Jo Beverley

by Forbidden Magic

  She clutched it to herself, feeling shivery and raw, but in the sweetest possible way. How long now? Less than an hour, surely. But then, back at the house, a supper would probably be laid out.

  She couldn’t possibly eat.

  She expected him to arrange for them to travel back alone to the house, but he had the twins ride with them, and encouraged them to chatter all the way. He even gave up his seat to Rachel, so they sat opposite, not beside each other.

  But that way, she discovered, he could send secret messages with his eyes and mouth, messages that kept her nerves humming.

  “Are you all right, Meg?” Rachel asked at one point. “You look funny.”

  “I’m fine.” She pinned on a smile.

  “I think we’re all ready for bed,” her mischievous husband said. “So much excitement.”

  “No, we’re not!” Richard declared. “We’re not at all sleepy.”

  Even as the boy yawned, the toe of Sax’s shoe found Meg’s ankle. “True. We’re not at all sleepy.”

  Once in the house, he firmly sent everyone to bed. His tone was so pleasantly authoritative that even the twins didn’t protest, especially when promised their supper in the schoolroom. Jeremy had suddenly remembered his books, and was already on his way. Laura flashed Meg a wicked glance, but turned to the stairs.

  “Laura!” Meg called, suddenly remembering that she must be warned. Sir Arthur might try some trick, and what would Laura do if he used the sheelagh to blackmail her, perhaps in the morning before they could talk?

  Her sister turned three steps up. “Yes?”

  “I need to speak to you.” She stepped forward, but the earl caught her hand.

  “It can wait,” he said, in that same pleasant, implacable voice.

  Meg, however, pulled her hand free and turned a smile on him. “Only for a moment, Saxonhurst!” Then she hurried up the stairs, tugging her astonished sister with her.

  “What are you doing?” Laura whispered. “The earl—”

  “Don’t argue.” But at the top of the stairs, Meg looked back to send him another reassuring smile.

  He was staring up at her through his quizzing glass!

  Chapter 12

  Meg put that aside—it would be easily sorted out—and bustled Laura into her own boudoir.

  “Why are you doing this?” Laura asked, wide-eyed. “What’s the matter?”

  “Sir Arthur.”

  “Sir Arthur?”

  Meg made herself concentrate on this one thing, then she could make all right with her husband. “When I was your age, Sir Arthur started to behave strangely with me. Touch me in ways I didn’t like. Say things that weren’t quite proper.”

  Laura colored, and looked down. “Yes.”

  Meg pulled her into a hug. “Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner. I just want to be sure that you will never, ever let yourself be alone with him. No matter what he promises, or threatens. . . .”

  “Threatens?”

  To truly warn her sister, she’d have to tell her the truth. “Laura, he has the sheelagh.”

  Laura put a hand over her mouth. “How?”

  “I couldn’t see how to take it out of the house with the servants there. And Saxonhurst stuck to me like a teasel. So I thought I’d sneak back later. In fact, early yesterday—”

  “Oh. Was that why you were so tired? Not . . .”

  “Not. Yet. Not yet. Never mind.” Meg stopped gibbering. “Sir Arthur said something in the theater that makes me think he’s going to try to use the sheelagh to get something from me. I don’t know what. I just want to be sure he can’t trick you into meeting with him, or going anywhere with him. Promise.”

  Laura looked at her, a surprising maturity in her steady gaze. “What could he threaten that would be so bad?”

  “I don’t know. He might guess . . .” She’d have to tell all. “He might guess what I did. About this marriage.”

  Laura’s lips parted. “You didn’t!”

  “I was desperate! I had to. But the earl must never know how this marriage came to be, Laura. Never. He would hate it. . . .”

  Sax quietly reclosed the door.

  He’d not intended to eavesdrop. He’d gone to his room, then decided not to let his wife’s strange nervousness interfere again. He’d passed through her bedroom and opened her boudoir door, intent on getting rid of her sister and picking up his seduction. He knew by now she was not seriously unwilling.

  It hadn’t occurred to him to knock. He hadn’t tried to be quiet. His house, however, was damnably well made and well run. Nothing rattled or squeaked.

  He stood, staring almost sightlessly at her bed, the bed that had been his destination this night.

  Had been.

  It wasn’t just the words. It was the tone.

  Desperate.

  He moved on, back to his own rooms, going over what he’d just heard.

  What I did. About this marriage.

  The earl must never know how this marriage came to be.

  He would hate it.

  Physical desire still thrummed in him, quite uncomfortably in fact, but mental desire—the important part—was sheathed in ice.

  Surely not.

  It couldn’t be.

  He sought refuge in brandy, his shaking hand causing the decanter to bell-chime against crystal as he poured. The burn of fine spirits cleared his head a little.

  His wife’s words had to be innocent. Of course, she’d been desperate to marry. He knew that. Desperate because of poverty.

  But what had she done that he would hate?

  He thought again about Sir Arthur. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps she’d sacrificed herself with the man for food and shelter. He’d hate that on her behalf.

  But not on his own.

  It didn’t feel right. Ringing clear through her remembered words was the implication that he, Saxonhurst, would particularly hate whatever she had done to bring about the marriage. That he’d been tricked.

  There had to be a logical explanation. Not the one that seethed like a pack of snarling beasts deep in the swamp areas of his mind.

  Debts?

  How could she possibly have acquired debts that could distress him? But if she had, how could she think to repay them without his knowledge?

  There must be something else he would hate, something she’d feel she had to keep hidden. Other than—

  The beasts hurtled free.

  The dragon.

  He just stopped himself from smashing his glass, placing it with painful care on a table before pacing the room.

  No. No!

  But what if the duchess was even more duplicitous than he’d ever imagined. Could she have set this up, using Susie and Minerva as tools? Was Daphne a mere red herring? Had the duchess been laughing at him during that confrontation in the hall?

  No. No!

  But he would hate that. He would hate it with all the loathing implied by his wife’s tone.

  He put his hands to his head, feeling as if monsters were loose in it, raging and snarling. How had Minerva reacted to that scene in the hall?

  Remember.

  Remember.

  She’d wanted him to be kinder. Was that suspicious? He was sane enough to know it wasn’t.

  The dragon had dismissed his new wife as unworthy, but that could be acting. God knows, the old witch could act.

  They appeared to be total strangers—

  “Saxonhurst?”

  He whirled to look at her, hovering uncertainly in the doorway.

  He’d have to see about getting the doors fixed in this house. Fixed so they squeaked.

  “Do you have a headache?” she asked, frowning in concern.

  He dropped his hands. “No.” He could speak normally if he tried. “I was trying to remember something.”

  She came a little farther into the room, looking wary and slightly guilty, but surely not guilty enough for the plot he envisioned. “I’m sorry. About earlier. I had to speak to Laura.”
<
br />   “About what?”

  “About Sir Arthur. I wanted to warn her.”

  He forced himself to relax, to chain the beasts. His suspicions had to be nonsense. He knew he wasn’t quite sane on the subject of the duchess. Or that others would think he wasn’t quite sane.

  He went over to her. Took her hand. Led her toward the fire. Make it make sense to me, Minerva. “You could have spoken of that in the hall.”

  She looked away and, sickeningly, he knew she was about to lie. “Servants could have been listening.”

  “As I intend to warn them about Sir Arthur, that hardly matters.” Tell me the truth. Please.

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” She looked back, the very picture of honesty and concern.

  Clearly, he was mad. He’d constructed her guilt out of nothing. Could she have acted that panic in the church? Would Susie betray him?

  Trick! howled the demons, fighting their chains. She said “trick”!

  He drew her into his arms. “Forget Sir Arthur. Unless, that is, he has done enough to desire punishment. In which case, we will hound him to hell together.”

  “No. Nothing so bad.” But she kept her face down against his chest.

  He gently turned it up, so he could see her eyes. “Then forget him. You need never even speak to him again.”

  Worry shadowed her, but surely not guilt enough. “But the twins are quite fond of him.”

  “Is it a fondness you want to encourage?”

  “No. But what am I to do if he calls?”

  “You will never be in.”

  “And if we encounter him?”

  “Cut him. In fact, I’ll have a word with him and make it clear that—”

  “No!”

  And he couldn’t dismiss the flash of wild panic in her eyes. Devil take it, was the man blackmailing her over some sin? Over her lack of virginity? That had to be it.

  He pushed her slightly away, but kept his hands on her shoulders. “What do you want me to do about Sir Arthur?”

  There was a hint of tears in the corners of her eyes, and he longed to wipe them away. She was honest. He’d pledge his soul that in all ways that mattered, she was honest.

  But frightened. Why?

  “Perhaps we can just go on as we are,” she said. “Probably Sir Arthur will not seek us out. And if he does, I’m sure he will not create any trouble.”

  Yes, the man was at the root of her concern.

  She was staring at something behind him, however, and he turned to see Brak’s snarling face peering up from beneath the bed. He hadn’t even realized the dog was here.

  “Come out of there, you idiot.”

  Brak moved forward perhaps an inch. No farther. How did the dog sense Sax’s devils so well?

  He looked back at his wife, his wife who surely wasn’t the villainess he’d thought.

  She raised her chin. “I thought we were going to . . .” Then her boldness clearly failed her, touchingly so.

  “You are not afraid?” If she’d lost her virginity, wouldn’t she be less eager? More? Did it matter?

  Her eyelids fluttered in confusion. “Should I be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She moved very slightly back. He supposed his reactions might seem odd if she were innocent. Or threatening if she were guilty.

  He took her hand to stop her from moving away. They had to deal with this. “If—through no fault of your own, my dear—if you were not untouched, you might—”

  She blinked at him for a moment, then snatched her hand free. “Not untouched! What sort of a woman do you think I am?”

  “A desperate one.” He could hear that his voice was calm, which was a minor miracle.

  He believed her.

  She was a virgin.

  But if she was a virgin, he was back to seeking the trick she had played.

  “Desperate?” she repeated, voice rising. “You think . . .”

  He couldn’t answer. He was fighting the beasts.

  What would he hate?

  Only one thing.

  In a butterfly life he had only one certainty, one firm purpose. Opposing the dragon. To the death. Refusing her any effect on his life. If there was the slightest danger that his wife was the dragon’s tool, he could not surrender to her.

  Not even with her here before him, willing and desirable.

  He’d built appetite in himself as much as in her, and now it flared, but he couldn’t. Not now. Now, it would be ruled by the beasts, poisoned by the dragon, whatever the truth of it all.

  With the slightest chance that he was wrong, he couldn’t let their first time be tainted like that. And he knew he could be wrong.

  He wasn’t sane on this subject.

  He brushed a loose tendril of hair from her smooth brow, willing his hand not to shake. “I’m sorry. It had occurred to me that your nervousness might be because you were not a virgin. I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

  Sax wondered what his frowning wife was seeing. She wasn’t a stupid woman and he knew he couldn’t seem entirely normal. “I am a virgin, Saxonhurst. It’s almost as if you would prefer that I not be.”

  “I don’t care.” That didn’t come out right, and he saw hurt flare in her eyes. He had to make that right, but couldn’t seem to find the words. This was only going to get worse. He had to get rid of her before something terrible happened.

  “I won’t blame you. Whichever . . . Damnation. The mood has gone awry, my dear. We have a lifetime. No need to hurry.”

  She regarded him steadily, the very picture of honor. “I did it, didn’t I? When I went to speak to Laura.”

  “Did what?”

  “Spoiled everything.” But then she shook her head. “No, it’s more than that. You sense my secrets, don’t you? You’re always talking about them.”

  “God, Minerva. Don’t—!” But then he looked into her eyes. “If you have secrets, tell me now. Tell me, and they will have no power.”

  “If I thought that was true, I would have told you already.”

  “So,” he said, heart racing with despair, “you think I will ‘hate’ your secrets.” Deliberately, he quoted her.

  And she flinched. “Some things are better not known.”

  “Surely you know the story of Pandora’s box. Merely knowing you have secrets starts the rot.”

  Her chin rose. “Do you not have any?”

  Oh, she was remarkable, this chance-found wife. “Yes.”

  “I’ll tell you my secrets if you’ll tell me yours.” After a moment, she smiled wryly. “See? I think marriage allows us a little privacy, does it not? Both of us.”

  When he said nothing, she turned away. “Good night, my lord.”

  Lust conquered. Lust and optimistic faith. He lunged after her, pulled her back hard against him, ignoring her shocked cry. Head down in the curve of her neck, he said, “To hell with secrets. Just tell me it’s nothing to do with the duchess.”

  “It’s nothing to do with the duchess.” She said it in a choked whisper, and he realized he had his arm tight around her throat. Appalled, he let her go.

  She staggered away and turned, pale with shock, to face him. Her hand went up to her throat. “Why should it be? To do with the duchess?”

  Dear God in heaven, he’d hurt her. He’d almost throttled her! The least he could give was honesty. “Because I couldn’t hate anything as I hate anything to do with her.”

  She shook her head. “You can’t hate an old woman, Saxonhurst. And hate hurts most the ones who hate.”

  He laughed at that, turning to seize his brandy glass and refill it. “Oh no, my dear. My hate hurts the dragon, despite her tough scales.” He drained the glass, feeling the rich, burning liquid scour away some of the dross.

  It brought back sanity. She’d told the truth. Every sense and instinct said that. He put down his glass and walked toward her, smiling his relief. “If your secret has nothing to do with her, we can be happy.” He reached gently for her. “I’m sorry if I frightene
d you.”

  She went stiff. “No.”

  He drew her in for a kiss. “Forgive me. Come, let me—”

  She twisted free. “No.”

  Laughing, he caught her and pulled her back. “Remember earlier. Let’s—”

  She hit him on the shoulder hard enough to shock. “No!”

  Dazed, he read certainty in her fierce lips and eyes.

  “No,” she said again. “Not like this. Not with distrust between us. Not with you hating your family so!”

  He let her go and rubbed where she’d hit. “Devil take you, woman, this all started with your secrets. Don’t throw distrust at me!”

  “But you’re the one who hates!”

  He moved away before he lost control of his raging body. “You’ve known since the beginning that I hate the duchess. Why throw it up now? An excuse for cold feet, my nervous little chicken? Or are you just a tease?”

  She turned as sallow as her dreadful dress. “I didn’t see how deep it went.”

  “You expect me to believe that you’re refusing me your bed just because I don’t get along with a relative?”

  “Because you hate your grandmother. It poisons everything!”

  He stared at her set chin and fierce eyes. Pure Ardent Reformer, damn her to Hades.

  He picked up the brandy again. “Well, Minerva, if you’re going to deny me your bed until I’m a sweet and loving grandson, this is going to be one hell of a marriage. Good night.”

  After a moment, she whirled out and slammed the door.

  Sax almost threw the crystal decanter, but had control enough to put it carefully down. It was a beautifully made piece of Waterford.

  Brak whined and disappeared back under the bed, wise dog.

  Sax chose the revolting maggot-white, sneering clock-figure and hurled it at the howling Amazons.

  Meg fled into her bedchamber and turned the key in the lock. A moment later she felt foolish. Her husband certainly wasn’t coming after her.

  Then, in the distance, she heard something shatter. She ran back to the door, thinking to offer help. But the noise was followed by another crash, then another. . . .

  Oh, dear lord! The children!

  Shaking with shock and fear, she opened the door to peer into the corridor. Deserted. Taking the opposite direction to her husband’s room and the terrifying racket, she picked up her skirts and raced up to the higher floor and her family.