by Deb Marlowe
Braedon’s amusement burst like a bubble. ‘Leave off, Mairi. All the fun and privilege—and expense—of modernising the place will go to your cousin Franklin, as eventual heir.’ He waved a hand. ‘And much joy may he have of it.’
Her face fell. ‘Don’t tell me that you are holding on to that old saw?’
‘Old saw?’ he repeated sardonically. ‘Which one? I dare say I have a death grip on several.’
‘It’s no joking matter, Braedon.’ Mairi’s voice tightened, taking on the shrill edge it had nearly always held in the past, when she was forced to live each day with unending tension and constant vigilance. ‘They are gone now,’ she said with intensity. ‘You cannot let them shape your life. You cannot hide away up here.’
‘I’m not hiding,’ he retorted, stung. ‘I’ve come home and I am fulfilling my duties. I am working!’
‘As what? A reclusive hermit? You are all alone.’
‘And happy to remain that way.’
Mairi was becoming distraught. ‘Don’t say that,’ she whispered. ‘Of course you must marry! I don’t want to think of you alone. I cannot bear the thought that you will never find someone to be happy with.’
He didn’t want to upset her. He summoned a smile and nodded at her. ‘Well, then, of course I shall,’ he said lightly. ‘Eventually.’
But he knew he would not. Mairi had got it backwards. But how to tell her that the brother she knew was largely a fabrication? She had her ways of dealing with the difficulties of their childhood and he’d developed his own. He’d discovered early that exposing too much of himself left him open to ridicule from his father—and worse from his brother. Distance had become his saving grace, both emotionally and physically. It had kept him going until adulthood, when he’d bought himself an army commission just as soon as he was able.
The military had been demanding, but hard-edged reserve had stood him in good stead in the field, almost as much as his skill in tracking down, harassing and capturing French pay wagons and supply caches. He’d been moved eventually into more strategic and diplomatic posts, where he’d learned to add practised charm to his bag of tricks. He’d done well, but it had been a tense and exhausting way of life.
And now—at last—he had the freedom to shape his life exactly as he wanted it. Shockingly, he’d found he enjoyed the role of marquess far more than he had expected he would. As loath as he had been to return to Denning, he had found life here to be almost enjoyable now that he held the title and lived here on his own.
In fact, everything important was easier here. He was the master, and nearly everyone expected him to hold himself detached. The pretence so essential in the army and in the diplomatic arena was simply not necessary. He didn’t have to work so hard to hide. Tenants tugged their forelock and deferred to his opinion. They didn’t require unending caution or the light, easy banter that served so well to keep society at a distance. He had his duty, a few acquaintances, his collection and Hardwick to share his enthusiasm.
So, no—there could be no marriage. How to maintain defences in such an intimate relationship? Even to imagine the sort of work required made him shudder. His father and brother might be gone, but the lessons they had taught had served him well: don’t ask for anything. For God’s sake, never give anything away. Keep the exterior calm and the interior guarded and you could not be hurt.
But he had given the correct answer and Mairi’s face had lightened—in direct contrast to the dark turn of his thoughts.
‘Eventually is not soon enough, dear brother.’ Her gaze grew mischievous. ‘I confess, I’d thought to nag you until you joined me in Town.’ She tilted her head. ‘But now I am entertaining new suspicions.’ She glanced towards the door, then back at him with widening eyes. ‘You must tell me all, Braedon… Are you hiding your bridal candidate up here with you?’
Now he laughed. ‘You’re the mad one in the family, not I. Sorry to disappoint, but I’ve no secret bride stashed away.’ He gestured grandly. ‘However, you’re more than welcome to make a search of the cellars and attics.’ He grinned at her before he took a long swig of his drink.
‘Cawker.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m talking about Miss Hardwick.’
The brandy came back up with far more velocity than it had gone down. Eyes watering, he sputtered and glared at his plague of a sister. ‘Hardwick?’ he choked. ‘You truly are mad.’ He ignored the rush of…what?—Interest? Excitement?—that surged at the unexpected notion.
‘I’m not mad. She’s a woman—and one who apparently shares your odd interests.’
‘She is in my employ,’ he stated firmly. It was not arousal stirring to life at Mairead’s ridiculous idea. It was merely the old, latent curiosity—the wonder at what Hardwick was trying so hard to hide. ‘And a very valuable employee she is, too, so please keep your wild notions to yourself. I won’t have her scared off because you cannot keep your imagination in check.’
He drew breath, ready to scold her further, but his sister turned and crossed her arms in defiance. The lace at the end of her sleeve fell back just as the sunlight streaming though the windows slanted across her. It illuminated clearly the large bruise above her elbow, a stain pulsing darkly against her fair skin in the exact shape of a man’s hand.
Fury roared to life inside him. He rushed her like a maddened bull, though he forced himself to be gentle as he grasped her arm.
‘What’s this?’ he demanded, his voice gone rough. Her skin felt so soft, her bones so fragile cradled in his broad fist. ‘What have you done, Mairi? Have you finally pushed Ashton too far?’ He needed a target for the rage clawing its way through him.
She yanked her arm from his grasp and stepped away. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Ashton would never hurt me.’
Braedon’s fists tightened at his sides.
‘No!’ she cried. ‘I can see what you are thinking and I would never serve my husband so ill. It was just a…misunderstanding. A small flirtation that got out of hand.’
There was no keeping all that he felt from his face. Dismay. Disillusionment. Disappointment.
‘Don’t look at me like that, Braedon.’ She gave a soft sob and he was seized with the urge to pull her close, tuck her away in his embrace and shield her as he’d always done.
He didn’t. Couldn’t. ‘Does Ashton know?’ But he already knew the answer—knew that that had been Mairi’s idea all along.
‘He challenged the man—no, not to a duel. Fisticuffs, at a training salon. Ashton beat the dastard to a bloody pulp and then he packed his things and fled to his hunting lodge in the Highlands.’
Braedon sighed. ‘I take it back, Mairi. You’re not mad, you’re merely trying to make your husband so.’
His sister lifted her chin. ‘These bruises are badges of honour, brother dear.’ She let loose a defiant bark that was supposed to be laughter. ‘At least I know he feels something for me. My marriage may not be sunshine and roses, but it is passionate and deep.’
Braedon closed his eyes.
‘Think what you like, but at least I never have to wonder if Ashton even sees me.’ She jabbed a finger high. ‘At least I’m not like Mother, sitting alone up there in the solar day after day, while my husband forgets my very existence!’
‘I understand.’ Weariness swept over him. ‘Of course I do.’
Mairead had turned back to the view outside the window again. She stood straight as a rod, but she suddenly appeared to shrink in on herself. ‘I’m afraid,’ she whispered. ‘I’m afraid I’ve pushed him too far this time.’
‘You should be. A man can only take so much, my dear.’ Feeling a hundred years old, Braedon poured another drink and tossed it back. ‘Listen. I’m only going to say this to you once. Once,’ he emphasised, and refrained from gazing longingly at the door. ‘Ashton will be back, I’m sure. Wait for him here, if you wish, but you had bett
er use this time to think long and hard on what sort of marriage you want, what sort of wife you wish to be.’ He set his glass down. ‘The man cares for you, my dear. I can see it. Everybody can. But now is the time for you to finally believe it—or to let him go. God knows, the ton is full of married couples who exist in a state of polite estrangement.’
She made a wordless sound of protest.
‘You cannot keep testing him this way, Mairi. Decide now,’ he continued ruthlessly, ‘before it is too late.’ He sighed. ‘And what of children? Will you treat them the same way? Will you leave them anxious and wary, never knowing what to expect from you? How to approach you?’
‘Braedon!’ It was a whispered cry of despair.
‘Think about it. You have some serious decisions to make. Make them here, if you wish. Stay as long as you like.’ He deliberately firmed his tone. ‘But I won’t have you making mischief.’
‘I wouldn’t.’ She sounded small now, as well.
‘Your mind will be busy enough. Look around, talk to the housekeeper, the vicar’s wife, perhaps. Find some project to keep your fingers occupied as well.’
She did not turn to meet his eye. ‘Thank you, Braedon.’
He fled. With a measured tread that belied his inner turmoil he strode quickly through the gloom. He felt for Mairi. It was never easy, coming home to Denning. Yet it was a damned sight easier than growing up here. He sighed. He was doing what he could to change things, but he and Mairi would always carry the burdens of their childhood. It was just a damned shame that her marriage must also be marked.
He found himself in the soothing quiet of his weapons wing. Some instinct had him pausing beneath the vast glory of the dome. Braedon closed his eyes and let the empty silence of the place ease him, push him further away from the turbulence brought on by his sister’s distress. Yet her words echoed in his mind. She accused him of hiding? He snorted, thinking of Mairi’s histrionics and Hardwick’s manufactured, forbidding aspect. There were ways and ways of hiding.
And suddenly it was Hardwick’s image filling his head and making inroads on his carefully maintained borders. Her earlier words sprang to mind. She’d been irritated—because he had not known of her preference for the sea? He tried to recall if he’d ever before seen Hardwick irritated. She was always calm, competent, serene. He’d grown used to—hell, he’d come to count on—her silent efficiency.
Damn Mairi anyway, for her outlandish suggestion. Of course he’d wondered about his assistant. Occasionally he had surprised a delighted laugh out of her, or caught a glimpse of her hard at work, her lips pursed in concentration and her hair falling in tendrils about her face—and he’d known that there was something there. But he hadn’t looked too deeply. All these months he’d tucked away his curiosity, banished the occasional urge to know what Hardwick was hiding beneath all that severe tailoring and daunting effectiveness. The more he’d come to value her skills, the less inclined he’d been to meddle. Now his interest had been piqued again and it had brought along the image, lush and vivid, of him starting with those damned buttons and peeling her layers away, one by one.
Flushed and hot, he banished the vision and headed for the workroom and the blade he’d abandoned there. He grasped the hilt and lunged, stabbing a thrust through an imaginary opponent. What he needed was a bit of practice to conquer such wayward thoughts.
And that was why Mairead was wrong. He’d no need to hide. He’d faced war, both at home and abroad, he’d swum through the murky waters of diplomatic intrigue and he’d survived social manoeuvring that made politics look like child’s play. And he’d yet to meet the obstacle he couldn’t conquer with determination and a damned good weapon.
He glanced over at Hardwick’s empty desk. Surely this one would be no different.
* * *
It had taken a couple of days, but Chloe had at last tracked down the hint she needed regarding Skanda’s Spear. She clutched the table in relief. She needed to maintain her usual impeccable work performance, for her attempts to attract the marquess’s attention in other ways were resulting in mixed success, at best.
She’d thought that seeing him outside her usual sphere might be a good beginning, so she’d ‘arranged’ to run into him in different spots about the house and the grounds. Lord Marland had looked intrigued, the first time, and then increasingly resigned, but in each instance, he’d merely nodded, exchanged a brief nod and moved on.
So she’d tried bringing up other topics of conversation. He’d followed easily when she’d asked about the estate, talking with enthusiasm about the improvements he was undertaking at his bailiff’s advice. But then he’d caught himself and cast her a measuring glance. Later he’d resisted speaking of his sister and flatly refused to discuss the weather, each time turning the conversation back to the collection or, repeatedly, the Spear of Skanda.
Yesterday, though, she’d experienced a greater measure of success. She’d eschewed her usual, severe
chignon and worn her hair loose down the back of her neck. She’d gone about other business as usual, but several times she’d looked up to find him staring intently from a distance. Near the end of the day they’d been debating the merits of open and closed cases for a set of ancient flint knives when his argument had stuttered to a stop. She’d glanced up in surprise to see his gaze fixed on the curl that had fallen forwards over her shoulder. Without another word he had stood and stalked from the workroom.
She had grinned for the remainder of the evening and taken it as a sign, however small, that he did feel a degree of attraction for her. It gave her real hope. They were so compatible in other ways. And she certainly felt more than enough heat for him.
But today she needed to focus on her work. She had a feeling that the marquess knew more about this mysterious spear than he was saying, but it wasn’t her place to ask. Now at last, in his vast library she’d finally discovered that Skanda was one of several names for the Hindu war god. She’d even found an illustration, complete with a depiction of his favoured weapon—a spear with a wide, spade-shaped blade. Her heart lifted. She knew of several experts who might be of immediate help for this sort of artefact. She’d just bent closer to study the image when she was distracted by several flashes of light dancing across the bookcase in front of her.
She knew what that meant. Skanda was forgotten as she tore off her spectacles and made her quick and stealthy way to the large windows. She eased herself into position. See without being seen, that was the trick. There. One small step more… Her breath hitched. Her heart began to pound as if she was the one about to engage in combat.
For combat it was to be. Lord Marland moved below, pacing the levelled bowling green that he had long ago appropriated for his more…unusual pastime. He gripped the newly restored cavalry sword in one hand, sunlight flashing with each restless slash of the blade. A predatory gleam lit his eye as he watched his sparring partner ready himself for their match.
The twitching started up again, deep in the secret recesses of Chloe’s belly, a tympani that pulsed loudest between her legs and sent echoing tremors along all of her limbs. The thrumming began each and every time she saw the marquess like this—a hunter, a warrior clad incongruously in thigh-hugging breeches and high, worn boots. He’d cast his coat and waistcoat aside, leaving only thin linen and a few tantalising glimpses of browned skin and broad torso. Chloe’s mouth went dry.
Lord Marland was warming to his task, each practised lunge and thrust showing her more. All those sculpted muscles and masculine planes and angles. She closed her eyes, wondering how they would feel beneath her fingers.
The clash of steel signalled the opening of battle. Chloe took a risk and edged a little closer to the window. The combatants were engaged, their focus locked intently on each other. She allowed hers to fix on her employer. He was magnificent, a figure straight out of legend. He was an expert in his warrior’s dance o
f strength and strategy, and she was enraptured. She was…
Caught.
The weight of someone’s gaze rested on the back of her neck, growing more palpable by the second. The tiny hairs there rose high. Someone was staring at her as intently as she was watching the scene below.
Grasping for a veneer of nonchalance, she turned. For the second time in as many days, she confronted Lord Marland’s sister poised on the threshold of a doorway.
‘I had wondered how you managed it.’ The countess’s expression was mobile, fading from surprise and interest into something that resembled mischief.
‘My lady?’ Chloe did not move from the window.
‘Living up here, tolerating the isolation. Getting along with my singularly uncommunicative brother. But now I see.’ Lady Ashton’s mouth quirked. ‘You fit right in because you are just like the rest of this family—gifted at hiding what you don’t wish to face.’
Chloe stiffened. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you mean.’
‘No matter.’ Still smiling, the countess stepped fully into the library. ‘I’m in no place to criticize, in any case. I heard the clamour and merely wished to see the show.’ She crossed the room to stand at the window by Chloe’s side. With considerable enjoyment she watched the fight below, but after a moment she leaned abruptly over the sill. ‘Braedon’s partner—is that Sir Thomas Cobbe?’
Chloe realised she’d been edging away. ‘It is.’ She gave up and moved back to stand next to the countess. ‘He comes to train with Lord Marland as frequently as his schedule will allow.’
‘I heard he was the best. Knighted after he became sword master to the Prince Regent and his set, was he not?’ She winked in Chloe’s direction. ‘Of course that was years ago. He may be a bit older than Braedon, but I met him once in London. Poor as a church mouse, but I should say he’d be more than able to hold his own in battle. And he’s just as sword-mad as my brother.’