by Louise Allen
She doubled up over the pommel, gasping, her eyes blurring with tears of sheer amusement and laughed until her stomach ached.
Chapter Eleven
‘Nell?’
‘Yes?’ she managed.
His lordship had dismounted and was standing by her side, hand on the reins, lips compressed. ‘Why are you having hysterics on that horse?’
‘Because it is funny?’ she ventured, hiccupping faintly. ‘You looking so—’ She waved a hand about, searching for the right word and failed, so wiped her eyes with it instead. ‘And me so—’
‘Quite. I certainly cannot find the mot juste for your appearance,’ he remarked severely. And then she saw the sparkle in his eyes and the smile tugging at the corner of his lips, despite his struggle to repress it. ‘I am afraid Verity’s mare has got away from you. I had no idea it was such a spirited animal.’
‘Or I such a poor rider,’ she said ruefully, lifting her leg over the pommel and allowing herself to be helped to the ground. Marcus seemed to find her no weight at all, which either meant he was as strong as he appeared or that she was thinner than she should be.
Somehow, he acquired a private parlour and got her into it before they both gave way to their mirth. ‘Oh, Nell.’ Marcus sank down in the nearest chair, buried his face in his hands and choked with laughter. ‘You look as though you have been through a hedge backwards. And that ridiculous hat!’
‘That is Honoria’s,’ Nell said in alarm, looking round for it.
‘Beyond help, I fear.’ Marcus looked up at her and she could not help smiling back. ‘I will buy her another, don’t worry. But what on earth possessed you to think you could ride? And how did you get that horse out of the stables?’
‘I can ride,’ Nell said with dignity. ‘Only I haven’t for a very long time. And Verity and Honoria thought I should ride with you. It has certainly cleared my headache,’ she discovered in surprise, pressing the sore lump above her ear with caution.
Marcus came and hitched one hip onto the table beside her. ‘And how does a milliner learn to ride?’
‘It was a long time ago, when we had a little money. We all rode, dreadful job horses, of course.’ She hesitated. ‘I did not always have to work for my living, Mama had a few savings.’
‘I have not asked you about your father.’ Marcus’s voice was gentle, still husky from the laughter.
‘Oh, he died some time ago.’ Her stomach swooped down sickeningly. ‘Before…before things got so bad.’ There was no reason to suppose he would question it; such stories were commonplace. ‘He managed land,’ she added, grasping for something near the truth.
Sometimes she thought she could recall the broad parkland, the groves of trees, the fallow deer. Sometimes she was certain the scent of roses on a hot June day was a memory and not a dream of a paradise lost.
‘I am sorry, Nell.’
She looked up, wondering how those hard grey eyes could look so kind, how that strong, sensual mouth be so gentle. ‘I—’ Somehow she was holding out her hand to him, somehow he had pulled her into his arms, to stand between his thighs.
‘Sweet Nell.’ And the huskiness in his voice was no longer from the laughter as he bent his head and found her lips. Slow, oh so slow, the caress of his mouth on hers. And so fast the shock of sensual longing that made her limbs heavy, her blood race, sent that strange hot pulse beating deep and low inside her.
She quivered, would have moved closer, but his hands cupped her shoulders, held her still, and he made no move to touch any other part of her, only her mouth, his own asking questions that she only half understood.
When he lifted his head, she was as breathless as she had been after her ride. ‘I wanted to talk to you,’ she managed, before she lost what nerve she had left. ‘I wanted to say about last night. I am sorry, I know I placed you in a difficult position. I need you to know that I would never presume upon that…I do not want you to think that I expect anything. Anything at all.’ Only he had just kissed her. What did that mean?
‘No,’ Marcus said, standing up, lifting the weight of her loosened hair in his hands for a moment before letting it drop. ‘I know that. I recognise innocence when I see it.’
‘I am not innocent,’ she began. Harris had taken that from her.
‘Innocence,’ he repeated. ‘Other people’s actions do not count, Nell.’
‘You believe me, then?’
‘I acquit you of throwing out lures, of being any man’s mistress. I believe you did not let Salterton in last night.’ He smiled at her a little ruefully and ran his finger down her cheek. ‘But I know you still have secrets.’
‘Oh.’ The impulse to confide in Lord Narborough had not survived the night and she felt none to confess now. ‘I am sure you have too. Everyone has secrets.’ She had to ask. ‘Marcus, why did you kiss me just now?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, getting up abruptly. ‘Insanity, probably. I suppose you have lost all your hair pins?’
The abrupt turn of topic back to the banal braced her. ‘All of them. I will tie it into a tail with my pocket handkerchief.’ There was a spotted mirror over the fireplace. Nell turned to it, feeling the physical separation as she moved away from Marcus. She raked her fingers through the tangled mass, trying not to meet his eyes in the glass.
At least he was honest with her; he knew she was hiding something. And he kissed her and did not know why? She would not have thought that Marcus Carlow had any impulses he could not account for. Perhaps it was simply lust and he did not want to frighten her with the truth. But whatever the reality, that morning’s coolness had gone and with it the weight of unhappiness that had balled into her stomach.
‘How is your head? I should have asked sooner, but the sight of you on that mare quite drove it out of my mind.’ He made no move to approach her.
‘Sore when I touch it, that is all. There, that will have to do.’ She looked a raggle-taggle Gypsy.
‘Are you tired of riding?’ Marcus asked.
‘I suspect I am going to be very stiff tomorrow,’ Nell acknowledged ruefully. ‘But no, I am not tired.’
‘We can go the long way home,’ he offered. ‘Through the woods and up over Beacon Hill at a nice sedate pace. You will like the view.’
She led Firefly to the mounting block herself before he could help her, gathering up her mired skirts and settling into the saddle. The mare, now she was in company, was behaving as though an out-of-control gallop through the meadows would never occur to her.
‘We are very respectable now,’ she observed as they walked out of the yard onto the road.
‘I am,’ Marcus retorted. ‘I am also far too much of a gentleman to describe what you look like, Miss Latham.’
She was beginning to be able to read the humour behind his more flattening remarks and to see beyond the frown when it was turned in her direction. ‘You already mentioned hedges,’ she pointed out meekly, earning a flash of amusement before his face was straight again.
He turned off within sight of the turnpike gate, taking a track up through the fields towards the edge of the beech woods that climbed the steep scarp. Even in January the golden-brown dead foliage clung to its twigs and the horses’ hooves brushed through the great drifts of last year’s leaves as they climbed, following the track as it zigzagged back and forth.
A jay flew, screeching, as they passed. In the distance the laughing cry of the green woodpecker mocked them and, faintly, Nell could hear the thud of axe on timber.
‘Cutting firewood,’ Marcus said, following the direction of her gaze. ‘Or bodgers. Wood turners and hurdle makers working in the woods,’ he explained. ‘This way.’ He put Corinth to the bank and urged him up, then turned to watch as Firefly, agile as a cat, scrambled up beside them, buried to the hocks in the thick, rustling leaf carpet as Nell clung to the pommel.
Now they were deep in the woods, the tall, straight grey trunks of the beeches looming above and around them like pillars in a cathedral. The air smelled
fresh and spicy, full of the aromas of dead leaves and bruised stems as they passed along the narrow path.
And then they were out into the open on close-cropped grass dotted with gorse, the yellow flowers still blooming despite the cold. ‘Like climbing up a bald man’s head,’ Nell said as they reached the gently rounded summit.
‘Don’t be so disrespectful of our Beacon Hill,’ Marcus chided, smiling. ‘An Armada fire was lit here. Look, you can see for miles over the Vale of Aylesbury.’ He sat, one hand nonchalantly on his hip, utterly at home and relaxed, she realized. Corinth, knowing a familiar stopping place, cocked one hoof up and slouched rather less elegantly than his rider.
‘Mmm. Sunshine.’ Nell turned up her face to the sun. There was no warmth in it, but the sight of a clear sky was a luxury after London’s smog.
‘It will snow later if that reaches us.’ Marcus pointed far to the west to the bank of dark, big-bellied cloud. ‘It is going to get much colder.’
They were on the edge of the scarp. It was like standing on a cliff with the Vale below instead of the sea. The chalk hillside that rolled away to either side of them was deeply indented with dry valleys, beyond each another bald crown, all a little lower than the one they stood on.
‘Someone has lit fires.’ Nell pointed to the trickles of smoke rising straight up into the still air. ‘Is that the bodgers?’
‘Possibly. Or Gypsies. They pass through all the time. Some of the tribes we know, others not.’ He shifted his stance to watch a buzzard soaring overhead. Then something moved on the edge of the wood on the opposite headland and a figure walked out into the open. Dark haired, lithe, in loose trousers and dark coat, the man strode across the open hilltop then stopped, wary as a deer, and turned. He seemed to stare into her eyes.
Nell gasped, her hands tightening on the reins and Firefly backed, tossing her head. Marcus reached for the bridle. When she looked back, the hill was empty.
‘What is it?’
‘I…nothing. I was not paying attention and jabbed her mouth, I’m afraid.’ Why lie? But the man had gone, and Marcus would think she was hallucinating or making it up. And perhaps she was. Three deer walked out of the wood, just where he had been— surely they would not do that if a human was close? Was it the blow to her head? Only, she could have sworn that had been Salterton in those strange clothes.
The dark man. Marcus was convinced he had now seen him for himself. He schooled his features so Nell could not read his knowledge that she lied. Why had she? He almost asked her, straight out, then bit back the question. Perhaps he would find out more by pretending he had seen nothing. Was Salterton, if that was his name, following them, or had it been coincidence? But nothing, his instincts told him, were coincidental where that man was concerned.
He had been dressed like one of the Rom. A good disguise for anyone with the colouring to pass. The local people, half afraid of the wandering bands, could not single one individual out from another.
‘Time to get back,’ he said, and brought Corinth’s head round, away from the gathering clouds, pregnant with snow. Nell was drooping in the saddle a little now. Marcus watched her covertly from the corner of his eye, as she straightened her shoulders and sat up. She shouldn’t have been riding, not after that blow to the head, and he suspected she would suffer for it tomorrow, but he was glad he had not missed that moment of shared laughter. How long was it since he had given in to unrestrained mirth like that? Too long. Not since Hal had been at home.
Nell had gained weight and curves and some colour in her cheeks since the day he had first seen her, he decided. Her figure was recovering the shape it was meant to have and the sharpness had gone from her cheekbones and wrists. She was a lovely woman, perhaps not in the conventional manner of the young ladies gracing Almack’s—she was lacking their trained poise and perfect grooming—but her naturalness was far more appealing to him.
Corinth took advantage of the slack rein to turn his head and nuzzle Firefly, who tossed her head and took a few tittupping steps.
‘Stop flirting, you old rake,’ Marcus admonished, getting a grip on both the reins and his wandering thoughts. Beside him Nell gave a little snort of laughter and he felt his own lips quirk in response.
Damn it, but she was seducing him somehow. She had no obvious wiles, no tricks. Every time he thought he had been mistaken in his doubts about her, something happened to make him suspicious all over again, and yet he could not stop thinking about her in ways that were utterly unwise. And acting that way as well. Why had he kissed her in the inn? He wished he knew, because every time his mouth touched hers he was left with yet another memory to torment him at night and no answers to his questions.
Nell would not admit it out loud, but the sight of the house was very welcome. Her thighs ached, her bottom ached—she did not remember having bones just there but they seemed to be sticking into the saddle—and her shoulders ached. She lifted her chin a notch as they went through the stable yard arch and made herself smile at the groom who came to take Firefly’s reins.
As Havers went to Corinth’s head, Marcus swung down, and came across to hold up his hands to help her. It felt so intimate as his fingers closed around her waist that her breath caught, even as she chided herself for such an unsophisticated response to the familiarity. He had lifted her down at the posting house. Ladies allowed grooms or gentlemen they hardly knew to assist them in this way without thinking anything of it. It certainly meant nothing to him, she assured herself, kicking her foot out of the stirrup and lifting her leg from the pommel. Then, as she began her controlled slide down to the ground, her eyes met his and she stopped breathing altogether.
Who would have thought those dark grey eyes could smoulder like that? With infinite slowness Marcus eased her down, her breasts brushing against his coat, the habit rucking up with the friction from his breeches. She felt her lips part, her lids felt heavy, and yet she could not break eye contact. And then the heat was replaced with doubt, with questions, and her breath came back with a force that made her dizzy, and she was standing on her own feet wondering if she had imagined it all.
‘Marcus?’
‘It is nothing. I have tired my shoulder, I should have let Havers help you down.’
And that was a lie, Nell thought, puzzled. If she had learned one thing about Marcus Carlow it was that he did not willingly admit to physical weakness. Had he glimpsed that enigmatic figure on the crown of the hill? In which case, why not say so? Because he is determined not to trust you, of course, she told herself. You are not a lady so you are an obvious suspect. And if his father was innocent of wrongdoing when Papa died, he was most certainly guilty of a suspicious mind and lack of faith in his friend. Like father, like son. At least Marcus had not renewed his offer of a carte blanche.
But when she came down before dinner, bathed, changed and rested, his mood had switched again. In fact, the entire family seemed cheerful and harmonious, and it did not take Nell long to realize that it was a significant improvement in Lord Narborough’s mood that had lifted all their spirits.
‘Papa is so much better,’ Verity whispered, linking her arm through Nell’s and steering her towards the sofa. ‘I heard him say to Marc that a little danger is always invigorating, which I do not understand. What danger? Unless he means Marc being shot, and one would hardly call that invigorating.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Nell agreed with feeling. ‘But who knows with men? They may be talking about a dangerous wager on a cock fight.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Verity agreed, with her touching ability to think the best about everyone and everything. ‘Did you enjoy your ride?’
Dinner was animated enough for Nell to retreat unnoticed into her thoughts. Slowly she was becoming accustomed to the reality of what had happened to her father. She had known something had been very wrong all the time she was growing up, she could see that now. She had not even been truly surprised about the manner of his death. At some point in her childhood, perhaps when she was far too y
oung to understand, something had been said, something that as she had grown came to make sense—a sense that she simply had not wanted to confront.
So, what do you do, faced with a best friend who is accused of being a murderer and perhaps a spy? she wondered, watching Lord Narborough’s expression as he talked to Honoria.
You help him escape, surely? But what if the victim is also a friend and you honestly believe the first friend to be a traitor? Would honour forbid you to help? Male honour was a touchy thing, she knew, beginning to have a glimmering of the dilemma that confronted Lord Narborough.
After the meal the men left their port early, coming into the salon in time to applaud a spirited country dance Honoria was performing on the piano. Verity joined her for a duet, a sweetly sentimental ballad that had Lady Narborough dabbing at her eyes. Lord Narborough closed the backgammon board and settled back to listen.
The countess was persuaded to the piano to perform a short Mozart piece, but all his sisters’ teasing would not get Marcus to sing.
‘And what about Miss Latham?’ the earl enquired, peering into her shadowy corner. ‘Will you not play for us?’
‘I am afraid I cannot, my lord.’ She could just recall the presence of a piano in the parlour, but it had been sold early on.
‘But you can sing?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she admitted warily. ‘But my voice is quite untrained and I have hardly sung for so long—’ Not since before Mama’s illness when she had sat with Mama and Rosalind, their voices mingling, all their worries forgotten in the music. Mama had a beautiful voice, Rosalind one almost as good. Her own performance she found hard to judge.
‘Try now,’ Lady Narborough urged.
Nell came to her feet. It seemed churlish not to join in the harmless entertainment. ‘Very well, but I do not answer for the results; I may set the hounds howling.’