Secrets of the Night

by Jo Beverley

  He knew she had at least a loving mother still, yet she seemed to understand the paralyzing shock it had been.

  Perhaps she understood what it had meant to him and the others, especially the young twins, when Bey had fought to keep them together.

  “Bey was only nineteen.”

  “Bey?”

  “My older brother—half brother actually—the Marquess of Rothgar. We’re all named after Anglo-Saxon heroes—our father’s particular interest. I feel fortunate to have ended up with Brand. Poor Bey, being the oldest, received Beowulf, which Father would use in full, with resonant pleasure, as often as he could.”

  She chuckled. “So instead he took the name of an Eastern prince.”

  “It suits him very well. Having come into his responsibilities young and abruptly, he’s an autocratic devil. He didn’t have the power and authority when our parents died, but he stood firm all the same. I was only twelve and grief-stricken, but I gather everyone wanted to split up the family, to take us off his hands. He set himself to keeping everything as unchanged as possible.

  “At the time I simply accepted it,” Brand said, staring sightlessly into the past. “He even kept the awareness from us that there was any threat of change, though we suspected and worried. The twins went missing for a whole day. They were eventually found in a cupboard under the pantry stairs, but it had already been checked, so they’d been moving around. It must all have been a terrifying responsibility for him. He’d not exactly been the epitome of responsibility before.”

  He stopped himself then, despite the seductive dark, for the whole story wasn’t his to tell. He’d only gathered later that his brother held himself responsible for their parents’ deaths, not without cause. He’d picked up a fever in one of his wild adventures, and had hovered near death. His stepmother had nursed him lovingly, saving his life, but caught the disease herself. The devoted marquess had ignored the doctor’s orders to stay away, and he had succumbed.

  The younger children had been firmly kept in a distant wing, which had made the shock more terrible. When they’d been banished there, their half brother had been seriously ill, which was bad enough. When they emerged, their wonderful parents were dead, and Bey—still pale and thin from the sickness—was Marquess of Rothgar and their only protection against the world.

  “It must have taken a lot of courage,” she said, hand playing soothingly in his hair.

  “An amazing amount. No one would have blamed him for letting the family be split up. In fact, I think he was criticized for not doing so. A lot of people thought him too wild to care for us.”

  Again he stopped himself, before he mentioned madness. Bey was not mad. There had never been any sign. But his mother had gone mad, and that hung over him like a threatening shadow. His mother hadn’t seemed deranged either until she had killed her newborn child.

  “People do what they have to do,” she said. “Find the courage when they need it.”

  “Some people.” Then he wondered if she was talking about herself and longed for the key to unlock her guarded mind. He pushed down that spurt of resentment and went on to relate some of his more innocent adventures.

  “And how did you come to be your brother’s land manager?”

  “I don’t know how familiar you are with the way of aristocratic families. To preserve the family power, nearly everything goes to the oldest son. The younger sons and daughters receive a portion, usually from property their mother brought to the marriage. In that way, the original holdings are not broken up. Younger sons are supposed to make their own way. The church, the army, and the navy are the usual paths.”

  “I don’t quite see you as a vicar.”

  He laughed. “And Bey didn’t want any of us in the army or navy. Says they are barbaric and ill-run institutions. I’ve always had an interest in agriculture, so I ended up with that.”

  “What would have happened if you’d longed to be a dashing officer?”

  “Exactly what happened when my youngest brother took that route. Flaming rows and physical confinement.”

  “Mercy. What happened?”

  “Cyn’s a major now.”

  “So your brother is all bark and no bite?”

  “No more than I am, dear lady.” He nipped her to make his point. “Bey has particularly sharp fangs and uses them. But in the end he wants what’s best for us. Cyn loves the army, and I’m happy with enclosures and turnips.”

  She nipped him back. “I’m glad you have a fulfilling life.”

  He’d begun to reacquaint himself with her breast, but he paused. “It will be unsatisfactory without you.”

  She didn’t even respond. He’d returned to the subject often enough through the night, battering her will with his need, unable to believe that in the end he would lose. With a sigh, he set to doing the only thing he could—searing the memory of him into her body, mind, and soul.

  Gathering memories of her into his own.

  But even when every minute is precious, nature will have her way, and people are not automatons. Eventually, still touching, half-laughing over their latest contortion, they stilled, and sleep stole the rest of their night.

  Rosamunde came awake, instantly aware of everything, tears aching behind her eyes.

  They had only the sheet over them, and she felt a little chilled. He lay on his front, apart from her, but his arm draped over her, for comfort and possession.

  Possession.

  Again and again in the wild night he’d asked her to leave with him, demanded to know what tied her so firmly here, what bond could be so much stronger than the one they had forged.

  After a while she’d stopped trying to argue with him. She couldn’t give him the truth, and she wasn’t sure he’d see the force of it if she did. In the wild tradition of High Romance, he expected her to toss everything away for love.

  Love.

  That’s what it was. She could no longer deny it.

  And outside, silver dawn signaled the end.

  She eased over, wanting to study him in the fragile misty light. What had happened to them, not just last night, but over the past few extraordinary days?

  An intimacy had grown, a familiarity that went deeper than the skin. It was something a little like the closeness she had with Diana—a bond that physical distance, or change, or even disagreement could never touch.

  That was a friendship begun in the cradle, though, not a brief encounter. How could she feel this way about a stranger? It was all there, however—the gift of laughter, the discovery of trust, the miracle of instant communication, of shared interests, of secret understandings. A security that defied any challenge.

  She swallowed and breathed back tears, refusing to tarnish the treasure with denial. They had found something precious here, she and Lord Brand Malloren, a connection never dreamed of, come about through pure chance.

  And it was as useless as seed thrown on rock.

  In normal circumstances, they“ would never have met—the marquess’s son and the gentleman-farmer’s daughter. Certainly they would never have cracked their conventional shells to find the bonding-flesh that lay beneath. And now she must seal the shells closed again, seal them with betrayal.

  If he’d promised not to seek her out, perhaps she could have avoided this. Diana would not have approved, but she would trust his promise. Throughout the night, however, he’d fought her will, and she couldn’t believe he wouldn’t try to find her.

  Therefore, she had to make sure he couldn’t.

  She had to drug him.

  Just for a moment she imagined the insane alternative. She could roll closer, kiss his skin as she had so often in the night, breathe his smell that she would now recognize anywhere, explore the muscular contours of his body for the sheer delight they gave her fingers, and tell him that she would surrender past the dawn.

  That she would run away with him. That she didn’t mind leaving everything she knew and loved as long as she was with him. That she would become a fallen wom
an, shunned by all decent society, as long as she could fall into his arms.

  And, terrifyingly, it would all be true. At this insane moment she felt all of that. Of course, she would regret it later, but threat of future pain would not bar her from present ecstasy if that were the only price.

  It wasn’t though.

  She could tear herself from home, life, and reputation, and perhaps consider it all well lost for love. She could not tear herself from duty.

  Her duty to Digby and Wenscote.

  She sighed. Could she tell him the whole truth and trust that he would understand, that he would make the sacrifice with her?

  It was tempting, for her trust in his promises ran ocean deep. She couldn’t be sure, however, that he’d see things as she did. Perhaps he’d think it more important to claim his child than to save a small estate in Yorkshire. Perhaps—he’d hinted at it in the wilder night—he’d use scandal to trap her.

  She couldn’t afford the risk.

  Tears making her mask clammy on her face, she eased herself from under his arm. He muttered, but didn’t wake. She drew the blanket over him, put on her shift, then slipped quietly from the room. She’d laid out a simple brown traveling gown in her old bedroom, one that she could dress in by herself. Millie was remaining at Arradale during this risky enterprise. Once decent, she crept down to the kitchen, praying that no one was up yet. She’d cut it close with that indulgent spell of what-ifs.

  In the kitchen, all was quiet, the hearth still cold. As quietly as possible, she found some cold meat and bread, and the blackberry cordial she’d asked Jessie to prepare the night before, adding brandy and some extra spices to the recipe.

  She tipped the potion in the jug, stirred it, then sipped the tiniest amount. It was rich and delicious, and anything extra was covered by the strong flavors.

  She hated to do this to him, though.

  Pushing aside her qualms, she went upstairs and found him half-awake, tousled, prone, with his chin on his hands. “You are an early bird, aren’t you?”

  “It’s nearly dawn,” she pointed out, struggling to hide a fierce pang of longing and sorrow. “You set that as the end.”

  “What idiot said that it is always darkest just before the dawn?”

  There was no point to that. “I’ve brought you some breakfast. Just simple things. The servants aren’t up yet.”

  He stirred to sit up and she took the tray to him.

  “Aren’t you eating?”

  “I had something,” she lied. Food would choke her.

  He bit into the bread and chewed, looking at her. “I would like to see more of your face.”

  “I know.” The growing light was dangerous. He might see the edge of the scar that the mask no longer quite covered.

  He shrugged and took another bite. “So,” he said, when he’d swallowed it, “what now?”

  He hadn’t touched the glass.

  “My carriage will take you to Thirsk.”

  Another mouthful and a shrewd, thoughtful look. “Won’t that make it easy for me to guess where I’ve been? I warn you, I have quite a good sense of direction.”

  “You’ll be blindfolded,” she lied.

  He shook his head, clearly seeing how little point there was to that. If only he’d drink! Diana would have the coach at the front any time now. Heavens, she needed to get him dressed, before he passed out. If he ever drank anything.

  “That’s blackberry punch,” she said. “I… I had it made especially for you.”

  He smiled, a little sadly, but picked up the glass and took a sip. ‘“Struth, sweetheart, but that’s likely to knock me out again. It’s hardly a breakfast drink.”

  Though she hated the manipulation, Rosamunde tried to look hurt. “I thought… since there was no pie.”

  He laughed and took a deeper draft. “I suppose if I don’t have to ride, it’ll do no harm.”

  Fighting tears, she brought his clothes over and he climbed out of bed to begin to dress. “Don’t stand there like a nervous servant,” he said rather shortly. She felt short, too, furious at fate.

  She sat on the bed, watching him fasten his shirt.

  “So,” he asked, “when do we say our fond farewells?”

  “Soon.”

  “You’re not coming with me?”

  “I can’t. I must get home.”

  “To your husband.” He took another bite of bread, then shrugged into his waistcoat and jacket, leaving them both unbuttoned. “He doesn’t deserve you, you know.”

  “Don’t.”

  When he picked up the glass and took another deep drink, Rosamunde knew he was drowning anger. Suddenly he turned the vessel and offered it to her. “Come, it’s the closest we have to a loving cup. Drink in recognition of the night, and vow to me that at least you will never forget.”

  Rosamunde looked into his angry eyes, wondering frantically if he suspected. She saw only grief and longing, and her will trembled. Dear Lord, she couldn’t do this!

  But she already had. He’d already swallowed half the brew.

  Abruptly, it seemed right that she drink, too, that she take a little of the betrayal she’d served to him. She covered his warm hand on the glass, drew it to her, and sipped from the rim still moist from his mouth.

  Then, deliberately, she drank deeper.

  She pushed it back to him. “You finish it. I promise, I will never forget.”

  She watched as he drained the drink, eyes on hers, but then she made herself slide off the bed. “I must check on the coach. I’ll be back soon.”

  She left the room without a backward glance and didn’t allow herself to falter. This had never had anything to do with her needs or feelings.

  She didn’t have to check on anything, but she should say goodbye to Jessie, and leave vails for her and the Yockenthwaits for their service. She also had the note she’d written for Digby, telling him she was going to Richmond with Diana for a couple of days. She collected coins from her room and removed the mangled mask, stuffing it in her pocket for disposal later. As she left the room, she searched herself for some effect of the drug.

  Nothing. What were they going to do if it failed to work? Or took too long.

  But as she started down the stairs, her balance almost failed her and she clutched the banister. Lud, how horrible! What was she going to do if it got worse than this? Diana would be cross over her quixotic sharing of the potion.

  She concentrated as she went downstairs, hand tight on the rail, having to think about each step.

  Jessie was building the kitchen fire, still rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Milady! I thought you’d spent the night at the big house?”

  “I did.” Rosamunde hoped her words didn’t sound as tangled as they felt. “But Lady Arradale and I have decided to see our unwanted guest as far as Richmond.”

  The maid rubbed ashy fingers on her skirt. “Is there anything you want me to do, milady?”

  “Just make sure this note is sent to Wenscote.” She placed it on the table. “I’ve taken him some breakfast, and the coach will be here at any moment. I wanted to thank you for your help with him.” She gave the girl a shilling, and put a crown on the table for the Yockenthwaits.

  When the maid had thanked her, she made her way carefully into the front hall to wait for the coach, feeling horribly as if she were drunk, but more than drunk. No sense could be relied on. The early light shimmered, and when the coach appeared, it seemed to be surrounded by a multicolored mist.

  As the coach drew up, Diana leaped down anxiously. “Did it work?”

  “I think so.” Rosamunde had her hand on the porch pillar for contact with reality. “I had to drink some myself. I feel rather strange.”

  Diana grabbed her arm. “You idiot! Why did you do that?”

  “Never mind.” Rosamunde looked beyond, and saw Tom—a rather wiggly Tom—who was doubtless even more convinced of her insanity.

  “I brought a groom from the Arradale stables, too,” Diana said, indicating ano
ther stalwart young man. “He’ll keep his mouth shut. Anyone from these parts will do anything to avoid having the Cotterites here.”

  Rosamunde had to accept the fact that quite a few people suspected what she’d been up to, and would know for sure if she started to swell with a child. Thank heavens dalesfolk didn’t give out much to strangers.

  Focusing carefully, and wishing her feet weren’t so far from her head, she led Diana and the grooms upstairs and opened the bedroom door.

  He lacked only his boots, but toward the end, he’d guessed. She knew, because he’d staggered to the bed and torn all the covers off. He’d probably intended to rip the sheet still tangled in his hands.

  She gently extricated him, determined not to cry. It was better like this. Now, he’d never want to see her again.

  “No need to put his boots on,” she said, hearing her own voice strangely calm.

  Diana brushed his tangled hair off his face with a murmur of approval. Rosamunde wanted to slap her hands away, but she stood back as Diana had the two grooms lift him and carry him out.

  “Oh, do be careful!” she gasped as one of his feet knocked against the door. Her sudden movement dizzied her, and she tipped heavily into a chair.

  “What a tangle!” Diana said, hands on hips. “Never mind, love. I’ll take care of it. When you’re recovered, you can go on home—”

  But Rosamunde staggered to her feet. “No! I’m coming.”

  “Why?”

  Because I have to make sure he’s properly taken care of, Rosamunde thought. Diana might decide to dump him in the middle of nowhere. He might come close to death again. She could sense a chill in herself, a deep, unnerving shiver. Even without rain, he might die of exposure.

  “I just have to,” she stated, knowing she sounded like a truculent child.

  Focusing on Diana’s face, she saw exasperation, but worry, too. “Heaven knows, in your present state, it’s probably better to keep you under my eye. There’s no knowing what you might do or say! Sit.”

  Rosamunde obeyed. She felt dangerously close to sleep, and this was the effect of only a couple of mouthfuls. Had she given him too much?