They sounded like the truth.
She drew a deep, steadying breath. “I will accept your terms. I will stay with you until your name is clear. I really have no choice. But I want you to understand that I’ve made a commitment to another man, one who wants me. Our marriage has been in name only for seven years, and it will remain that way until we are divorced.”
Her words seemed to blaze a path across John’s soul. But he had absolutely no intention of relinquishing his hold over her, though every word she spoke was true.
Nor did this proud woman standing before him with her hand fisted tight over her wedding ring bear any resemblance to the frightened young girl he’d left in their marriage bed. Moonlight turned Mallory’s wild, wind-tossed hair to silver and highlighted the defiance in her pert, fine-boned features. She looked like a night-sprite, but she was strong and brave. John felt an inordinate pride in this wife of his. A man could do far worse.
“Then we’re agreed,” he said curtly. “But I insist upon one more condition.”
Her expressive eyes grew cautions. Did she realize they revealed every emotion passing through her mind? he wondered. “And what condition is that?” she asked warily.
“That you wear my ring.”
She raised the hand holding the ring up to her chest protectively. “What of my conditions? You won’t expect me to…” Her voice trailed off, but John knew what she meant.
“Share my bed?”
She blushed so furiously he could almost feel the heat. She nodded.
A surge of anger rose inside him. “I’m not some monster. I won’t force myself on you.” He took a step away from her. “Nor am I asking such a very large thing. After all, you’ve been wearing it for years. A few more weeks won’t matter.”
“Weeks?”
“Or days. However long it takes to track Louis down.”
“And how will you do that?”
“I don’t know, Mallory, but I will,” he said, letting his irritation show. “And I promise that the minute I find him, you may give me the ring back and you will be free to go.”
She opened her fist and looked at the ring in her palm.
“It’s a small gesture, Mallory. Not really significant.”
She lifted her gaze to meet his. “Yes, it is,” she denied quickly and then looked away, as if embarrassed, before adding softly, “Or it was at one time. I waited for you, John. I wanted to be a wife to you, until finally, I grew tired of waiting.”
A wealth of meaning was contained in those words.
Then, slowly, with deliberate movements, Mallory placed the ring on her finger.
John wanted to give a shout of victory, but he kept his expression solemn. He held out his hand for her.
Mallory looked at his outstretched fingers. Tentatively, she placed her hand in his.
For a swift second, John took solace in this small triumph on a night of many reversals. He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and led her back to the wagon, where Peterson stood waiting.
For the first time, he noticed the graceful length of her fingers and the calluses. His wife was accustomed to hard work. Furthermore, she wasn’t soft and round, like so many other women he had known. She was lithely muscular, with tight, high breasts and strong, smooth arms.
He had no intention of letting her divorce him.
Remembering their wedding night, John gently rubbed his finger against the scar on his thumb. He now had a mission, a goal. He silently vowed he would recover his fortune and save his marriage. He would woo and win his wife. His pride demanded it.
Of course, the one thing that could make Mallory angrier than she was now over the loss of her precious Craige Castle would be to learn that after seven years of marriage, she was still a virgin.
John realized he’d set an impossible task for himself, and he wasn’t anticipating that one particular moment of truth when she found out what had really happened on their wedding night. Turning himself over to the Magistrate and debtor’s prison might prove easier.
Chapter 6
Last night you slept on a goosefeather bed,
With the sheet turn’d down so bravely, O!
And tonight you’ll sleep in a cold open field,
Along with the wraggle taggle gipsies O!
“The Wraggle Taggle Gipsies, O!”
Major Peterson drove them a good distance out of London until they came to a small posting inn. By then, it was two in the morning and Mallory was hungry and exhausted. To please her, John roused a groom and paid him good coin to return the undertaker’s wagon to one “Frederick Breward, Undertaker.”
While Major Peterson made those arrangements, John escorted Mallory to the inn. “Are you sure Major Peterson won’t come to harm because he helped us?” she asked John.
He shook his head. “Peterson’s father is the Duke of Tyndale. It’s difficult to hang a duke’s son, even a disowned one like Victor. The undertaker will be more than pleased to have his wagon and horses back and will spend the rest of his days telling of his near brush with the wicked Lord and Lady Craige.”
“Either that, or he’ll contact the magistrate and add another crime to your growing list.”
He shot her a quick grin before his expression turned to one of concern. “You’re limping.”
“I’ve rubbed a blister on my foot.” Mallory confessed. “Tell me, why did Major Peterson’s father disown him?”
“Why?” John repeated blankly.
Mallory looked over her shoulder at the silhouette of the noble major talking to the stable hand. “He seems everything a nobleman should be.”
“And what exactly is that?”
Mallory glanced at her husband. Was it her imagination, or did he sound testy—jealous, even? She smiled, ready to give him a bit of his own back for all his dalliances with women. “Why, he’s brave, loyal, manly—”
“Manly? Why? Because he stole an undertaker’s rig? Believe me, Mallory, any fool can nab an undertaker’s wagon. The dead don’t run fast.”
She laughed, and he laughed with her. “In all honesty, John, it took a remarkable man to come to our rescue. Why would a father disown such a son?”
“Because Peterson married the wrong person, in his father’s eyes.”
“The wrong person?”
“Peterson’s wife was a young Spanish woman. Her family was noble but penniless. Upon hearing of the impending nuptials, Peterson’s father delivered an ultimatum which Victor wisely ignored.”
John’s voice held a warmth Mallory hadn’t heard in it before. “Did you know his wife?”
“Yes.”
“And you believe he did the right thing by defying his father?”
John didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
It was on the tip of Mallory’s tongue to ask if he wished he had defied his father over their marriage, but they’d entered the inn and the moment for such confidences had passed.
A servant met them at the door. “We need a light supper, and I’d like it served in a private room,” John said, his tone lordly.
The servant scowled, his glance taking in Mallory’s windblown hair and the ripped sleeves in John’s jacket. A flash of gold coin between John’s fingers brought about an astounding change in the man’s attitude.
“It will have to be a cold supper, sir,” the servant said, pocketing the coin. “Will that be all right with ye?”
“That will be fine,” John answered.
A moment later, they were escorted to a private room with a small hearth and a low ceiling. The servant lit two candles while John had a few quiet words with him. Mallory took stock of their surroundings. The room appeared clean enough, although the whitewashed walls were stained with age and the smoke of many fires. A table and four chairs occupied the center area.
She sank gratefully down on a hard seat, her back to the door. She was exhausted. With a sigh of relief, she slipped off her shoes.
John sat in the chair directly next to hers. “Let me see the blister.
”
Mallory tucked her toes under the hem of her skirt. “No, I’m not going to let you look at my feet.”
“Why not?”
“Because they are my feet and I don’t want you touching them.”
He raised a questioning eyebrow.
Mallory elaborated. “Touching someone’s feet is very…well, very familiar.”
“Oh.” He drew the syllable out, then smiled, the kind of smile that could rob a woman of all common sense—that was, if she wasn’t a practical woman like her. “Mallory, if I wanted to be familiar”—he gave the word the same indignant inflection she had used—” it wouldn’t be your feet I would be trying to touch.”
There was blatant sensuality in his husky tone. He rested his hands on either side of her chair.
Mallory leaned back. She’d never heard the like, or at least, directed toward her. It set her pulse to racing.
“Besides,” he said, “I’ve practically walked the length of Europe with the army. I know a little something about feet, and I know that if a blister isn’t attended to, it can fester—” He made an ominous face before adding sinisterly, “Or worse.”
“Worse?” she managed to croak out.
“Worse,” he said solemnly. “How do you think my butler Sergeant Richards lost his leg?”
“Not from a blister.”
His eyes opened wide, as if he were offended by her doubts. “It started small.” He pinched two fingers in the air to indicate an inch. “But before Richards knew it, the blister grew wider and wider—” He spread both palms apart to signal the size. “—Until it ate up his leg.” His hands reached down for Mallory’s foot, pulled it up, and set it in his lap, almost tumbling her off her chair in the process.
Mallory grabbed hold of the seat with both hands to keep her balance. To her horror, the bottom of her foot rested against his well-muscled thigh, her big toe peeking out a hole in her stocking. Her cheeks flamed with color.
He ran a hand over the top of her foot, pressing it against his thigh, then lightly touched her exposed toe. “It seems I need to buy my wife new stockings.” The muscles in his leg tightened beneath her heel.
Her errant pulse beat even faster.
“You don’t need to buy me anything,” she denied, her own voice as breathlessly husky as his. She tried to yank her foot back, but his grip was too firm.
“Tsk, tsk,” he cautioned her. “And I need to buy you shoes. Kid slippers are not the best shoes for running through London.”
“I hadn’t planned on running through London when I put them on.” She forced herself to overcome her initial embarrassment. John would grow tired of nursing her, just as he had grown tired of her on their wedding night—
Her tart thoughts melted into a sigh of unimaginable Bliss. John was massaging her foot. Her hands gripping the chair seat relaxed their hold. Who would have thought such a simple thing as a foot rub could do this to a woman? Or was the magic in John’s hands? Her bones seemed to be turning to jelly.
He raised his eyes to meet hers. “Does it feel better?”
Everything felt better, Mallory wanted to tell him, but she couldn’t speak. She could barely breathe.
“We need to put a plaster on you, too.”
“Plaster?” she repeated dumbly.
“For your blister.”
“Oh, yes.” She found herself smiling at him. “That would be nice.”
The golden glow of the candles created a circle of light around them against the darkness of the room. A lock of his hair had fallen over one eye and he looked relaxed and roguishly disheveled. “I also asked the servant to see if he could arrange a hairbrush and piece of ribbon for your hair. He thought he might.”
“A hairbrush?” Mallory reached a hand up to the tangled mess, genuinely touched by his thoughtfulness. She’d always considered herself immune to male charm—but she was feeling far from unaffected now. However, John’s appeal had less to do with his rugged masculinity and startling blue eyes than with his protective nature and the small considerations of a hairbrush, a piece of ribbon, and this incredible foot massage.
She was quite tired. The day had been the most stressful of her life. For the first time since she’d been evicted from Craige Castle, she allowed herself to relax. She eased down in the chair and closed her eyes—
John’s palm ran up her calf, moving up under her skirts to her thigh.
Her eyes flew open. She shot to her feet, snatching her skirts from him. “What are you doing?”
John met her indignant stare with an expression of complete innocence. “I was going to remove your stocking to have a better look at the blister.”
“I’m not about to let you untie my—” She stopped, too modest to mention the word aloud.
“Garters?” he supplied helpfully.
Mallory’s face turned hot with outrage. “Oh, don’t attempt your rakish ways with me, John. My garters were only the beginning.” Mallory placed her hands on her hips, lifting her chin with pride. “Let me inform you that I’m not like your other women. I will not be treated like some milkmaid and tumbled on the floor with little more than a wink from you. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, I do,” John said readily. “And I imagine Peterson and the servant do, too. Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”
Mallory whirled around to find Major Peterson and the servant, holding a tray of food, standing in the doorway. She turned on John, furious with him and her own culpability. “Is there no place around you that is private?” she said between clenched teeth. “Everything, everything, between us seems to be played out in front of an audience!”
“I’ve been the soul of discretion,” John countered amiably. “You’re the one who keeps blurting things out.”
Mallory feared she would explode, she was so angry.
“I should have knocked…louder,” Major Peterson said self-consciously.
“Nonsense,” John told him, ignoring the tension radiating from Mallory. “Come in and have a seat. And you,” he said to the servant, “were you able to get the brush and ribbon for my lady?”
“Aye, my lord.” The portly man set the tray on the table and reached around his back where he’d stuck the handle of a brush and a length of black ribbon in his belt. “I hope these will do,” he said, holding them out.
John nodded to Mallory, who stood apart from the men, her fists clenched at her side. “Mallory?”
“Fine, thank you.” She meant the words, too. In spite of her anger, she couldn’t wait to straighten her hair.
The servant gave her a short bow. “Then perhaps my lady would like to come with me? There’s a small private room for the ladies just down this hall. Or perhaps you would rather eat first?”
“I don’t have an appetite,” Mallory said. She shot an angry glance at John to let him know he was the cause. “Let us go now.” She slipped on her shoes and followed the man from the room, limping from the blister with every other step.
John and Peterson came to their feet as she left the room and watched the door shut behind her. Peterson poured two glasses of ale.
“You know, she’s right about one thing,” Peterson said, offering a glass to John.
“And what is that?”
“She is different from any other woman you’ve known.”
“In what way?” John sat, taking a thoughtful sip of the amber-colored ale.
“She’ll not come running just because you crook your finger.” He shook his head. “No, you’re going to have to work for this one, John, and I’m going to enjoy every moment of it.”
John pulled a leg off a cold roasted chicken. “I never knew you to be a sadist, Victor.”
Peterson laughed. “Hours ago, I was astounded to learn you were married. Now, after hearing the two of you together, I believe it. Your Mallory reminds me of my Liana.”
John was surprised. Peterson rarely mentioned Liana by name.
Peterson smiled, the expression not reaching his eyes. “I miss her, John. I
feel as if I’ve lost my soul.”
John didn’t know what to say in the face of such raw pain. He’d never felt that way for another person, ever.
At that moment, Mallory returned to the room. The gentlemen rose.
The plaster had done the trick and she walked without limping. She’d also washed the dirt and muck off her face and hands, and her unruly hair was brushed to a high gloss and pulled back into a thick, neat braid tied off by the ribbon.
No one could mistake her breeding now, even in that dowdy dress, John thought. His chest swelled with pride.
He filled a plate for her, selecting the choicest pieces of meat and a thick slice of fresh bread. Peterson offered his chair and sat down on the one next to John.
John envied the easy grace with which Peterson performed the small gallantry. Because of his own history—years of male boarding schools and living with the whispers concerning the scandal of his birth—John felt he lacked the social graces needed to be a true gentleman. He wondered how Mallory would rank him and Peterson if she had to choose between them.
Mallory daintily spread a drop of mustard on a piece of chicken. “Have you decided what we are to do now?” she asked John.
He admired her direct approach. “That’s what we must discuss. I’ve been thinking of what the landlady said. Louis isn’t leaving the country.”
“How can you be sure?” she asked. “If I had stolen someone’s money, especially someone like yourself, my first action would be to go as far away as possible.”
“No, not my Uncle Louis,” John said. “He detests foreigners and anything that isn’t English. He can barely abide even the Scots! He would no sooner bask under an Italian sun that pluck out his right eye.” He leaned his arm on the table. “What I suspect is that he hoped to force me to leave the country.”
“But he’s your uncle,” Mallory protested. “Why would he wish to see you ruined?”
“So he could keep my money. I’m certain he has it all. Or at least, I hope he does.” John sat back. “Louis was my father’s junior by almost fifteen years. He’s a flamboyant man, completely different from my father. I remember overhearing the two of them arguing over Louis’s expenses. But Louis and I got along well. I trusted him, especially since the two of us were often at odds with Father, and I paid him a handsome wage to be my man of business. I’ve been played for a fool.”
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