by Sandra Heath
“You know I do. It’s something about the tolls due to the Canal Company on the Lady Marchwood. No doubt he intends to see I pay well over the odds, but I’ll see him in Hades first:”
The Lady Marchwood. Kathryn dug into her store of knowledge. Like many men of consequence in Gloucester, Dane owned a number of merchant ships, and the Lady Marchwood was an ocean-going schooner recently completed in a Gloucester yard. The following day, Lammas Eve, the vessel was to set off on her maiden voyage to bring timber from the Baltic. She was only the second deep-sea ship to be built in the basin, and her departure would be an occasion of great celebration. All ships built and launched in Gloucester came under the auspices of the Canal Company, which owned the dock basin, and Jeremiah Pendle was a prominent member of the board. Dane was probably right, if the banker could swindle more tolls out of him than necessary, he would.
But the more Kathryn thought about Pendle, the more uneasy she felt. He was definitely Dane’s enemy, and instinct told her he posed a threat of some sort. In what way though?
Dane smiled regretfully. “I don’t particularly want to see him, but he’s sent word it’s important. Then, when he’s gone, I’m afraid I have urgent estate matters to attend to, so madam, pray take pity on your poor frustrated husband and help turn his thoughts to less carnal matters.” He drew her away from the wall and made her face the portrait again. “Well? Has Lawrence done me justice?”
“Oh, he has. I vow you look very dashing.”
“I fear he hasn’t quite caught the nobility of my forehead and regal perfection of my nose.”
“Or the tongue in your cheek, sirrah.” She glanced smilingly at him again.
“That too.” He laughed, and then looked intently at her. “I welcome this change in you, whatever has caused it.”
“So do I.” Kathryn marveled again that the real Rosalind could ever find Thomas Denham more appealing than this man.
His gaze became a little disconcerted. “Sometimes I could almost swear ...” He didn’t finish.
“Almost swear what?”
“That I’m married to two different women.”
She managed a light laugh. “What’s this, sirrah? Are you a bigamist?”
“If I am, I vow I much prefer this new wife to the other,” he murmured, studying her eyes for a long moment. “The light in here must be strange, for...”
“Yes?”
“Oh, nothing.” He kissed her nose, and then cupped her face in his hands. “Maybe I married twins, one warm and passionate, the other cool and dispassionate.”
“Maybe you did, sir.” Right now, you definitely did, she thought, for that was certainly the context in which this whole weird business might be interpreted. She slipped her arms around his waist again. “Well, this is the warm and passionate twin, and she wishes to be between the sheets with you again as soon as possible. Promise that the moment the odious Pendle has gone, you’ll postpone your estate business long enough to come to me.” Please let me stay in this time for long enough.
His gray eyes were warm, and he stroked her cheeks with his thumbs. “Methinks you’re a forward jade, Lady Marchwood.”
“Oh, disgracefully forward, sir,” she murmured. His caresses affected her, and her voice was husky with desire.
“Persist like this and I won’t be able to contain myself from tumbling you here on the staircase after all. One can imagine Pendle’s shock if he were to be shown in and find us thus engaged,” he declared, releasing her and moving determinedly away from temptation.
The sensuous spell began to unravel, and she drew a long breath as she composed herself. Then her store of borrowed knowledge surged to the fore again. “Dane, why do you deal with Pendle again? After all the things he said when William Denham died—”
“I deal with him because I must, and he was entitled to say them,” he interrupted.
“Entitled to vow revenge?”
“Grief affects us greatly, and William Denham was his favorite nephew.”
She looked curiously at him. “Why did you fight that duel? You’ve never explained properly.”
“Nor do I intend to. Suffice it that I was more than justified, as Denham himself knew full well. It was between him and me, no one else.”
“If you were justified, why didn’t you give your reasons? Pendle wasn’t the only one to think ill of you because of that duel.”
“Do you think ill of me?”
“No, for I know you wouldn’t have called him out without good cause.” She spoke the truth, for with all her heart she believed in Sir Dane Marchwood. His reputation didn’t matter to her; it was the man himself who meant everything.
He seemed amused. “But I’m renowned for dueling—indeed, everyone knows I exult in such things and avidly seek provocation,” he remarked dryly.
“I know better.”
“Rosalind, I killed William Denham long before I knew you, and I refuse to explain the cause of the quarrel, so how can you defend me with any real conviction?”
“Because I know you would never behave shamefully.”
“Perhaps I already have, toward you at any rate,” he murmured, looking away.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s of no consequence.” He gave her a quick smile and touched her cheek reassuringly.
She caught his hand. “Dane, there’s something I wish to ask.”
“What is it?”
“Is the Lady Marchwood named for me?” She hadn’t even realized the question was there, but she did know that it was Kathryn Vansomeren who needed the answer, not Rosalind.
Almost imperceptibly he drew back. “What an odd question.”
“Is it?” She looked at the chain at his throat. “After all, there was another Lady Marchwood, was there not?” she murmured.
“I don’t wish to discuss this, Rosalind.” A change came over him; he was suddenly chill and distant.
“It’s important to me, Dane.”
“Elizabeth has been dead for ten years now, and—
“And you still grieve for her,” she interrupted.
“I loved her.” His tone couldn’t have been more clipped.
“She’s not here now, Dane, I am, and I need to know you love me.”
“Words mean nothing.”
“You wear her likeness,” she pressed.
“Leave this, Rosalind.”
“Dane...”
“I said leave it.”
Before she could say anything more there was the sound of a curricle arriving in the courtyard outside.
He glanced toward the sound. “Pendle’s here.”
The unease of earlier swept over her again, but more strongly now. The banker was a real threat of some kind! A keen sixth sense told her to be on her guard. “I... I hope you won’t mind if I stay while you see him?”
“Stay? But you won’t be remotely interested in what he has to say.”
“On the contrary, I’m quite intrigued.”
He shrugged. “As you wish. I intend to receive him in the drawing room, so we’ll adjourn there.” He offered her his arm, and together they went up the staircase.
Chapter Eleven
The drawing room was hung with fine Brussels tapestries, and had particularly elegant gilt furniture. Its ceiling was beamed and its walls the original stone of the medieval castle. The arched door was paneled and carved, and the deeply embrasured windows overlooked the courtyard on one side, the terraced gardens and meadows on the other. One of the windows above the terrace stood open, and the breeze rustled the ivy growing against the wall. The sound made Kathryn shiver unexpectedly as she glanced around the rest of the room.
Large, brightly colored Chinese vases stood on either side of the fireplace, and over the mantel there was a panoramic painting of the Battle of Minden, at which Dane’s grandfather had fought with conspicuous gallantry. There was an impressive cabinet standing in a corner near the door. Its lower half comprised bow-fronted drawers, but its upper portion was of gla
ss-fronted shelves set out with a collection of ivory and amber figurines. More figurines stood on a marble-topped table nearby, and with them a velvet-lined leather case containing two exquisite dueling pistols. The name of the German gunsmith who made them was embossed on the case: Siegfried Meyer, Paternoster Row, London.
The richly decorated handguns were of unusual design, containing concealed chambers from which nine balls could be fired in succession. They were costly weapons, and had once been owned by Dane’s father, who’d had one tucked in the breast of his coat when, riding home one night across notorious Hounslow Heath, a highwayman fired at him, and his life had been saved when the shot struck the pistol stock and was deflected. From that moment on the pistol had been regarded as lucky, and Dane had decided against having the damaged stock repaired. He’d used the weapon successfully at each of the duels he’d fought.
She noticed the case as soon as they entered the room, and recalled that the guide had told her these were the weapons used at the duel in which Thomas died. Thomas clearly wouldn’t use the “lucky” pistol, which meant that it was the other gun that was supposed to have been tampered with. Dane wouldn’t do such a thing; he simply wasn’t capable of dishonor. Maybe he was fiery, courageous, and dangerous as an opponent, but he would always observe the rules of conduct.
Dane followed her gaze. “Damn, I forgot them,” he said, going to close the case. “I sent them to Meyer to be overhauled, and they arrived back this morning. I’ll put them away, for there’s little point in reminding Pendle of his nephew’s demise.” She knew he was telling the truth about the London gunsmith, and about the pistols having arrived back at Marchwood that morning, so the reason for their being out like this was perfectly plausible. Plausible? What sort of word was that to use? It suggested some kind of clever deceit on his part. Besides, he still didn’t know for certain about Rosalind and Thomas, so why would he start meddling with the guns at this juncture? No, she was just letting her thoughts and fears runaway with her.
The banker was shown up the grand staircase, and Dane quickly closed the pistol case and took it to the cabinet where it was always kept in one of the drawers. He was just placing it inside when Jeremiah Pendle was shown in. She felt as if winter entered the room with him, and shivered, just as she had on hearing the ivy rustling a few minutes earlier.
The banker was sweating profusely after the drive from Gloucester and the climb up the staircase, and, as always, was mopping his forehead with his customary red-spotted handkerchief. His carefully powdered wig was slightly askew, and his immense girth was corseted into a pale blue coat and beige breeches. He appeared preoccupied with his physical discomfort, but Kathryn couldn’t help noticing how sharply his clever little eyes flickered toward the case in the second before Dane closed the drawer. She wondered what the banker’s thoughts were in that moment, for he knew they were the weapons used when William Denham died. But whatever his feelings, he hid them behind a sleekly false smile.
He bowed. “Good morning, Sir Dane. My lady.”
Dane inclined his head to him. “Good morning, sir. Well, I understand there’s something you wish to discuss with me about the Lady Marchwood tolls? I trust there’s no problem?”
“A little, er, difficulty, Sir Dane, that is all. You expressed concern that you’d already paid toll on most of the timber intended for the Lady Marchwood, and said you did not think it right the Canal Company should exact more for her actual building and launching.”
“Correct.”
“And I agree with your argument. On your behalf I’ve been endeavoring to persuade the board to waive the charges, or at least reduce them. I fear I haven’t succeeded.” The spotted handkerchief waved slightly as the man made a regretful gesture.
Everything about him grated upon Kathryn like a fingernail being drawn down glass, and she no more believed he’d tried to plead Dane’s case than she did his smiles and expressions of regret. He hated Dane more than anyone else in the world, and it was a hatred she found almost tangible.
Suddenly she couldn’t bear to be in the same room with him, and turned to Dane. “I... I think I’ll leave you to discuss this. I have things to do.”
He smiled, not surprised she was apparently bored after all. “À bientôt, cherie,” he murmured, raising her hand to his lips.
Her fingers closed earnestly over his as she replied in a soft whisper Pendle couldn’t hear. “Beware of him, Dane, for Old Nick himself would make a less dangerous foe.”
“Fear not, for I have his measure.”
“I pray so.” She squeezed his fingers slightly. “Promise to come to me when he’s gone.”
“You’re reprehensibly persistent, madam.”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
He smiled. “In this you have certainly gained. Of course I’ll come to you.”
A warmth entered her cheeks and she turned to leave, but as she did so, the wind rustled the ivy once more. Again she shivered, her gaze drawn reluctantly toward the window and then to the banker. Their eyes met, and she felt his malevolence so strongly she couldn’t bear it, but had to hurry out in order to break all contact.
In Dane’s apartment, she stood looking at the view over the terraced gardens, and the meadows and woodland beyond. She could hear the low murmur of voices as Dane and Pendle spoke in the drawing room, which was only a little further along from where she stood, and her thoughts returned to the banker. She’d never before been particularly intuitive, and certainly never had anything approaching a sixth sense, but warning bells were ringing loudly where Jeremiah Pendle was concerned.
The minutes passed, and at last the tone of the conversation in the drawing room changed as Pendle began to take his leave. Dane would come to her soon now. She glanced at the bed. Please let them make love for a long time now; don’t let fate snatch her to the future before she again sampled the erotic passion of last night.
Slowly she began to undress, taking infinite delight in the way her dainty Regency gown fell softly around her ankles. She already knew this time that there were no undergarments, she’d realized that on the staircase! For whatever reason, Rosalind was evidently a lady who abhorred whalebone and stays, and Kathryn was very thankful. The thought of being trussed up in hot summer weather like this was quite awful.
When she was naked, the light breeze drifting through the window was cool and sensuous on her skin. Fleetingly she thought again about the incredible events of the past hours, and of how she felt as if she’d known Dane for much longer. If she was indeed Rosalind’s reincarnation, then of course she felt she knew him. But as the thought struck her, so did the paradox it posed. Rosalind might have been Dane’s wife, but it was Thomas Denham she loved, so why did Kathryn Vansomeren—as Rosalind—cleave so passionately to Dane?
There was no time to think more, for his steps approached. He came in and his glance moved over her with lazy appreciation. “I see you are impatient, madam,” he murmured, closing the door and leaning back against it.
“Very impatient, sir.”
His eyes met hers. “Would that you had always been like this, Rosalind,” he murmured.
“If I’ve been a less than loving wife until now, I regret it with all my heart.”
He smiled and held out a hand. “Then come to me.”
She needed no second bidding, and ran to him. With a laugh he caught her close, lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He put her down gently on the silk coverlet, and then drew his fingertips softly across her excited nipples as he looked intently into her eyes. “Tell me you are a changeling, and I will believe you, for the woman I look upon now is the perfection I’ve always longed for. When I took you as my wife, I knew you didn’t love me, but I hoped that love would grow in time. Now, at last, it has.”
The way he stroked her breasts sent frissons of pleasure through her. She put a hand to his thigh, sliding it slowly up until she felt his iron-hard erection, outlined so clearly by the tightness of his breeches.
“Let’s consummate that love now,” she whispered, closing her hand needfully over his virility, and gently massaging the end.
He closed his eyes, his breath escaping on a shuddering sigh, then he halted her caresses by putting his hand over hers. He smiled lazily down at her. “I’ve yet to make love with my breeches still buttoned, madam, and I don’t intend to begin now. Besides, your body is an altar at which I intend to worship with every reverence.”
When he was naked, he bent over her to press his lips to her breasts. His kisses moved down to her abdomen, and then ever more tenderly to the dark hairs at her groin. Then he lay down with her, his knowing fingers sliding expertly between her legs. “Two can play this game, my love,” he whispered as her breath caught on a gasp of pleasure.
Then he stopped her gasps with a kiss, and the lovemaking began in earnest. He was ardent but leisurely, taking her to the edge of ecstasy and lingering over the moment as if forever. Her pleasure mattered as much as his, and he took care to carry her along with him. Their bodies were warm and damp, their union complete in every way. If she was the altar, then his worship was devoted and now there was only rapture between them.
But a shadow lay across the bed, a shadow perhaps only she could see. He still wore Elizabeth’s likeness, and it seemed to Kathryn that his first wife had a mocking smile on her lips, as if she knew her successor could never completely have his heart.
He stayed for two hours that passed all too quickly, but at last he felt unable to postpone his pressing estate business any longer. She lay there watching as he dressed. Her body was warm and relaxed, her desire pacified, but as she looked at his strong slender form, she knew she could never have enough of him. It wasn’t purely sexual, though, for it went far beyond that. There was something about Sir Dane Marchwood that reached past all her defenses, something that told her again and again that he was her other half. She’d begun to feel it on first seeing him, and now the conviction was even more powerful because she loved him completely. If she, Kathryn, had really been the woman he married, she knew they would have been wonderfully happy together. Already there were times when they anticipated each other’s thoughts and words, when they laughed at something foolish to anyone else but themselves, and when they glanced at each other at the same precise moment. They were a perfect match in every conceivable way. Except they weren’t a match at all, for she was here on stolen time.