countries.
Mrs. Smith’s eyes were wide as she watched the hustle and bustle. Once her mare danced to the side as a burly sailor came too close, his vision obstructed by the bulky crate whose weight he balanced on one shoulder. But she tightened the reins and pulled the horse back into line, avoiding the seaman and controlling her mount.
He nodded in approval, and she flushed slightly at his sign of praise.
Lauryn had been relieved that she still remembered how to sit a horse. They had been away from Yorkshire for some time, and she had not had the funds to ride while staying in London. It was a great pleasure to have the opportunity to ride today, and earning the earl’s look of commendation gave her more private delight than she cared to admit.
They reached the warehouse without further incident and dismounted again. When the guard said, “No admittance, gov,” the earl presented the Harbor Master’s documents.
“Oh, sorry, me lord,” the man said.
The big building stank of mildew and rot. Lauryn drew out her handkerchief and held it to her nose, but she followed the earl as he approached the stack of water-stained boxes and bins stacked unevenly at one side of the structure. He cautiously lifted the top of the nearest crate to inspect its contents.
Unable to contain her curiosity, Lauryn came closer to see what he found.
As he raised the lid, the wood—soft and rotted by its long exposure to
water—came apart in his hand. What could have survived the years beneath the sea?
But it seemed what was inside the crates had indeed fared better than the rotten wood. When the earl pushed aside soggy sawdust, she saw beautiful sculptures of what appeared to be green or bluish stone. The next box held vases and urns of delicate china, in Oriental patterns of white and blue. She bit her lip, wondering if these were as precious as they appeared. He continued to check box after box, and although the crates were close to falling apart, the contents seemed in good condition.
So why did the earl frown?
She waited for him to speak, and when he did not, finally asked, “Are you not pleased that they are mostly undamaged? Are they costly?”
“Yes,” he said. “They are most valuable, Ming vases and urns, and good quality jade sculpture of some age. But…”
“It’s amazing that they are intact,” she said when he paused, thinking of these delicate pieces tossed about in a storm, then sinking with the ship to the ocean’s depths.
“They were packed in sawdust, and the vases had beeswax melted inside them, to help cushion them against the rolling of the waves,” he pointed out, but his thoughts still seemed far away.
She saw that the vase that he lifted to inspect for cracks still had wax clinging to its lip, though someone seemed to have scraped it mostly clean. The earl tried to brush aside the wax that clung to his fingertips.
“How much of the original cargo survived?”
“I’m not sure, likely about half. I will have to see if Tweed has made a list of the salvaged goods and compared it to the original,” the earl told her.
He glanced about them and seemed to be counting the boxes and barrels. She was silent, in order not to interfere with his concentration. They had worked their way back toward the entrance of the warehouse. The earl turned back toward the guard at the entrance.
“Do you know if Viscount Tweed made a list of the cargo?’ he asked the man.
“I don’t rightly know, me lord,” the other man answered.
“How long was he here?” the earl asked.