The Marsh Hawk

by Dawn MacTavish

  She heaved a ragged sigh and closed the window. She needed to think. It wasn’t that she wanted to. The thoughts were hammering at her brain, and if she were to let them in it couldn’t be in that house.

  Foraging through her clothing, which Emily had hung neatly in the wardrobe, she unearthed the long cashmere pelerine she had brought along to ward off the evening chills, slipped it on over her negligee, and went below to the garden.

  But it wasn’t the delicious fragrance of French lilacs that filled her nostrils when she entered through the arbor. It was the provocative aroma of tobacco, an exotic blend she’d never smelled before, and yet there was something vaguely familiar about it. She wasn’t alone among the lilacs, and her heart nearly stopped as he stepped from the shadows of a tall tree close by.

  Kevernwood.

  Her quick intake of breath caught in her throat as he emerged still dressed as he’d been at dinner, minus the black cutaway jacket. He’d also removed his neckcloth, and his ruffled shirt was open at the throat exposing a patch of dark hair curling beneath.

  “F-forgive me, my lord,” she stammered. “I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know . . . I didn’t mean. . . .” It was no use. The traitorous emotions rippling through her body had tied her tongue.

  “I wanted a smoke,” he said, strolling closer. “I didn’t think it wise to have it in the house, considering. God knows but that your betrothed might deem it a hanging offense and, alas, I have but one life to give for king and country this season.”

  “And I’ve spoiled it for you,” she regretted, ignoring the sarcastic last.

  He began tapping the ashes from the bowl of a small clay pipe against the trunk of the tree beside him.

  “No, don’t!” she cried. “Please. I will leave. There are other gardens, my lord.”

  “No—no, do not trouble. I’ve finished, really.”

  He had taken away her excuse to escape, and she stood studying him for an awkward moment trying to invent another.

  “My father used to smoke a pipe,” she said meanwhile. “I loved the aroma of his tobacco. I have never smelled anything quite like yours before, though, and yet . . . there is something vaguely familiar about it. Is it a custom mixture?”

  The earl nodded. “I have it blended by a tobacconist in London,” he said, tucking the pipe into his pocket. “He flavors it with licorice, whiskey, rum, and a little latakia from the Mediterranean. Most women object to it as being too overpowering, but I find it a very satisfying smoke.”

  Jenna turned to go. She couldn’t believe she was standing there, half-dressed, in the garden in the middle of the night, casually discussing tobacco with a man who was probably going to kill her betrothed in a duel.

  “I shouldn’t be here. I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  “Why did you come out here at this hour?” he said, his deep voice turning her around again.

  “Flowers have the same effect upon me as your pipe has upon you, my lord,” she replied, swallowing her rapid heartbeat. “I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to think, and I always do that best whilst communing with nature.”

  He came closer, hardly limping at all. For a moment she toyed with the idea of telling him about Lady Evelyn. She’d almost decided against it, but when he continued to advance she could no longer control the rush of excitement that pulsed through the core of her sexuality, quickening her heart, setting off alarm bells in her brain.

  “Lady Evelyn paid me a visit in my rooms earlier,” she blurted. “She is afraid for you.”

  His smile disappeared and he stopped in his tracks. The moon shone down on them and there was something in his eyes that she couldn’t identify, though it sent cold chills the length of her spine. He was very close, searching her face in the moonlight.

  “She shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

  “She wanted me to use my influence with Rupert . . . to persuade him to withdraw the challenge.”

  Consistently, his blank expression told her nothing.

  “She was dreadfully overset,” Jenna went on. “I’m afraid I couldn’t offer her much hope in that regard. Rupert is quite fixed in his ways.”

  For a long moment their eyes met trembling in the moonlight before he prowled closer. The evening dampness had framed her face in tendrils, and he reached to brush a stray one from her cheek.

  “I told you, you do not love him,” he murmured, seizing her in strong arms that pulled her close.

  Before she could catch her breath, his mouth closed over hers. He tasted of the tobacco and traces of sweet wine. He deepened the kiss and swallowed her moan as his warm, skilled tongue glided between her parted teeth and entered her slowly—totally.

  It was wrong, but she didn’t resist. She was being compromised, alone, past midnight, half-dressed in the arms of another, while her unsuspecting betrothed slept in the manor but a few yards away. If someone were to see, her reputation would be ruined. But the earl had stirred her passion awake and she was beguiled, as foxed by his closeness as a lord in his cups.

  His massive hand roamed beneath the pelerine and took possession of her waist. Slowly the hand inched upward. Deftly, his tongue teased, pulling back, then plunged deeper, and a husky groan resonated from his throat to hers as her trembling tongue responded.

  Her heart leapt. An involuntary pulse throbbed wildly at her very core, spreading a delicious, achy warmth through her most private regions as he crushed her closer still, molding her body to his, grown turgid with arousal.

  All at once she remembered where she was and what was happening to her. What was he thinking—that because she wasn’t begging him to spare Rupert in the duel she didn’t care? Or was it that he thought to take her favors as payment for Rupert’s safety? These thoughts, coming in rampant flashes, were stabbing at the sexual stream that flowed between them, mortally wounding the magical sensations his touch had ignited.

  His hand found its way to her face and slid down the length of her arched throat. He spread the cape wide and murmured her name against her lips as his fingers slipped lower. But it was when the roughened skin of his palm explored her décolleté that she sobered. What happened inside her when he touched her there was so terrifying that she wrenched free and slapped his face, with all the strength she could muster.

  Unprepared, he staggered backward.

  “How dare you!” she demanded, her breast heaving with passion and indignation beneath the pelerine she pulled tight around her. “I’ve just told you that a woman who worships you came begging me to plead with my betrothed to cancel the duel. Is this how you would betray that heart?”

  Breathing hard, he stared. His handsome face showed her no emotion.

  “Rupert warned me that you were a Jackanapes,” she said to his silence. “I’m sorry now that I didn’t believe him. You are no gentleman, my lord.”

  “So I was wrong,” the earl said, his voice like gravel. “You do love him after all?” He raked his hair back. His moist brow, pleated by a frown, glistened in the moonlight. “Well, you can put your mind at ease, my lady,” he said. “Your precious Rupert will not be seriously harmed in the duel, nor arrested for instigating it. You didn’t have to try and buy his safety with your charms.”

  “W-with my—”

  “You didn’t have to degrade yourself. I’ve already instructed my second that we shall use swords, not pistols.”

  “Swords?” That possibility hadn’t occurred to her. “What kind of swords?”

  “Fencing swords, the épée de terrain. Sword fights are outlawed in England, my lady. If one kills someone with a sword these days, he can no longer excuse himself as having acted in self-defense, hence duels fought with the sword are not fought to the death . . . unless, of course, one of the duelists is an out and out bounder. Once one of us is blooded or disarmed, the duel will end.”

  “But . . . I don’t understand. Why did you choose the sword over the pistol?”

  “Because your betrothed is hopelessly inept with the pistol, my lady.” A h
usky laugh lived in his throat. “I would surely kill him with one.”

  “He says much the same of you, my lord,” she snapped haughtily.

  “We shall never know now whom you should believe, shall we?” His eyes darkened and he smiled, but there was neither humor nor warmth in it. “The thing I find amusing is that you nearly compromised your honor for naught. But your virtue is still reasonably untarnished, and since, contrary to your belief, I am a gentleman, your secret is quite safe with me. Sleep well, my lady.” He offered a crisp bow and brushed by her, stirring the air.

  The aroma of his exotic tobacco teased her nostrils as he passed. It overpowered the lilacs. Where had she smelled it before? Was it in the library when he’d made his apology? Her brain was too addled to recall. The pressure of his kiss still numbed her mouth. The touch of his hands on her skin still lingered. Her breast still tingled from his roughened fingers. How could he have thought she would have sacrificed her chastity? But he had, and what’s more she had nearly let him take it. She shuddered. He had stolen the warmth from the garden. A cold wind rose stirring the lilacs, it riddled her damp, flushed skin with gooseflesh. Pulling her pelerine close about her, she crept back unseen to her rooms.

  Phelps, his valet, was waiting when Kevernwood stomped into his dressing room wilted from dampness, rubbing Jenna’s smarting raised handprint on his left cheek. The valet’s right eyebrow lifted. It was enough to earn him a scathing look.

  “Don’t start,” the earl warned.

  The valet’s eyebrow inched a little higher before it lowered. “I haven’t said a word, my lord,” he intoned.

  “But you will,” Simon said. He yanked his shirt out of his pantaloons, flopped in the wing chair beside the dead hearth, and raised his legs. “Just help me out of these first, if you don’t mind. The deuced dampness has got me soaked clear through.”

  The valet took hold of the Hessians the earl aimed toward him, clicking his tongue as he yanked them off, first one and then the other. The lawns had been freshly scythed for the weekend, and the boots were covered with grass spears.

  “I’ll have to use the new boot polish—the one with the champagne base,” the man observed. “The old will never address this fine state you’ve put them in.”

  The earl grunted, struggling out of the rest of his clothes, and stood while the valet helped him into his burgundy brocade dressing gown. He cinched the sash ruthlessly and flopped back down in the chair again.

  “I take it that the viscount has not cried off?” Phelps said, setting the earl’s clothes aside. He poured a brandy and handed it over.

  “Hm?” the earl grunted, taking the snifter. The duel was the farthest thing from his mind just then. His lips still tingled from Jenna’s kiss, and stubborn waves of pulsating warmth still grieved his loins. How could he have been so mistaken about the girl? How had he misread her furtive glances? He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. The pressure of her slender body was still with him, molded to his with precious little in between—nothing but that ridiculously thin pelerine and gauzy nightdress. He would have bet his blunt that she was not in love with Rupert Marner. The man was a coxcomb. He couldn’t even be termed a Corinthian; he hadn’t the measure of a sportsman—reckless or otherwise. Were the Hollingsworths in Dun territory that they had to contract such a union? He hadn’t heard of it. And that was his business, after all, keeping tabs on who among the aristocracy were plump in the pockets or parvenu, and who were putting on tick. That could only mean that Jenna was in love with Marner, as if he needed to wonder. Hadn’t she just proven that? Hadn’t she just nearly sacrificed her honor to ensure his safety? Yes, his pride was wounded, but it was more than that. His heart had taken a direct hit the moment he clapped eyes on her on that staircase. She was the most exquisite creature he had ever seen.

  The valet cleared his voice, bringing him back to earth. “The viscount, my lord,” he prompted. “Perchance, has he had the good sense to withdraw?”

  “Of course not.”

  “And, I don’t suppose that you—”

  “What? And have it bruited about at court that the Earl of Kevernwood is a coward? You know better than to even ask.”

  “I warned you not to accept the Marners’ invitation, my lord. Why ever did you, when you know that they hold you up to ridicule?”

  Phelps had been with him since he was a boy, and Simon considered the valet more the father he wished he’d had than the loyal servant he was, hence the liberties the man sometimes took were often overlooked. Their relationship was such that, the earl’s body language often sufficed for the spoken word, like now, when his telltale clenched fists bespoke a warning—which, much to his chagrin, however, also like now, rarely served to keep the servant in his place.

  “For two reasons,” Kevernwood replied. “Firstly, I thought it prudent to put Evy and Crispin forward in society. Evy is about to have her come-out, as you well know, and Crispin is embarking upon a naval career. Such weekends are important to them, Phelps. And just because I am ostracized by jealous fops such as Marner does not credit them being shunned as well. I’ve put too much effort into ensuring just the opposite.”

  The valet waited a diplomatic interval, and when no further discourse followed said, “And . . . the other reason?”

  “You know perfectly well the other reason,” the earl snapped, scowling. “Look around you, Phelps. You’re no nodcock. All these chickens to be plucked, how could I resist?”

  “But that costume, my lord! What could you have been thinking? I told you—”

  “Do let me have my bit of fun,” Simon interrupted.

  “The lady did not appreciate your wit, my lord,” the valet responded, wagging his head in disapproval.

  “That was unfortunate,” the earl agreed. His face fell, and he breathed a tremulous sigh.

  “I take it that is her . . . er . . . signature on your face there, my lord?”

  “Deuced female misrepresented herself,” Kevernwood growled, rubbing his cheek.

  “That’s odd. I took her for quite well to pass.”

  “Yes, well, you are hardly an expert on the wiles of women, old boy.”

  The valet never smiled, yet somehow Simon always knew when his humor was appreciated.

  “She is betrothed, my lord,” Phelps pressed on. “What made you think your advances would be welcome?”

  “I didn’t ‘think,’ I hoped.”

  “Ahhh, so it isn’t just the usual dalliance, this. You’ve formed a tendre for the lady.”

  “Nothing of the sort,” Simon barked. Damn it all! How was it that the man could always see into his heart and soul? Was he so transparent? It was most exasperating.

  “I have seen you every which way with women over the years, my lord,” said Phelps, “but I have never seen you lose your heart before. It is quite disconcerting to witness—and dangerous, I might point out, considering your . . . enterprise, if you take my meaning?”

  “I have not lost my heart, I’ve lost my head—temporarily. My brother made the fatal mistake you accuse me of, if you remember? I shan’t be tarred by the same brush.”

  Phelps cast him an articulate look down his slightly crooked nose that told him he did not believe a word.

  “If you must know, since I can see I shall have no peace ’til I tell you, she was ready to compromise her reputation to ensure that popinjay’s safety in the duel.”

  “That’s another thing,” Phelps said. “You aren’t in any condition to fight a duel. And with the épée, no less! Have you gone addle witted? Think of the exertion. You’re scarcely recovered from the shoulder wound. Pistols would have been the better choice.”

  “That would have taken unfair advantage. Besides, he’s hardly worth hanging over.”

  “So, you’re giving him the field?”

  “Just stubble it! I know what I’m about.”

  “I hope you do, my lord. I certainly hope you do.”

  The earl shifted in the chair again. Jenna was still wi
th him—he could taste her. He was steeped in her scent: the intoxicating fragrance of lavender married with rosemary.

  “I want a bath,” he announced, surging to his feet.

  “A bath, my lord?” Phelps blurted. “Where am I to get hot water at this hour?”

  “I’ll have it cold.”

  “Cold? Will that be good for your leg, my lord?”

  “My leg is not the part of my anatomy that concerns me at the moment, Phelps. Dash it all, man, just fill the damned tub!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The duel was to take place on a secluded tract of heath on Bodmin Moor not far from the fabled Stowe’s Hill, a longtime favorite dueling ground among the upper classes on the coast. It was a level stretch among the patchwork hills carpeted with bracken, gorse, and wild, fragrant heather, and hemmed in on the north by a stand of dwarf pines, crippled by the scathing Cornish wind that never ceased to blow. Since the hunt was scheduled for Sunday, the duel was set for the following morning at dawn. Crispin St. John had volunteered to act as the earl’s second, and Sir Gerald Markham would serve Rupert. Lord Eccleston was to referee.

  Kevernwood had not changed his plans, which was something that had worried Jenna. He had the right to choose the weapons and the field. It was, indeed, to be the épée, and the ground was chosen for its convenience to Moorhaven Manor, and for its distance from Kevernwood Hall, which stood on an august bluff overlooking the sea on the outskirts of Newquay. It was there that he had sent Lady Evelyn, along with her personal maid, far afield of the dueling ground. Jenna interpreted that as his need to eliminate all distractions and spare his lady distress should he be injured. For, while the épée was by far the safest choice, it was by no means incapable of doing serious—even permanent—damage.