A Sinful Temptation

by Kelly Boyce

  “Mr. Bowen is like family.” And soon, would be in truth, though she refrained from saying as much now. “Is there anything you can do to keep your father from taking action? It would mean the world to me.”

  “I will do what I can, my dear.” Hope and expectation lit his eyes and self-reproach filled her heart as he took her hands in his. “I want nothing more than to see you happy, even if it means championing Mr. Bowen, against my father. I will do what I can.”

  “It would be greatly appreciated, my lord.”

  He nodded but did not look too hopeful. “I cannot make any promises into how successful an endeavor it will be. My father is not a kind man. It is not a pleasant thing to admit, but he has shown throughout my life a complete lack of compassion for the plight of anyone but himself.”

  Lord Selward’s description of his father’s character did not bode well, but she refused to give in to despair. “Whatever you can do would go a long way to casting you in a favorable light where my brother is concerned. Mr. Bowen is one of his dearest friends.” And hers.

  Shame wrapped its tangled roots around her and squeezed. She did not want to lead Lord Selward on or lift his expectations, but what choice did she have when Marcus’s future—his very life—may depend upon it?

  * * *

  Marcus closed his eyes and rubbed his fingertips against his lids. It offered no respite. Lingering behind them, the image of Rebecca, her head thrown back in passion, refused to leave, tormenting his memories and his conscience. He could still taste her skin on the tip of his tongue. Still feel the slickness of her desire. Still smell her scent, an intoxicating blend of fire and earth. He groaned and let his head fall back against the cushioned seat of the carriage. He tried to divert his thoughts to no avail. She infiltrated every aspect of them until everything led back to her. To that moment in the study when she’d begged him to give her release.

  Only the thinnest thread of restraint had kept him from taking her then and there, against the desk like some rutting animal. Disgust filled him. She deserved better than that.

  Better than him.

  Time and distance had made things clearer. He had no right to ruin her. No right to her at all. Honor dictated he let her go. Let her marry Selward and have the life she deserved. Her passion for him would dissipate in time, surely, until he became little more than a memory.

  A man she used to know.

  The idea filled him with a heavy sadness as if he had stuffed his pockets with stone and now sunk into a deep river, its placid surface growing farther and farther away.

  He glanced out the window hoping for a diversion from his thoughts.

  The landscape had changed little from his memories, faded though they were. He had driven long days, changed horses often, and stopped only when darkness made travel dangerous and sleep a necessity. He did not want to waste time. The purgatory he’d been living in had worn him down. He needed to find answers. He needed to make things right with Rebecca. Worthy or not, she had set her heart on him and stolen his in the process. While good sense counseled he let her go, honor dictated he make things right. That he marry her.

  The idea thrilled and frightened him in equal measure.

  If he were to fall to ruin, so might she. He needed answers. He needed to know if the truth would prove their salvation, or their undoing.

  He was a bastard, that much he knew. Walkerton was his father—that too had become irrefutable. A disconcerting idea having that man’s blood coursing through his own veins, a man who tossed people away as if they held no value, ruining lives without rhyme or reason. Is that what he had done to Marcus’s mother? Used her and cast her aside, leaving her to her fate the way he had Alma or Mr. Cosgrove?

  Marcus shook his head. Hopefully his mother’s blood would prove the stronger of the two.

  And what of his mother? Lord and Lady Ellesmere refused to release her identity. Had she been a relative? Close family friend? Finding her identity would be key in unlocking the door to the truth and allowing he and Rebecca to be together.

  It was this hope he clung to, the only bright light in the turmoil that roiled within him as he vacillated between right and wrong. Honor and good sense. Holding Rebecca tight or letting her go.

  In the distance he could see the water, smell the salt in the air. When he closed his eyes, he could still picture the craggy edges of the cliffs and the foamy waves as they battered the jutting rocks and shores. The desolate beauty of the landscape suited his mood and claimed the wildness that warred inside of him. This place had framed his early years and had burrowed deep within him. Buried, but not forgotten. He breathed it in, needing its strength more now than ever.

  “We’re here, m’ lord.”

  Marcus had already informed the man he was not a lord. Not by a long shot. But his driver did not seem to take to the idea and Marcus had grown weary of reminding him.

  The stench—a mix of despair and poverty—hit him before the pathetic excuse for a house came into view. He remembered it well. Some memories refused to die. The fence that lined the rutted road had toppled in spots, rotted through in others. A single cow stood behind it munching at the sparse grass. The carriage came to a gradual stop in front of the cottage. It had not weathered the years well. The thatched roof was in disrepair and soot, dirt and salt air had discolored the exterior walls to a shade that he had no name for.

  Save for the lone cow and a thin strand of smoke oozing from the chimney, the place appeared deserted.

  He stepped down from the carriage and glanced over the rolling hills to his left. If he ran to the top of the highest one, he would see Braemore in the distance. How many times as a child had he done that? Escaped for a few moments to sit atop that hill and stare, wishing he could turn back time. Wishing he could go home.

  It had never happened. He had not set foot in Braemore since the day after his mother’s funeral. Lord Ellesmere preferred to handle the business for that particular estate himself. Over the years, Marcus had tried to talk the marquess into letting him take it over, but he’d steadfastly refused without indicating his reasons. Marcus had never understood his reticence.

  Until now.

  “Wait here,” he said to the driver, as if the man had somewhere else to go.

  Weeds had overtaken the cobbled stones that led from the road to the cottage until only the memory of them remained. He waded through until he reached the door, lifted his hand and knocked twice. No answer. He tried again. The place was not big enough that anyone inside of it wouldn’t have heard. It contained only three rooms—the main room that had served as kitchen and sitting room and two small bedrooms where the family slept. He’d been relegated to sleeping in the barn, though on the coldest nights, he’d sneaked inside and found warmth near the kitchen stove.

  When no answer came with his second knock, he pushed at the door. The hinges creaked as it swung inward. A fetid stench greeted him and he took a step back to gulp in fresher air before going inside. The interior remained unchanged. Dark. Dingy. Depressing. The echo of voices past stained the discolored walls. Sharp words, quarrelling, cries from the younger children. From himself when his aunt and uncle brought out the belt and thrust their frustrations onto his hide. The thin scars he bore from those beatings had faded over time, though the memory had not.

  He’d spent most of his time outdoors working or inside the kitchen. He’d never been invited into the rest of the house. It had been made clear to him he was nothing more than a burden, an unpaid servant meant to earn his keep. He’d done his best, but it had never sufficed. He’d been beaten for his efforts, made to go without.

  It had been a miserable existence that even now made him want to turn and run.

  He held his ground.

  “What you want? Ain’t nuthin’ here worth stealin’.”

  The voice startled him, drifting out of the shadows as it had. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness he sought it out and discovered a lump in a chair near the stove.

  “Mrs.
MacCumber?” He had never been invited to call her aunt. Had never wanted to. He took a couple of steps forward then stopped.

  “What of it? Who are you?”

  Her hoarse voice scraped against him. The years had not been kind. The dull brown of her hair had turned a mousy grey and frizzed around her head like a rat had nested there. Lines and dark spots made her face almost unrecognizable. She dressed herself in colorless grey rags that held no shape or form. A cane rested near the chair, nothing more than a piece of wood whittled down.

  “It’s Marcus Bowen.”

  She leaned forward and squinted and for a fleeting moment he thought she did not remember him. Then her expression altered. Her thin lips disappeared and her pale brown eyes hardened. “The bastard son,” she snarled and sat back in her chair as if repulsed by him. Her words cut, but hoped poured through the wounds.

  “What do you know of it?”

  “Of wha’? And ain’t you lookin’ fancy.” She gripped the thick knob of the cane with gnarled fingers.

  He ignored her caustic comment and glanced about the room. “Where are the others?”

  “Dead. Or gone.”

  “Mr. MacCumber?”

  “Both.”

  No loss or regret to washed over him at the news of his uncle’s passing, only the disappointment that the information he searched for may have died with him. His mother and aunt had never been close. If there were secrets to be told, Mrs. MacCumber had likely not been privy to them. But he had come to far not to ask.

  “What do you know of my mother?”

  She said nothing and Marcus reached into his pocket and tossed a coin into her lap. She held it up, inspected it. Found it worthy of loosening her tongue.

  “Mary Bowen was an uppity piece of baggage. Always thought she was better than me jus’ cause she came back from London and married your da with ’is fancy position. She weren’t no better than anyone. Couldn’t even ’ave ’er own babes. Had to take someone else’s cast offs.”

  He held his breath. “Tell me what you know about that.”

  Her squinty gaze looked him up and down and her mouth twisted to one side revealing gaps where teeth had once been. “You got ’em same uppity airs as her. Maybe that’s jus’ part o’ your breedin’, but I don’t owe you nothin’. Took you in when I coulda cast you out. Shoulda too. You wasn’t worth nothin’ to me.”

  But he was now.

  Marcus let out a long, slow breath and glanced around at the squalor in which she lived. Dented tin pots lay about on the planked floor and the disparate sound of drops plunked into them in a steady rhythm. The pile of wood next to the stove was dismally inadequate at warming the interior and chasing away the damp. The smell of rot and decay invaded every corner.

  “Tell me what I want to know and I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Oh, you gonna sweep me away to a grand palace like what happened to you?” Her tone mocked him, as if he hadn’t deserved saving any more than the rest of them had. Maybe she was right. Had Lady Ellesmere not shown up that day, what would have become of him? Would he still be here, living within these decaying walls?

  Maybe. Though, in all likelihood, between the beatings and starvation, he would not have survived his childhood. He owed this woman nothing. If he walked away now and left her to rot it was nothing more than what she deserved.

  “No, I’m not,” he stated flatly in answer to her question. “But I will see to it that this place is improved upon, made livable, and that you have food and supplies enough to get you through the winter.” Beyond that, she was on her own.

  She snorted, as if his offer insulted her. He remained silent. He was the best and only chance she had at finding ease over the coming winter. He would wait her out.

  “Can’t ’magine I know anythin’ you want.”

  It was as much of an agreement as he would get. He took it. “We both know Mary Bowen wasn’t the woman who gave birth to me. I want to know who did.”

  His aunt shrugged one hunched shoulder. “Not like she ev’r told me her secrets.” But she knew something. He could tell by the way her gaze skirted about the floor like a rat hunting crumbs. He waited and eventually it came. “Floyd sometimes did work at the property. Once said a fancy lady got ’erself in trouble and came out there t’stay.”

  His heartbeat accelerated but he remained still. “Who was she?”

  “Can’t say. Floyd didn’t know either. Jus’ that she was a relation to Lady Ellesmere. They stashed ’er away up to the middle of nowhere ’cause God forbid anyone know ’bout it. Like their kind don’ lift their skirts like the rest o’ us.” She snorted in derision.

  Her words held the ring of truth and explained why the Kingsleys had taken him in after the Bowens had passed away. Why Lady Ellesmere had insisted he was family. Why they had been adamant he leave the matter alone. Lord and Lady Ellesmere abhorred scandal. To admit they had a bastard relative living in their home would be beyond the pale. So long as they could cover his existence under the guise of belonging to the Bowens, all was well, but the moment he had threatened that—

  Pain cut through him. Had their reputation been more important to them than him? Had he meant so little?

  “Do you know the lady’s name?”

  She scoffed at him. “Ain’t never seen her but once. Caught her out near the bluffs, belly stickin’ out.”

  “What’d she look like?” Hunger for details riveted him to the spot.

  “Small ’cept for the belly. Dark haired like you.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “I ain’t never approached ’er. You think the high falutin’ lords and ladies would deem to ’ave a conversation with me? I ain’t their kind.”

  “What happened to the woman after I was born?”

  Another shrug. “Can’t say. She disappeared and suddenly Mary ’ad a new babe. Maybe your real ma ’ad to go meet with the King. La ti da.” She waved a hand in the air.

  Again Marcus waited but nothing more came. “Is that all you can tell me?”

  The information was thin at best save to confirm his mother had been related to the Kingsleys, and a brief physical description. Small. Young. Dark-haired. Not much to go on. His mind ran through the relatives he knew of. The only female relative on Lord Ellesmere’s side had been a niece who, years ago, ran off with a man who claimed to be a member of the French aristocracy, but the timeframe didn’t fit. His mother must have been from Lady Ellesmere side, but he could think of no one, as most of Lady Ellesmere’s kin were now dead and gone, or moved to the colonies. Had his mother been exiled there after his birth?

  It wasn’t much to go on, but it was more than he’d had before he arrived and for that he was grateful.

  “Thank you.”

  His aunt scowled at him.

  Marcus took one last look around the dilapidated room that had briefly been his home and shook his head. How this place had formed him. It had taught him prudence in all things, to be unobtrusive, to not take chances that would get you noticed. He had carried these lessons with him into adulthood and in many respects they had served him well. But Rebecca had the right of it. Sometimes, a man had to throw caution to the wind where love and happiness were concerned.

  Maybe the time had come for him to take her advice; to take a risk and make her his. If she loved him even half as much as he did her, surely it would see them through whatever fate threw their way. Was she not worth the risk?

  Yes. A hundred times, yes.

  “I will see to your comfort,” he said, but made no more promises beyond. He turned and left the house that had haunted his nightmares. He did not look back.

  He would not return.

  Chapter Twenty

  January 15th

  The pains have started to come. It will be soon now. I have been ill for the past week. Mother says that is normal, but I can see the lie of it in her eyes. I fear never holding him, that I will be gone before I have the chance. Before I can tell him—I do not know why
I believe it to be a boy, but I do—

  I need him to know he is loved. That it is not his fault. That he should never feel less than worthy of my love. I need him to know I don’t blame him, whatever happens, he was the perfect ending; the only one who could wash away the ugliness of what happened. I love him. I have not yet met him and still he is a part of my heart as if his beats in time with mine, making them as one. Whatever happens, I will see him protected. If I can give him nothing else, I can give him that.

  Please God allow me the chance to do at least that.

  * * *

  The annual Sheridan house party spared no expense when it came to entertaining their guests for a fortnight. The official start of the party began with a ball, which Rebecca generally considered her second favorite. Her least favorite had always been the one held at the end of the two weeks because it signaled the party was over. Ah, but the middle one, that was her favorite. By then, all the guests had arrived, the mood was chipper and there was still a full week of festivities yet to come.

  But this year, as the music ended and the guests finished the last steps of the quadrille, she left the dance floor, her usual joy nowhere in evidence. Nor would it be until she received word Marcus had returned from Cornwall. Relief mingled with excitement over what Lord Selward had admitted and she could not wait to share the news with Marcus. Now, he could return the watch to Walkerton, perhaps in exchange for his confirmation that he fathered Marcus, and they could start their lives together without the threat of scandal and ruin hanging over their heads.

  She searched the crowd, hoping beyond hope he would appear amidst the sea of bodies dressed in all their finery. He would gift her with a smile that promised untold delights once they were alone and their finest lay on the floor about them in wild abandon. The wicked thought brought a rush of heat to her cheeks and a deep ache farther down. She had experienced that wildness, had been overcome by the power of it coiled within her, unleashed by the touch of his hands until she’d been left dazed and speechless. Unable to resist. Unwilling to, for she had asked for it. Practically begged him for it.