He turned his back on her. He could see strings aplenty tied to this piece of baggage. He certainly didn’t need a permanent ball and chain.
But her admiration burned a place in Gavin’s gut that wouldn’t go away. He hadn’t realized how he’d missed that kind of look. He’d been recipient of them often enough before the damage to his face. He knew when a woman liked the way he looked. He’d been arrogant enough to accept their admiration as his due, the one thing he’d been given in this life to his advantage.
The looks of horror his scars had received had hurt him more than he wished to admit. Gavin had known his vanity then, and it disgusted him as much as his scarred face disgusted his erstwhile admirers. Dillian’s unabashed look of enjoyment rekindled something that he didn’t need anymore. Or so he told himself.
“I’ll sleep on the pallet,” he said abruptly.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re too big. I’m decent now. You can turn around.”
He’d hoped for a glimpse of her wearing nothing but his shirt, but she’d rolled up inside the quilt, where he could see nothing but a mop of curls and her elfin face.
She quickly flipped over to present her back to his nakedness. Gavin almost chuckled. He had the wild desire to flex his muscles for her appreciation. He’d never particularly doubted his masculinity, but he felt its full potency now, reflected in the eyes of this one woman.
Instead of entertaining his pride, Gavin took Dillian at her word and climbed into the bed. The morning already promised warmth. He didn’t need the cover she’d appropriated.
“You’d make a great guard dog, Miss Reynolds Whitnell. Anytime you wish to leave Lady Blanche’s employ, you’re welcome in mine.”
She didn’t deign to reply, but Gavin fell asleep with dreams of Dillian in nothing but his shirt dancing through the rooms of his head.
* * * *
“Here’s your shirt back.” Dillian reluctantly handed the item over. Her reluctance had little to do with the disinclination for donning the scratchy homespun and more to do with the fact that she disliked seeing that fascinating expanse of chest covered.
She couldn’t remember ever seeing a man’s bare chest. The marquess had scars on his torso, but they interested her less than the play of muscles beneath his skin as he reached for his clothing, or the sprinkle of dark hairs that tapered into a thicker mat as they dropped below his navel. Even the thatch of hair beneath his arms seemed mysterious and fascinating. She wondered if he was ticklish.
“Like what you see?” he asked in amusement when she didn’t divert her gaze quickly enough.
She flushed and turned away as he pulled the shirt on. “There are enough pompous asses in this world without creating another one,” she answered enigmatically. She was twenty-five years of age but she felt sixteen again, flustered and perspiring and uncertain where to look.
“You could be right about that, but I’m willing to allow you to test your theory anytime you wish. Until then we’d best get ourselves out of here.”
He strode briskly from the room, fully clothed again, right down to his impossible coat and hat. The proprietor waited below, bowing obsequiously as the marquess pressed the requisite number of coins on him.
“Anytime, guv’nor. You’re welcome back anytime. We keep our traps shut and respect our patron’s privacy.”
The marquess didn’t reply but strode out into the late afternoon warmth in the direction of the stable. Dillian scampered to keep up. She found his moods impossible to sort out. One minute he jested, the next, he clouded up like a thunderstorm. She might as well follow a tempest.
On the theory that the first strike worked best, she taunted, “The innkeeper never noticed your pretty face. What’s the point in keeping that blamed hat pulled down over it in this heat?”
“Heat?” To her surprise, he sounded amused. “You call this heat? It’s warmer than this in the dead of night in a Georgia winter.”
Dillian gasped as he turned, grabbed her by the waist, and threw her up in the saddle. The hard grip of his hands around her waist left her breathless, which he no doubt intended since he continued talking without waiting for her reply.
“Your friendly innkeeper expected payment for keeping his mouth shut. He thought you my catamite. In comparison to that, my pretty face is little cause for comment.”
He threw himself into his saddle and jerked the reins to trot his horse from the stable into the sunshine, throwing a coin in the direction of the stable boy who had saddled the animals.
“A cat what?” Dillian stared at his broad back. His tone indicated grim distaste, yet she heard irony in his words.
He looked over his shoulder at her. “I suppose that’s something else they don’t teach ladies. You’ve lived in this world how many years? You can’t be as innocent as you seem.”
Dillian scowled as he faced the road again. “I’ve lived long enough to distrust all men. I suppose he must have thought us capable of some kind of perversity.”
“Very good,” floated over his shoulder as they rode out of the yard. “Reflects intellect and innocence at the same time. You’re quite good at this game, Miss Whitnell. Why hasn’t some man snatched you up before this? Or does the change of names have something to do with a hidden husband?”
She wanted to hit him. If she had a gun, his broad shoulders would make an inviting target. “The innkeeper was quite right, my lord,” she shouted back at him. “You are perverse.”
He chuckled and continued on in silence.
This time, Dillian kept a close eye on the road they took and the places they passed as they approached Arinmede Manor. If for any reason they must flee this place, she wanted to know in which direction.
Dusk became dark as they reached the village nearest the manor. The local tavern spilled light and song, but all else appeared quiet. Dillian noticed the marquess took the back roads around town rather than the more direct path down the main street. She supposed it wise to conceal the fact that the marquess had left his lair for any amount of time. He wouldn’t want his appearance in Hampshire connected with his departure from here.
He’d discarded his great coat and broad-brimmed hat at dusk. Now he withdrew his cloak from his bags and threw it on. The night had cooled considerably, but Dillian thought the change of clothing more for disguise than warmth. Both coat and cloak were distinctive enough for people to notice, but few would connect the two, unless someone got a close look at the marquess’s face. He made it a point to let no one get that close.
“Surely, you don’t think someone will have noticed our comings and goings,” she said as she rode her mount up next to his.
“I’ve learned it’s best to take no chances. Your garb is nondescript enough not to call attention. I would prefer that the rumors confirm the Marquess of Effingham haunts only the streets of Arinmede.”
“‘Haunts’ is right,” she grumbled. “You creep around like a ghost. Where’s the point, I ask you? You’re lord of the manor, provider of all you survey. People would worship at your feet did you display yourself. What have you to hide?”
“Perhaps I would prefer not to be worshipped,” he answered dryly.
Even as he said it, a slight feminine figure walking along the path gave a shrill shriek and dashed into the nearest doorway as they rode by.
“Well, that was certainly illuminating.” Dillian stared at the house where the woman had entered. Frightened faces peered around the shutter and watched them until they rode out of sight. She returned her gaze to the marquess’s stiffly proud back. “What did you do, threaten them with hell if they didn’t behave?”
He gave one of his mirthless laughs. “I don’t speak to them at all. The feeling is mutual.”
She had an upbraiding for his attitude on the tip of her tongue when a scream of sheer panic split the silence. The village was small, and the reason for the scream easily discovered. An orange flame shot through the thatched roof of a cottage on the next road over.
The sigh
t of fire froze Dillian into motionlessness. A night of roaring flame flared instantly in her mind’s eye, and panic ate at her. Not so the marquess. He spurred his weary nag down a side street and disappeared before she could follow.
Dillian had trouble fighting her way through the narrow street as the entire village poured from their doors, buckets in hand, while excited children raced up and down screaming “fire” at the top of their lungs.
As she worked her way closer to the source of flames, she found the populace nearly motionless while a young mother screamed and wept in the street before the burning cottage.
From Dillian’s vantage point on top of the horse, she scanned the building, searching for the reason for this inactivity. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight.
The damned marquess had climbed a rickety ladder up to the burning roof of the cottage and now hurled hands full of thatching at the street in some insane effort to break through the roof. It didn’t take long for Dillian to figure someone must be in the loft, and the stairs below were already lost in flame. She gasped in panic at memories of a similar incident.
Only the angry murmurs of the mob brought her back to the moment. She could hear the curses and fear rippling through the crowd as the cloaked figure on the roof rained smoldering thatch upon their heads.
They villagers remained motionless in the street, letting the fire burn rather than aid the marquess. They despised what they feared, and they feared this man they didn’t know. To them, he was no more than a black shadow seen infrequently and then only in darkness, a menacing figure who lived in a haunted mansion.
Dillian couldn’t imagine what the superstitious idiots thought the specter on the roof was doing except saving the lives of the people inside, but they offered no help.
Leaping from her horse, nearly breaking her neck in the attempt, she grabbed a bucket already filled with water, ran up to the cottage and splashed it on the nearest eruption of flame. She slammed the empty bucket into someone’s waiting hand and grabbed the next.
The young mother at the foot of the ladder continued wailing as she watched the man frantically digging through her roof.
Gradually, the crowd returned to its senses. An older man snapped orders, and a chain of people formed between pump and flames. He displaced Dillian at the head of the chain, giving her an odd look indicating her disguise had come awry.
She glanced down at herself and saw where she’d splashed water and soaked the tunic. Even with the binding, her breasts swelled against the damp cloth. So much for hiding herself.
She left the bucket brigade to their work and elbowed her way toward the wailing woman. Other women crowded around, trying to comfort her, but her cry of “My babies! My babies!” would pierce the hardest of hearts.
Dillian’s stomach lurched as she glanced to the roof. Smoke seeped through everywhere, and small sparks glittered against the darkness. Only the prior night’s rain kept the entire roof from exploding in flame. She couldn’t tell if the marquess made much progress.
“Angel of death, that’s what he is,” some woman grumbled beside her. “He’s come to take their souls away.”
Similar sentiments echoed around her, and fury at such foolish superstition replaced panic. The young woman was near hysteria, but Dillian grabbed the arm of an older woman who seemed to have her wits about her. “Get him a knife, saw blades, an ax, anything to help him,” she ordered.
The woman looked surprised, then thoughtful as she glanced at Dillian’s improper attire and heard her ladylike accents. With a nod of her head, she whispered to another woman beside her. Word spread rapidly, and soon several women broke into a run down the street in search of the needed implements.
“Daughter of the devil!” screamed one of the more hysterical women in the crowd, pointing at Dillian.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a friend of the marquess. If you want those children saved, you must help him. Bring me some water.” Dillian’s impatient response caught the ear of someone a little more sensible, and a bucket eventually appeared.
The water weighed more than she could reasonably carry, but she attempted it anyway, hauling the bucket in one hand while she maneuvered the precarious ladder with the other. Effingham wasn’t even aware of her presence as she splashed the water over the entire area where he worked. At the first touch of water, he looked up, cursed, and returned to his efforts.
Someone hastened up the ladder and handed them an ax. Dillian grabbed it and shoved it beneath the marquess’s nose. He offered no thanks but began hacking at the remains of the roof beneath the hole he’d created. The faint sound of crying seeped through the cacophony below.
More buckets and more tools followed. The marquess yelled at one of the men on the ladder to remove Dillian. When she saw that the man intended to stay and help, she went willingly. The stench of smoke and burning wood choked her into near insensibility. It was too much like that other night, too close to that disaster. Her frayed nerves couldn’t withstand much more of the strain. The crying rang louder in her ears as she escaped, shaking, down the ladder.
A cry of “He’ll kill them all!” met her ears as she climbed down. Without thinking, Dillian swung around and slapped the terrified woman across the mouth.
“You’ll kill them all!” Dillian shrieked back. “You’ll kill them by standing here doing nothing in your narrow-minded prejudice. If you won’t help, then get the hell out of here!”
Her fury and near hysteria made an immediate impression. Someone led the woman she’d slapped away. Others stared at her in fear. One tentatively began the climb to the roof with a bucket in hand. The hysterical mother unwrapped herself from her consoling friends to grab Dillian by the arms and plead, “Don’t let him kill my babies! Help them, please!”
Even as she said it, a tower of flame shot through the hole in the roof where the Marquess of Effingham worked.
Chapter Fifteen
Dillian didn’t hear herself screaming as the black-cloaked figure disappeared through the roof behind a wall of flame. She only heard about it later when the marquess gave her one of his wry looks and commented on her fine set of lungs.
Right now, as he disappeared into the inferno, she felt only the hands of a plump village woman holding her back while the waiting crowd grew silent.
The men continued pouring water on the dying flames downstairs. A few brave souls scampered up and down the ladder, dousing the sparks in the thatch as quickly as they appeared. After that one brief spurt, the fire apparently died to a smoking, steaming sizzle. Finally, after what seemed hours of waiting, a hoarse shout rang from inside.
“I’m handing them up. Someone come get them!” The clipped American twang sounded oddly resonant among the slurred accents of the villagers.
The man already at the top of the ladder hurried to the edge of the hole and reached down, straightening a moment later with a limp bundle in his arms. A murmur passed over the crowd, and another man hastened up the ladder to take the child. A minute later, an even smaller bundle appeared though the burned thatch.
The hysterical mother cuddled one child and broke into sobs as the second one let out a healthy squall as he was carried down the ladder. She still cried, “My babies, my babies!” but this time the note in her voice was that of relief.
Dillian waited. No more bundles appeared. The villager on the roof scurried down as if his duty had ended. She looked around. The women banded together and led the weeping mother and children away. The men returned to their bucket brigade, dousing the final trails of fire. No black-cloaked figure reappeared on the roof.
She approached a gray-haired old man who seemed only to watch. “Shouldn’t someone fetch a ladder to help the marquess out?”
He looked at her as if she spoke a foreign tongue.
She turned to a man coming up beside her and repeated the question. This one looked dubiously at the smoking, gaping hole in the roof, and shrugged.
She couldn’t stand it another minute. Effin
gham had just risked his life rescuing a stranger’s child, and they made no effort whatsoever to see to his welfare.
All her hysteria, panic, and fear erupted in an explosion of rage as she shouted at the crowd. “He could die in there! If you cowards will do nothing for him, then someone must!”
With a strength she hadn’t known she possessed, Dillian scurried up the steps to the roof, caught the ends of the ladder, and heaved it up after her. The men below stared at her in astonishment. One sidled off to retrieve a ladder thrown down in the street in the confusion. Dillian didn’t linger to watch. She hauled her burden over the roof to the gaping hole.
“My lord, are you down there?” she called into the smoldering stench of wet thatch.
“Do I have somewhere better to go?” he asked dryly through the hellish fumes.
Even when she was worried sick about him, she wanted to slap him. “I can think of an appropriate answer,” she called back, “but half the town is listening, so I’ll refrain. I’m lowering this ladder. Watch out that I don’t skewer you with it.”
Someone climbed onto the rickety roof with her, but she ignored him. No wonder the marquess avoided a town full of superstitious idiots like these. She wouldn’t blame him if he never darkened their doorsteps again.
Had she breath enough left to tell them so, she would, but she was having difficulty breathing. She blamed it on the smoke, but the tears streaming down her face and the sobs choking her throat didn’t help.
Dillian lowered the ladder through the gaping hole and felt Effingham grab it on the other end. The man on the roof with her pushed her aside, holding the upper rungs so it didn’t fall through the weakened supports. She thought he muttered something about the marquess “ought to fly through the roof,” but she ignored that also. She didn’t breathe evenly again until she saw Effingham’s dark hair and soot-blackened visage appear through the scorched thatch.
The Marquess Page 15