by Gina Conkle
Marcus pushed up fast and slid off the bed, jerking up his breeches. “How I feel doesn’t matter.” He jammed buttons into buttonholes. “There’s a strong chance he’ll win.”
“Or lose.”
“It’s the only way. Sometimes sacrifices must be made.” Shoulders squared, he brushed aside the curtain, staring at the night.
Did he wrestle with telling her about Miss Rutherford?
Though weary around the edges, he was a man who considered his options and forged ahead with purpose. It was in the set of his shoulders and the calm determination of his face…different from the man whose path she’d crossed on Devil’s Causeway.
“Then I support you.” Glancing at the papers on his bed, she added, “And plans for your future.”
Marcus deserved it. She’d not stand in his way. Bed ropes squeaked as he found a seat on the mattress again, this time to collect the documents strewn everywhere.
“What are these papers for?” she asked.
“Baron Atal requested I produce proof of Khan’s bloodlines.” He held up a page. “I found it.”
He set it aside and stuffed the rest of his papers in a leather folio with no sense of order. Marcus had been like a man possessed with his correspondence and documents and the midday ride in the rain into Cornhill.
Snapping the folio shut, he leveled a gaze on her that brooked no argument. “There’s something else. I need you to stay away from the race.”
“You don’t want me there? Why not?”
“It’s not a matter of want,” he said, tossing the folio aside. “It’s Herr Wolf. Things might get…heated.”
The Wolf. She’d forgotten she was a hunted woman.
“I’m doing everything I can to ensure your freedom.” Marcus reached for her hand. “I need you to trust me on this.”
Trust. The one virtue she hoarded. It came in such short supply.
Firelight lit his bed, a haven from the world. What a fool she was for keeping herself from him! From the first night they rode away from Coldstream, his arms around her, he’d promised to take care of her. She should’ve claimed her wifely rights every night instead of running downstairs full of stubborn independence.
If she couldn’t have till death do us part, she’d take what she could.
“Wives of quality avoid the races…an unworthy spectacle for tender sensibilities,” he said, laying it on thick.
“Don’t. Not tonight.”
“Don’t what?”
“Use humor to get what you want. Not tonight.”
He balked like a man caught naked.
“Nor do I need anyone looking after my so-called tender sensibilities. I’ve never had them.” She swallowed the knot in her throat. “I will go to the race, Marcus. I need to be there.”
Someone could’ve tied a millstone around her heart, so heavy and dull was the sinking sensation inside her. Fanciful dreams with him in this quaint cottage were coming to an end.
His bedchamber had darkened from the sun setting and a lack of candles. She’d missed the hour for lighting the sconces. Embers glowed like orange stones in his fireplace. A chill set in. The fire needed stoking. Belowstairs, scents of ham and linseed oil from the mural wafted into his room. Pallinsburn had become a hideaway in her tumbled life, its master her rustic rescuer.
Nodding slowly, Marcus gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “So be it.”
“You’ve got to be careful, or the chilblains will return.” She dipped two fingers in the salve and smeared it over rough skin. “You need to wear your gloves.”
“First, no quips. Now you require me to wear gloves.” His charming smile spread. “I cringe to think what you’ll demand next, Lady Bowles.”
Smiling, she slid off the bed and set the jar on the washstand. “I wondered how long you’d manage without witticisms. You might’ve lasted a minute.”
“I’m painfully undisciplined,” he jested. “Clearly I need a sergeant in russet skirts to keep me in line.”
His beautiful smile lit up the room, warming all the places aching inside her.
“Why don’t I bring up a tray? We can eat in here. And read.”
“Then I don’t need my clothes, do I?”
“Not tonight.” Her soft laugh was bittersweet.
She caught her reflection in the mirror. The woman she saw appeared different. Water wetted her skirt. Hair fell loose. Her eyes were glossy and bright. All her features were the same, but she was luminous. And determined.
All her life, she’d taken care of others. This path of thinking only of her own care was still untried territory.
The time had come to get back on it.
Thirty-six
“Do you know what the face of a coward is?” Marcus asked, stroking Khan’s neck. “It’s his ass on the run…as yours will be soon.”
The Prussian stared intently at the meadow, hands clamped behind his back. “Idle boasts, Englisch.” His gaze raked Khan. “Despite your fine horse, you’ll not win.”
Goading the beast was foolish, like scratching an itch better left untouched. The man’s smugness stuck in Marcus’s craw. Herr Wolf needed a good tossing out. The Prussian stood ramrod straight as if he was prepared to inspect unworthy recruits. Sunlight glinted off his flat, round silver hatpin. Not a hair was out of place or a wrinkle on his clothes. A black ribbon wrapped the length of his queue, the favored style for men of action.
They stood in the open, away from the party gathered near a copse of trees. Footmen pounded wooden posts in the meadow. The finish line. Khan’s ears twitched. His nostrils flared. The gray knew something was afoot.
“You’re certain I’ll lose.”
“It is the way of men lacking discipline.” Herr Wolf stepped on a small chunk of wood, grinding it to pieces. “They fall in line, or they fall apart.”
Force or be forced: this was his creed. The oaf dismissed Marcus as a man of no substance. Until coming north, he would’ve agreed. Life here, the horses, and Genevieve changed him.
Marcus smiled thinly. “I take it you have a similar philosophy with women.”
“I treated Genevieve well. I saved her from squalor.”
“Ah, there’s the rub. We help others, but for someone’s life to truly change, they must save themselves. You didn’t save her; you stole her. In doing that, you took her right to make a choice for herself.”
Today, he would do everything in his power to give it back.
Light flickered in the beast’s pale eyes before he faced the road. “Lord Barnard explained the circumstances already. I leave England with Genevieve in tow.”
“In tow? Like baggage strapped to your carriage?” Marcus smirked. “Or will you tie her up and make her trot behind? Five, ten paces for good measure…just to keep her in line.”
Herr Wolf shook his head. “A man should know when he has lost.”
Dishes clinked, melding with genteel laughter. No one knew a woman’s life hung in the balance. Footmen set white-and-blue-painted Wedgwood on pure white tablecloths. The white hems snapped and fluttered around spindled table legs. To the baron’s guests, this was yet another entertainment…like so many Marcus had partaken of over the years.
Pounding hooves and rolling wheels sounded from the east. A carriage crested the road with baggage strapped to the top.
Marcus tightened his grip on the reins. “You’re right, of course. That night at cards, you exploited my weakness. I should admit you defeated me. Soundly, in fact.”
Black ravens landed in the trees above the gathering. Mrs. Grey laughed, the sound like tinkling crystal.
“Do not think to flatter me, Englisch. You’re finished.” The Prussian stretched one leg in front of the other, his boots crushing dormant grass.
He headed for the carriage where Lord Barnard’s conveyance waited on the knoll. Two large men dr
essed in livery idled by the carriage, their beefy arms straining their sleeves, but they wore no periwigs. They were the types found on docks…rufflers with hairy knuckles and brutish jowls, men hired for brutish business.
“How about one more wager? Something to put me in my place.”
“You’ve nothing I want.” The Wolf kept going.
“There is this,” Marcus shouted, digging a thrice-folded paper from his pocket.
Gossipy onlookers turned their way. Lord Stoneleigh whispered behind his hand to Halliburton. Mrs. Grey looked up from fussing with her silk panniers. Genevieve stood with her, one hand shading her eyes.
The Prussian’s retreat slowed, and if Marcus read him right, his head cocked a few degrees sideways. He swung around. “What is it?”
Marcus held up the paper. “Something to smooth your journey home.”
A lanky stableboy opened a gate and led Atal’s black horse into the meadow. Fine-tuned muscles rippled under the steed’s sleek coat. The guests applauded, erupting with chatter. Sweat pricked Marcus’s forehead. The baron’s bay danced skittishly through the gate behind the black filly, an older stable master holding her lead.
“This will hound you, but if you don’t want it…” Marcus stuffed the paper in his pocket.
A footman opened Barnard’s carriage door. Lord Barnard stepped gingerly onto the road, followed by a wiry man in a gray suit and black boots like Herr Wolf’s. Herr Avo Thade. Marcus eyed Samuel under the brim of his hat. His friend nodded grim-faced, patting the pistol tied to his thigh.
Ham-sized fists curled at Herr Wolf’s side. He marched back to Marcus. “If this is some kind of trick…”
“No trick. It’s my marriage license. As a gambling man, I’d say you have the indenture contract in your pocket.”
“I do.” A giant paw covered the Prussian’s heart. For all his cold control, the soldier had a tendre for Genevieve…at least his twisted version.
“Why not wager it?” Marcus asked quietly.
Herr Wolf stilled, and Marcus fanned the embers glowing in the beast’s eyes.
“You want to destroy what I have in my pocket, don’t you? You hate that she chose me over you.”
The Wolf’s nostrils flared.
“I’m not the strategist you are, but”—Marcus glanced at the waiting carriage—“could be you planned to kidnap Genevieve during the race. You’d have a hunt on your hands, a delay you don’t want.”
“What is your point, Englisch?”
“My point is she’s smart and she’s stubborn. Imagine the trouble ahead,” he argued. “Leaving for a covert mission with an Englishwoman making a ruckus, tossing around the Northampton name. Tsk, tsk. What would your Baron Bromberg have to say?”
Herr Wolf’s mouth pinched.
Marcus patted his chest where paper crinkled under his hand. “If you burn this, she’d have no legal argument, and we both know you want badly to destroy what I have.”
“I at least want to give her a better life. I did not think you so desperate as this.”
“For a chance to get back at you? Why not? You embarrassed me before my peers.”
“No, I mean to use her this badly.”
Marcus flinched. Couldn’t help it. The sordid transaction made him want to scrub his skin, but he carried on, playing the low card. For once, having a scoundrel’s reputation helped.
“Did you think I had feelings for the daughter of an actress? I crave excitement is all. These northern climes are cold and boring. It was fun for a time, but now I must do my duty to my family.”
At the starting post, the lad mounted the black. Lord Barnard stood at the edge of the gathering, Avo Thade shadowing him. Thade planted both hands on his hips, spreading his coat. Silver-trimmed flintlocks flanked his ribs. The Frisian’s black eyes zeroed in on Marcus—quiet, menacing, less docile than the day he drove a cart to Pallinsburn when the Wolf thought he’d collect his prize. He gave Marcus the barest nod before scanning the crowd. Brisk winds blew, but sweat trickled down Marcus’s temple. He swiped it with one finger.
“I would not tolerate you in my command,” Herr Wolf scoffed, pulling yellowing foolscap from his pocket. “The terms.”
The black pawed the ground. The stable master mounted the nervous bay filly, the horse’s eyes showing white. This had to be her first race.
A coppery taste coated Marcus’s mouth. “I win, the indenture is mine. I lose, I forfeit the marriage license.”
Baron Atal cupped his mouth. “Lord Bowles. Are you ready?”
He held up a hand. “A moment,” Marcus yelled and lowered his voice for the Prussian. “What say you?”
Wolf’s eyes flared wide. “You are more craven than I thought, using Genevieve like this.”
“Coming from a man who tricked her into servitude, I’ll take my chances on how you define what’s craven.” He fisted the reins. “Are you taking the wager or not?”
“With pleasure. Englisch.”
Baron Atal clapped his hands. “Gentlemen, the race is about to begin. Please conclude your wagers.”
Khan snorted, catching the excitement. Men buzzed around the footman keeping the book.
Marcus pulled a thrice-folded document from his pocket. “Do we agree that Mrs. Grey will hold the documents?”
He nodded. “She will do.”
The Prussian marched ahead, the indenture contract dangling in his grip. Marcus followed Herr Wolf, a careful eye on the indenture. Had he overplayed his hand? The giant had acquiesced too easily.
“Mrs. Grey, would you and the gentlemen here witness a wager between Herr Wolf and myself? I have a peculiar requirement.”
She smiled brightly as the breeze stirred an artful curl against her temple. “Of course, Bowles. Peculiar requirements add to the excitement.”
“Herr Wolf and I require two papers held by you. No one may read them. They’re of a confidential nature.”
The wind carried her soft, knowing exhale. Keen eyes widened a fraction on both men. “I’m honored to have your trust, gentlemen.”
Herr Wolf set the indenture in her silk-gloved hand, the foolscap folded from prying eyes. Pulse threading hard, Marcus gave over his thrice-folded paper.
She rolled them tightly together and tucked the roll in her cleavage, under Samuel’s thunderous glare. “I expect you want me to hand over both documents to the winner.”
“You are as lovely as you are astute,” Marcus said, touching his hat in deference. “Perfect for the task.”
“Mr. Beckworth’s disapproving glower suggests otherwise.”
Samuel hooked his thumb in his waistband and turned his glower to the starting line. “Your brother is a baron. I would hope you’d have some regard for decorum.”
“Now you’re concerned for my decorum? A moment ago you grumbled about the dangers of a woman around excitable horses.” Her fingers tickled Khan’s muzzle. “Lady Bowles seems to be handling herself well. I think I can too.”
“Lord Bowles, if you please,” Baron Atal called impatiently from the starting line.
“There’s one more wager,” she called back to her brother and laughed. “You men…always in a rush. Anticipation is half the fun.” Mrs. Grey snapped her fingers for the footman keeping the book. “Hanley, come record a wager so we can commence this rough outing of ours.”
Genevieve stood quietly next to Samuel, nibbling her bottom lip and checking the ruffians idling by Barnard’s carriage.
The footman trotted over. He listened, his lead stick scratching the page. “Very good, milord, Herr Wolf.”
“Repeat it,” Wolf ordered.
Shoulders back, young Hanley read the wager aloud. “If Lord Bowles wins the horse race, both documents held in trust with Mrs. Grey belong to Lord Bowles. If Lord Bowles comes in second or third place, said documents held by Mrs. Grey become the prope
rty of Herr Wolf.”
Wolf crossed his arms, a cold smile playing on his mouth. “This is acceptable.”
“I say, Bowles, quit dragging your feet.” Lord Halliburton plucked a macaroon from the table. “I’m here for a race, not conversation.” He shivered, his limp wrist batting the air. “All this nature is positively dreadful.”
Samuel gave Marcus a leg up. Blood pounded in Marcus’s ears. His throat dried, but not with the craving. It was fear. All the pieces had to fall in place. Samuel patted Khan, his close-lipped smile tense. Sweat sheened on Samuel’s forehead. The moment of truth had come.
Marcus leaned toward Samuel, speaking for his ears alone. “Did you give my note to Atal?”
“I did. Care to tell me its contents?”
“After the race.”
Marcus sat up, taking note of Herr Avo Thade with Barnard by the trees. He glanced at Barnard’s footmen by the road. One of the men was cleaning his nails with the tip of a nasty blade, not bothering with the farce of playing a footman.
Samuel followed his sight line. “Do you think they’ll try to snatch Genevieve here?”
“I don’t know. Watch over Genevieve,” Marcus cautioned. “Guard her with your life.”
“I will.”
“Lord Bowles.” Atal waved a flintlock, beckoning him to the starting line. “To your post, if you will. I’m about to announce the course.”
Marcus trotted the gray to the posts. Chill winds drowned Atal’s voice. Marcus already knew the way. Race west around a stone where a footman held the ancient Atal pennant, and race back for all he was worth. This meadow was the battlefield, the horse and riders the combatants.
“Milord!” Genevieve ran toward him, skirts clutched. “I want to wish you good luck.”
“A moment, Atal.”
“Yes, yes.” He sighed impatiently, his lace cuffs fluttering in the breeze.
Genevieve scurried to Khan’s side. Breathing hard from her spring, she set a hand on his leg. Herr Wolf scowled by the trees, but there was nothing the brute could do. In the battle for Genevieve’s affections, the fair damsel had made clear who’d won her affections.
“Milord.” Her big brown eyes pleaded with Marcus, but no words came.