She tried to concentrate on the outside scenery rather than the thoughts and fears whirling around in her head. Someone had tried to kill her, or Marcus. They wanted to capture her. She clutched his arm. “The papers!”
“I have them safe,” was his calm reply, “But more importantly, I have you safe.”
“Did you say we were brother and sister?” It would be acceptable for a brother to escort his sister with no maid or companion.
“Husband and wife,” he replied tersely. “I told you, I do not want to let you out of my sight.”
Yet more shocks reverberated through her. Could she take any more? “I don’t have a ring,” were her first bewildered words.
“That is easily remedied. Besides, not every wife wears a ring.”
That was true enough, but in her confusion, Viola had seized upon the first excuse she could think of. Now she felt idiotic. Marcus clasped her hand tighter. “Sleep. That’s the best cure.”
Despite the relatively early hour of the day, to her surprise she found she could do as he said.
Chapter 7
Marcus and Viola were lucky to find a room available on the first overnight stop. Two would have been impossible and more than his limited budget could bear. Marcus had considered taking a gig to the estate of a friend who lived not thirty miles away. But once they had embarked on this reckless journey, he reconsidered.
In the presence of these people—chattering and gossiping, sleeping and staring silently from the windows—they went unremarked. In an open carriage or even a closed one, they were more vulnerable. If he could afford outriders and their weapons, Marcus might have considered the move. However he had no proof of who he was any more, so he could not travel on tick. He had not been carrying his card case. In any case, who would be fool enough to grant him credit on the strength of a visiting card?
The coach jolted over the uneven road, its suspension slack, if it had any at all. He gave one lingering thought to his phaeton and then forced his mind to move on. Such a sweetly balanced vehicle. He must buy another, because that one had gone. Their attackers would steal it or smash it. He’d never get another quite so fine.
Instead, he had the woman next to him. In her sleep Viola had slumped to one side, forcing him to curve his arm around her shoulders to hold her steady. He’d seen people numb with shock, and after what had happened to her and what she’d learned, he was not surprised she had slid into slumber. With any luck, she would accept her fate when she awoke.
Not that he had any intention of telling her everything. She knew too much already. Instead of feeding the information to her slowly, he’d given it to her in one big gulp. Unlike his father, Marcus believed she should know. She had a right, and she would need full knowledge to prepare her for what lay ahead.
Another jolt made him tighten his hold, but after a little moan of complaint, she settled back down. They were passing through a village, thatched cottages lining the main street. If it was like the villages he’d ventured into, behind those doors lay hovels. The family living there shared one room with the most precious of their livestock and a hole in the ceiling to act as a chimney. An inn at the end of the street gave them some respite from their daily labors. But at least they did not have people who wanted to kill them.
The attack at the Scarborough house had worried him deeply. The two shots were indiscriminate, aiming at whomever they could hit. The woman in his arms was precious to more people than he was. She was a valuable commodity. Married to one of the Duke of Northwich’s sons, she’d give the Dankworth family a legitimate claim to the throne. They were dangerous enough without giving them extra ammunition.
The duke had escaped the bloodbath after Culloden, threatened with attainder but not brought to trial. Nothing had been proved against him, mainly because of his wealth and importance to the country. Lesser men had been swept up in the conflagration, but not Northwich. Where he was, plotting followed close behind, and sometimes even led. He would have taken care to send men to capture her and probably render him incapable of following her, but not dead. Death brought complications.
But the Pretender—that was different. Charles Edward Stuart was seriously challenged by the new developments. If anyone ever found the original certificate of marriage between the Old Pretender and Maria Rubio, the children would displace him in the succession. Except, of course, the Hanoverians had already displaced him. But they never gave up, the Jacobites. They’d be dead in the ground before they surrendered their claims to the throne.
He held her snugly, this royal child, the woman he had plans for. If she would accept them, he thought with a wry smile. Nothing was certain where Viola was concerned. She would fight anything she considered wrong, or interfered with what she wanted, or hurt those she loved.
He’d like to be one of the people she loved.
He glanced at his slumbering princess. A thread of a pulse throbbed in the delicate skin of her wrist. An urge took him to kiss her there, but he could not. Must not. He would guard her, a poor palace guard indeed, but he would do his best.
Marcus had found more than someone to protect. He would have this, this one thing for himself. He would have her. Together once more, after so many years watching each other from a distance—he would not let her go again. Friend or more, he would protect her and care for her and ensure she got everything she wanted or needed. Even if it meant returning to Haxby and living her life as the daughter of the estate manager. That had made her happy for the last twenty-six years. Right from the impulsive kiss in the music room, when his long-dormant desire for her had reignited, he had begun to dream.
She felt right snuggled next to him, heating his body more than she should in this confined space. Not just desirable, but right. Marcus had never considered himself an inarticulate person, but he found describing her and his feelings towards her difficult. So difficult he did not know how to begin. So it was probably as well she woke up when the coach hit a rut.
Viola squeezed her eyes tighter and then opened them wide. Tilting her head, she winced and then met his gaze. She tried to jerk away, but he held her firmly.
“Ease yourself back to consciousness,” he murmured. He kissed her forehead, as much to demonstrate their masquerade as to ease his longing to touch or kiss her. In public, he would dare no more, nor would he put her in an invidious position. But he was posing as her husband. They were not exactly in the presence of the cream of society, who detested demonstrations of affection conducted in public. Bad manners and distinctly distasteful, they would have said.
“Why are you smiling?” She sounded petulant, but then, she had good reason to be. None of what had happened that day had been her fault, or even expected.
“We are safe, resting, and on our way to London. You said you wanted to see it. And so you shall.”
“But I thought we were—” She bit her lip, obviously recalling where they were, and completed her sentence. “I thought we were visiting your relatives in Derbyshire.”
“We’re going to London,” he said firmly. “It makes no sense to stop. We were fortunate to catch the coach when we did.”
That gave them the advantage on any pursuers. He’d signed the tickets as Mr. and Mrs. Dunbar. He knew nobody by that name, so nobody would connect the neatly although shabbily dressed Dunbars with the illustrious Earl of Malton and his…friend.
“What time is it?”
“Barely noon,” he said. “We have a way to go yet.”
Because of the good weather and healthy passengers, the coach made good time. Healthy passengers were important. They needed to scramble out, eat scalding hot food, and back on again by the time the ostlers had turned the coach and put fresh horses to the traces. Viola became adept at gulping hot coffee without burning her mouth. At the first stage where they paused, she forewent the meal. After begging a shilling from Marcus, she crossed the street to buy a novel from a bookshop there. Putting up with Marcus’s good-natured teasing, she promised to lend it to him whe
n they had done. “But it’s the first part of a three-part story. The publisher says at the end the next installment will follow shortly, although I have no idea when that will be. He does not say. I was fortunate to find it reduced. Perhaps that is because the second and third parts were not forthcoming.”
“It’s unusual for a publisher to take the first part of a book without the others being ready,” he said.
The read concerned a young woman whose conscience pushed her into far too many insane adventures, nearly losing her virtue in almost every chapter. Viola read on, absorbed, the jolting of the badly sprung vehicle hardly troubling her at all. At one point, the man of the cloth sitting opposite to them leaned his head out of the window and heaved. Clearly not everyone travelled well.
She continued with her book and had nearly completed it when they reached their destination for the night. Talk with Marcus had necessarily been short and stilted. They could hardly discuss their situation with the four other passengers, who were, in any case, more interested in their own situations than anyone else’s.
A woman held a basket on her lap, which turned out to contain a cockerel—a breeder, she said, for her reluctant hens. “For with their current cock, they will not lay at all, and I need those eggs. Very good eggs they are too, just not enough of ’em.” She was not travelling farther than a day with them, so either they could spread out more the next day, or they would have a new passenger. The boy in the corner was on his way to school in London and had someone meeting him at their destination. The lady sitting opposite, the one who was ostentatiously reading a book of sermons, was a governess on her way to a new position.
Viola learned about them all, through their chatter, and remained silent, reading her book. Marcus spent most of his time watching the scenery pass by, as if he expected trouble at every turn.
They passed through a number of pretty hamlets, and the day being fine, they appeared at their best. Even a larger town or two, but Viola had no idea where they were until dusk was falling and they reached their destination for the night.
The lady with the cockerel left with a large man, presumably her husband. The others trooped into the inn.
Viola tried to recall where they had been, but found herself getting drowsy once more. How she could, after falling asleep earlier in the day, she didn’t know. When Marcus spoke to the landlord, she opened her eyes wide once more. “Yes, one room is sufficient,” he said.
“Aye, well we’re full with another coach that lost a wheel, but you’re lucky. I have one room left,” the landlord said. He didn’t appear the least suspicious.
To the sound of the other passengers’ complaints, Marcus went off with the key.
“Did you pay over the odds?” she asked.
He smiled, slowly, his eyelids drooping. “I may have done. We have sufficient, my dear. We can afford it.”
“But one room?”
“Plenty of room for two,” he said.
She didn’t need his warning glance to tell her not to say too much. Instead, she tucked her hand in his arm and went into the main room of the inn. She was prepared, for once, to enjoy a meal taken at leisure.
Except her appetite seemed to have fled. The notion of sharing a room with Marcus disturbed her more than somewhat. How could she do that, when her feelings for him were far more than they should be?
After picking at her food, she declared she would go to bed. They had to be up at dawn to make the most of the light, the coachman informed them. Gone at six.
Marcus grabbed their bag, the only one they had, and took her upstairs to their room before anyone else could claim it, as he informed her on the way up. “You appear to have some experience with the stage coach,” she commented as he unlocked the door.
“As a boy, and sometimes at Oxford,” he admitted. “My father made me work to a specific allowance. He wasn’t ungenerous, but sometimes I was too lavish, and at the end of the quarter I would find myself somewhat short of funds.” He shot her a mischievous smile. “The stage isn’t cheap, but it’s much cheaper than keeping a horse stabled or hiring a private vehicle.”
He opened the door and conversation ceased. Going inside, he glanced around and put down the bag. “I’ll sleep in the tap room,” he said abruptly.
His decision made her more than nervous. “But you promised not to leave my side.”
He nodded. “I know. But this inn is a compact one and the room much smaller than I envisioned. I can find a spot where I can see everyone going up and down the stairs. There is only one door to this room.”
She shook her head. “No.” Fear clutched at her, unreasoning and foolish. She’d had enough for one day. “We are supposed to be married. Won’t people think it strange?”
He closed the door, but stayed on her side of it. “What do we care what people think?” He spoke savagely, a vicious edge to his voice. Turning, he grasped her shoulders. “This room—I had counted on a chair, or even a stretch of floor.”
Apart from a tiny washstand and bowl, the only piece of furniture in the room was a huge four-poster bed. The posts and headboard were elaborately carved, the wood nearly black with age but shiny from polishing. “How did they get it in here?” she asked.
“They would have taken it to pieces.” He stared at the posts. “These old beds were often thrown out.”
“You have one at Haxby.” She recalled it in the attics, and yes, it was in pieces. But why crowd such a large bed into such a small room? That was anyone’s guess. Certainly not hers. The sheets were fresh, and the landlord had promised them clean water. “I need to wash, and change, and—um—”
He nodded. “I will stay downstairs. You’ll be safe; I swear it.”
She didn’t want to be safe; she wanted him. But she could not move him, and he left, promising her he would call her in the morning.
Viola finished her book before she climbed into bed. She washed the shift she had taken off and draped it over the washstand to dry. This whole situation was strange, totally unlike anything she had known before. How could she sleep?
In the end, she fell asleep listening to the almost constant noise from downstairs and outside. The inn appeared to be a popular drinking stage, as well as a coaching inn. Was Marcus carousing with them?
With questions revolving through her mind, she finally fell asleep.
A sharp rap on the door woke her from a restless slumber. “Water, missus!” someone shouted in an unfamiliar accent. Viola felt as if she’d barely slept for five minutes, but was keen to appear decent before Marcus appeared.
She was dressed in the skirt of her habit and the shirt by the time Marcus knocked on the door.
Disheveled was putting it politely. She had never seen Marcus less than well-turned out, but today was different. His clothes were crumpled and his eyes bleary. She had lit the candles in the branch, but they were not the best quality and they smoked. He blinked. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you. Shall I leave while you dress?”
“No.” He sounded determined. “Go over there and sit on the bed. Turn your back if you wish, but I won’t strip. Only wash and shave.”
“You have a razor?” She had not thought of that. Not being a male, she had little use for a razor.
“Yes, if you can call it that. And yes, I have shaved myself before. I do so on a regular basis.”
“Oh.” She had not thought a man would not be able to shave himself, but someone in his position would have a valet.
She did not look away as he dropped his coat to the floor, followed by his shirt.
Oh, my.
His back rippled with muscle, and when he lifted his arms, the flex made her mouth go dry. She had never, ever been this close to a half-naked man. If she moved closer, she could spread her hands over his back and soak up his warmth. She swallowed, and in silence, watched him.
Longing filled her, forbidden and wicked. That was why women were so carefully chaperoned, because for two pins she would give up all idea
of propriety and fall on him. Warmth settled between her legs, and she’d never been so aware of her own body before. How could he remain so steady?
Watching him shaving was almost unbearably intimate. Few people would ever see him this way. He was a man of importance, surrounded by attendants in the normal way of things. Yet he was moving heaven and earth for her.
Her birth wasn’t why Viola wanted him to escort her. That was only a legend she had only half believed until a few days ago. She wanted him to care for her.
Scraping the razor across his skin, he said, “If you carry on watching me like that, I’m in danger of slitting my throat from ear to ear.”
“Oh!” Shocked, she stared at her hands instead. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
He laid the razor down carefully and turned around. “You can look at me now.”
She didn’t know if she wanted to, but his words were a command. Lifting her gaze, she met his eyes.
He burned. He flicked his gaze over her. “I want you, Viola,” he said baldly. “I can’t think of a better way to say it. I am at the edge of my control. You are lovely, intelligent, utterly desirable.”
“To you?”
“To all men. The way that curate leered at you yesterday made me want to knock his teeth down his throat. Don’t you know how utterly delectable you are?”
She opened her mouth, and closed it again.
In a minute he was across the room and he had her in his arms. He slammed his mouth down on hers, ravenously devouring.
She responded, circling her arms around him, and she had her wish. His warm flesh pulsed under her hands. The sheer power of his body made her feel deliciously weak and helpless, although she knew herself to be no such thing. She’d slept with the pistol he’d given her under her pillow, and she would have used it, had she felt the need.
She did not need it now.
He rolled on to the mattress, holding her close, bringing her over him, but he never stopped kissing her. When she dug her fingers into his back, he shuddered. He covered her breast with his hand. Despite the barriers of her shift, stays, and shirt, his touch made her arch towards him.
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