“You bring out the worst in me,” he replied, shaking his head, dark hair falling across his brow until he swept it back with his fingers. “’Tis dangerous, my lady, for me to be around you.”
“On the contrary. I will keep you out of trouble, young man.”
He licked his lips as they curved in a slight, weary smile. “Too late. Like my uncle says, you are trouble.”
“Well, I must say,” she exclaimed, “that’s most unkind and definitely uncalled for.”
“My uncle is a wise man. I only wish I could be the same.”
“Wise indeed! A wise man would know when he had enough children.”
The last thing she remembered with any clarity was his low, sultry chuckle as he finally extracted the tankard from her fingers. “Let’s get you home, Bossy-Buttercup,” he whispered.
***
Rafe drove the curricle back to his farm and unloaded the giggling woman, lifting her in his arms and taking her inside. Only then, as he sought somewhere to put her down, did it occur to him that he’d brought her to his home—not hers. He should have driven her back to Morecroft, but it was dark now, the drive another good hour at least, even at his usual reckless speed.
“Mind my bonnet,” she exclaimed as he carried her into his house. “And I hope your hands are clean. I don’t want my new gown spoiled. It’s mystery of the…something… I forget.”
“Oh, it’s a mystery, all right,” he muttered. Only Mercy Danforthe could lecture him while she was inebriated. But there was something almost human about her in this state. The ice queen was melting. Amused as he was by her current unraveled condition, she would not want this messy inkblot spoiling a page in her very proper ledger. He was shocked that she entered that tavern to find him, risking her reputation just to save him from losing all his money. On the other hand, The Brat was brazen enough to imagine she might carry it off without castigation.
He tried to sit her up in a chair at the table, but she kept wilting to one side. Finally, he carried her upstairs and laid her on the bed. At once she rolled over, closed her eyes, and appeared to fall asleep. He shook his head, crouched at the foot of the bed, and removed her boots, struggling over the laces and breaking one of them in his fumbling haste. The only other thing he removed was her bonnet, which he laid carefully on the little bedside table. She looked disgustingly at peace and at home, sprawled across his bed, drooling into his bolster.
They’d have to make the best of it now, he reasoned. At first light, before he began work, he could get her up and sneak her out without anyone knowing she spent the night there. Although he had no idea what she could tell her hosts in Morecroft tomorrow. He’d leave that up to her. He had his own problems to deal with. Besides, he never asked her to come there, interfering, putting herself in his house…in his way.
“It was all because of you,” she murmured, her eyes closed, bronze lashes twitching against her cheeks.
“What was?”
“You talked me into it.”
Rafe’s temper, usually so quick to flare, was napping this evening, like an old dog lying in the shade of a tree on a sunny day, unwilling to rouse itself and bark. Could it be that he was simply tired of fighting with her? He never thought that was possible before. “Yes,” he replied. “If you say so.”
What would it matter, since she was unlikely to remember his concession come the morning?
“I need a peacock-feather muff direct from Paris,” she whispered. “It is just the thing. I cannot be married without it.”
Following that curious remark, there was nothing but a gentle snore. He sat, just a moment, on the edge of the bed. It was improper, but Lady Know-All was not awake to remind him.
Now what? Anyone might pass his yard and see that curricle. Best get the horses into the stable and pull the curricle out of sight around the side of the barn. He might not have invited her in, but she was there now. His responsibility for a few hours at least.
Rafe’s heart was beating very fast, not just from the exertion of carrying her up the stairs. The more he tried to calm the pace, the worse it became. He hadn’t felt this much excitement since the night of their elopement. After the hurt of her desertion, he hadn’t expected ever to feel his heart leaping like this again.
Chapter 8
Mercy woke with a jolt, surprised to find herself lying flat in all her clothes. Where the blazes was she? Her skull felt several inches thicker than usual, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Moonlight sifted through knotholes in the wooden shutters. She was definitely on a bed, but not the soft mattress to which she was accustomed.
Very slowly she hauled herself upright. Her sight adjusted to the dim shadows, and although she didn’t recognize the chamber, she guessed where she was now. All was silent but for a low owl hoot. There was her bonnet beside the bed. But where were her boots? Her toes were cold in only stockings.
Mercy sat on the bed for a few minutes, and events came back to her like scenes visible in parts through a windblown curtain. The tavern and the card game. His gold watch sitting on the pile of coins. Her intention to keep him sober and sensible at all costs—to keep guard over that man for Molly’s sake. She sincerely hoped Rafe Hartley realized she went to these lengths for him and his fiancée. No other reason. Tonight, thanks to the scrumpy, she had possibly made a fool of herself. Not that she could quite remember what she said. Or did.
Eventually she climbed off the bed, grabbed her bonnet, and tiptoed into the narrow hall. Her head ached dreadfully. As she put one shaky foot before the other, it felt as if the back of her skull dragged behind her on the floorboards. Her mouth was dry, her tongue gritty. The thought of a long journey on dark roads all the way back to Morecroft did not make her feel any better, but she could hardly stay at Rafe’s farm all night. That would be beyond even her brazen sangfroid.
There was only one other door above stairs, and she assumed he was behind it, asleep; thus, she decided to make her sly retreat and save them both a great deal of awkward conversation. But as she crept down the staircase, she heard a sound—a soft creak and then the crunch and crackle of coal being tossed into a fire. He was up. So much for getting away while he still slept.
Best foot forward then. Even in her stockings.
Rafe sprawled in a chair by the fire, legs stretched out, hands behind his head. “Sobered up, have you, menace?”
“I thought you were abed.”
“There is only one bed. You were in it. We don’t all live in mansions with a lot of empty bedchambers.”
She wondered if the sizable chip on his shoulder would ever get too heavy to carry. “Where are my boots?” she croaked.
His gaze slowly drifted to her feet. “I know not. Wife.”
“Wife?”
He scratched the stubble on his cheek and stared at the fire. “Slip o’ the tongue.”
Oh, he liked his jokes. “Most amusing.” She winced, one hand pressed to her forehead, inside which an angry miniature blacksmith currently pounded a vicious little hammer, using her brain for an anvil. “Where are my boots?” she repeated. “You must have taken them off me.”
He shrugged his shoulders against the chair. “What does it matter? You can’t travel in the middle of the night. Not on these country roads.”
“But I cannot stay here until morning. There will be scandal.”
The corner of his mouth bent in the trace of a smile. “I don’t see as we have any choice. Should have thought of that before you followed me into that tavern and drank a skin’s worth o’ strong scrumpy.”
“I did that to save you, ingrate!” Yes, she should have given more thought to her actions earlier, but unfortunately her need to help this villainous cad was greater than her duty to propriety. So it occurred to her, in a moment of sudden horrified realization.
“I don’t need saving,” he replied. “Your favors are better spent on others who can’t think or act for themselves. Your friends and tame pets, for instance.” He swept a hand across h
is mouth as if to straighten it. “Those who hang on your every word and obey your rules.”
“You will tell me where you put my boots,” she hissed. “This is not amusing in the slightest.”
His hand dropped to his knee, and he stretched slowly in a casual, lounging pose. “Seems damnably droll to me, my lady, that you—always so in control—should forget yourself over the scrumpy.”
She dare not ask him what she’d said under the influence of that foul drink. Instead, Mercy quickly surveyed the candlelit farmhouse. “Give me my boots.”
“I don’t know where they are. Wife.”
Exasperated, she looked down at his feet. “Very well then. I’ll take your boots.” But as she made a lunge, he sprang out of the chair, grabbing her before she stumbled sideways into the fire.
“I told you, there’s no point putting boots on your feet, because you can’t leave. Not now. Not until it’s light out.” His fingers were tight around her arms as he held her close. “Don’t make me take more drastic measures to keep you here, Bossy-Buttercup.”
Her heart’s rhythm echoed too loudly in her ears. Although she was dressed, her shoeless state seemed…naughty in his presence. Some of her curls had come loose, her hairpins lost as she slumbered on his bed. In her peripheral vision, one strawberry curl unraveled against her cheek.
And Rafe’s stormy gaze followed its progress down the side of her neck, all the way to her shoulder. “It’s rare to see you so undone.”
She thought of the last time she’d been “undone” in his presence. In a small bedchamber, under the wind-pummeled slate roof of an old inn, on their wedding night. Just before her brother found them and rescued her.
“Pity,” he said quietly.
Did his thoughts wander along the same dangerous path? He did not let go of her arms. In fact, his fingers tightened further, holding her with a degree of possessiveness that seemed more than improper. Frankly wicked.
Mercy swallowed hard. “Molly will return.” A reminder for them both.
Her face was reflected in his warm irises and those widened, velvety pupils. It was so unfair for a man to have eyes like his. Or lips like his. Or any part…
“You can’t kiss me again,” she said.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Indeed you were.”
“Was not.”
“Liar!”
“I never plan.” He raised his right hand to her chin and ran his thumb along her lips. “You know how reckless I am. If I wanted to kiss you, I would, whenever the feeling came upon me.”
Her lips tingled from the contact of his broad thumb. “Without permission?”
“Permission? I am not your servant. I am your husband.”
“For the love of all that’s holy…”
“I’m glad you mentioned that. We said our vows. Before God.”
“That marriage,” she replied tightly, “was void, as you well know. I shall run out of breath from telling you.”
“Promise?” He chuckled.
Exasperated, she pushed with her palms flat to his chest, trying to make a more proper distance between them.
“If you want me to kiss you,” he remarked as he watched her struggle fruitlessly against his strong arms, “you only have to ask.”
“So I have to ask, but you don’t?” Mercy frowned. That didn’t come out quite the way she meant it. “Kindly remove your filthy hands from my person, before they spoil my gown.”
He finally released her and fell back into his chair.
She waited a moment and then tried again. “May I have my boots?”
“No,” he growled. “You’ll stay here until it’s light. Have you ever tried driving through the night out here in the country?”
It was not a prospect she relished, but some attempt had to be made to avoid scandal. “I could take a lantern.”
“Haven’t got one to spare.”
That, she knew, was a rotten lie. What farmer wouldn’t have a spare lantern? More than one, in all likelihood. But the horses could stumble, fall lame when she was halfway to Morecroft. What would become of her then?
“Go back to bed,” he grumbled, sour, staring at the fire.
How could she? Too many thoughts spun inside her head, and she might as well try to sleep in the midst of a barn dance. “Perhaps I can help you write your letter to Molly?” she offered hopefully, rubbing her arms where he’d held her so tightly moments before. A letter to Molly would give her mind something else to dwell upon. His too.
He shrugged one shoulder in that familiar lackadaisical gesture, his gaze on the hearth.
Mercy looked around for a writing box. When she searched the dresser, she found again the velvet purse. She checked over her shoulder and saw he was still absorbed in watching his fire, so she slipped her finger through the silk ribbon drawstring of the coin purse and lifted it. Time to have a little fun with Master Hartley.
“Your mistress must be a wealthy lady. Although lady, perhaps, is not the right word.”
That got his attention. “What are you babbling on about now?”
She strolled to where he sat, swinging the purse on her finger. “What is her name?”
He glared at the purse and then at her. “Why would I tell you, Bossy-Drawers?”
“You need not worry. It is doubtful a woman like that would move in the same circles as I.”
“A woman like what?”
She spun the purse in a wheel around her finger. “A trollop.”
“She’s no trollop.” He frowned angrily and sat up, reaching for the purse, but she put it behind her back. “She’s a fine lady. With a heart, unlike you.”
“How did you meet her?”
He would not reply.
“I am not naive, Hartley. I know most men have mistresses, so there is no need for this secrecy. Where did you meet her?”
He turned away to study the fire again. “I performed a service for her.”
“I can imagine.”
“Can you?” He shot her a dark look from the corner of his eye. “I doubt it.”
Mercy walked around his chair, playing with the purse again. “Tell me what she looks like. Is she very beautiful? Is she slender? Plump? Blonde? Brunette?” She chuckled. “Or is she silver-haired?”
“Why? So you can compare yourself to her?”
“Tell me.” She was amused to find him so tight-lipped. If she did not know all about Lady Blunt and that their relationship was completely innocent, she supposed she might indeed have felt more than a twinge of jealousy. Entitled to it or not.
“You are most fond of her, I see,” she teased.
He would not answer, but pinched his lips tightly together.
“How often did you meet her?”
“Often enough.”
“You do not care to marry her? Or perhaps she is not free to marry?”
She saw his jaw twitch where he ground his teeth. “Marriage is out of the question between us. The arrangement we had suited us both.” He leaned back, folding his arms.
“And she gave you gifts.” Mercy held up the purse again, dangling it from her finger. “You must have been very good company.”
He sprang out of his chair and snatched the purse away from her. “Only folk like you think it’s all about the coin.”
“What was it about, then?”
“Friendship,” he snarled as he dropped to his chair again and held the purse in his fist. “Kindness and…conversation.” Rafe shifted in his chair and grumpily stared at the hearth. “And yes, she’s very beautiful and obliging and was appreciative of what I had to give her, unlike some wenches. So now you know.”
“Indeed.” Mercy turned away to hide another smile and resumed her search for the writing box, but the beat of her heart bumped along an uneven lane and made it difficult to focus on the task. So he had thought of her as a kind friend—had genuinely liked her. How shocked he would be to learn the truth about his benefactress.
“I will pay her back, ev
ery shilling she gave me.”
“Does she expect you to?”
“I told her I will, and I keep my promises.” He sniffed. “Unlike you.”
“Me?”
“You made a promise to me once,” he reminded her, stern.
Mercy resumed her search for writing materials. “I was seventeen,” she murmured.
“That’s no excuse. Seventeen is not a child. You were a woman already, and you knew what you wanted then.”
“You tricked me,” she declared. “I was an innocent.”
“Innocent?” He chortled.
In a huff, she continued her search for paper, and eventually, with no guidance from him, she found some sheets inside a ledger of accounts. A pot of ink and a pen were both located in a dresser drawer. She set these items on a small table by the fire and brought over a chair to sit across from the surly, silent young man.
“Shall I write to Molly, or will you?”
At first she thought he would not answer, but he sat up, tucked his feet under the chair, and snatched the pen from her fingers. “I’ll write. You tell me what to say. Surely, you’ll like that.”
“I can give you some ideas of proper phrasing,” she replied. “But I will not put words in your mouth. Any woman will know if the sentiment expressed is false. You tell me what you would like to say, and I can advise you on the placement of the words.”
“In a straight line,” he muttered. “I think I know that much.” He dipped his pen in the ink and then paused, ready to make the first mark. “So?”
“Well, what do you want to say to her? The first thing you want her to know.”
Rafe stared at the paper for a long moment. Finally he put down his pen and relaxed in his chair, leaning back out of the fire’s glow so only wisps of light traced his expression.
“Perhaps a man is better off proving his love with actions than with words,” he said. “I know my words have often failed me.”
“But words, once written, are permanent testimony.” Mercy picked up his pen and ran her fingers along the goose feather. “The written word is used to record facts. Actions can be forgotten if they are not written down. As a student of the law, you should know that.”
Sydney Dovedale [3] Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal Page 10