“I…well, surely you know that I didn’t mean what I said in the dining room. It was only for Ogden—to make things look convincing. I really didn’t mean it at all.”
Donovan glanced over at the bed, Corisande apparently having calmed herself enough to drop the covers to her chin. “No?”
His tone was so heavy with sarcasm that Corisande bristled, but she made herself relax, imagining he was simply offended that she’d commented about him making a mess.
And he had made a mess! She had never seen anything like it, water splashing all around him, hitting the wall, cascading onto the floor and soaking the carpet. She hated to think what he would do with a whole tubful of water…but, of course, she had no intention of ever seeing him sitting in a tub or watching Donovan dry himself for that matter. She averted her eyes as he stripped off his sodden shirt and began to towel his chest and under his arms, Corisande even going so far as to roll over so she was facing the other way.
“That’s probably a good idea. I wouldn’t want to offend you while I undress.”
Stiffening again at his sarcasm, Corisande rolled back over, a retort ready to fly—and then wished she’d stayed put facing the opposite wall. Donovan was standing with his back to her, a back so broad and powerful and incredibly contoured with sinewy muscles that she couldn’t help looking at him, although she told herself that she should turn away at once.
She stared almost transfixed as he bent over to tug off his riding boots, his muscles flexing, his arms looking strong and powerful, too, and she certainly knew that to be true. She’d felt them around her more than once; why, even tonight when he’d pulled her against him in the drawing room, Donovan’s body lean and so hard—
“Perhaps I should stand behind the screen if you’re going to ogle me.”
She gasped to find Donovan studying her, his expression as dry as his tone although his eyes held a disturbing hint of what she had seen in them before when he’d been staring at her. “I—I wasn’t ogling you. I was looking at the mess you made, is all. I can just imagine what Ellen Biddle is going to think tomorrow morning—”
“That’s not the only mess she’ll find.” He cut her off cryptically, his hands moving to his breeches. “I sleep naked, in case you’d like to know. So you might want to—”
“Naked?” Corisande half screeched, forgetting her resolve to play the happy bride altogether as she clutched the covers against her breasts. “You mean…last night, you…no sleeping wear at all?”
“None. Never worn the stuff. Too confining.”
“Too confining?” Her voice had again become a high-pitched squeak, but that was the last of Corisande’s worries as she rolled over so fast that she nearly tumbled from the bed. Clutching the edge of the mattress, she tugged the bedclothes well over her ears, but that didn’t prevent her from hearing Donovan’s every slightest movement, an intense flush of heat racing from her scalp to her toes as he pulled off his breeches and tossed them to the floor.
She squeezed her eyes shut as he walked about the room, first dousing lamps and then stoking the fire, her heart beginning to pound.
And when he came toward the bed, his side of the bed, and yanked back the covers, she thought she might choke, her breath strangled so in her throat. Oh, Lord, what she would give for a glass of sherry now—no, the whole decanter! She remembered nothing of this last night; she doubted she would have even considered coming out from behind that screen if she’d known he had stripped down to his skin.
She waited and waited, feeling as if she were turning blue while Donovan had yet to climb into bed. Then she heard a sharp intake of breath and a low curse, and her eyes flared wide. What in heaven’s name…?
She rolled over onto her back despite the sudden compression of the mattress, crying out and sitting bolt upright as a knife blade flashed in the firelight. “Donovan! Dear God, what—”
“Shh, woman, I’m not trying to murder you, if that’s what you’re thinking…just making things look as if you’ve been properly bedded—damn! I cut too deep.”
Corisande heard another sharp intake of pain, understanding flooding her as Donovan leaned on one knee over the center of the bed, the room not so dark that she couldn’t see blood dripping onto the clean white sheet from where he’d slit the inside of his forearm. Oh God, she’d seen such a pool before when she’d gone with Oliver’s wife, Rebecca, to help tend to their daughter Sophie after her wedding night. But then there had been so much more blood and ugly purple bruises and tears, so many tears—
“Get me a towel, Corie, before I make this look more a pig slaughter than a deflowering—dammit, quick! I’m bleeding all over the place.”
Corisande was already scrambling from the bed, nearly tripping in her haste to reach the washbasin.
“Careful, woman! I don’t want you bumping your head again. Then we’ll really have a mess on our hands.”
She grabbed a sodden towel since she couldn’t find a dry one, and rushed back to the bed, Donovan sitting at the edge with his hand clamped over the wound. “Here, let me,” she commanded urgently, sitting down beside him and pressing the towel to his flesh when he removed his fingers. “Turn your arm upright—that’s it. That should help the bleeding to stop.”
She sat there for long moments as neither one of them spoke, Donovan wincing as she gradually released the pressure. At last she decided she could lift the towel, the wound still oozing but not bleeding as profusely as before. She pressed gingerly around the area with her fingertips, marveling at the muscular strength she felt in the slightest flex of his arm.
“I doubt you’ll need a bandage. Does it hurt very much?” She glanced up when Donovan didn’t answer to find him staring at her, their faces only inches apart. She gulped, suddenly feeling quite woozy inside, her gaze falling from his eyes to his lips, sensual, masculine lips so close to hers she could feel the heat of his breath upon her. “I…said does it hurt—”
“Not anymore. You’ve a very gentle touch, Lady Donovan. Where did you learn to nurse so capably?”
His low, husky voice brought chills to her spine, strange, wonderful chills that made her shiver and yet feel quite warm all at the same time. “F-Frances, I suppose. She’s seen to all our scrapes and bumps, and I’ve helped at birthings too. We’ve only one doctor in the parish, and the tinners could rarely pay…” She gave a tiny shrug, inhaling softly when her shoulder rubbed against Donovan’s. “It’s common sense, really.”
“Not at all. Birthings, helping your father, helping out at the church, the poorhouse, the schoolhouse, watching after your sisters, hollering down mine shafts—”
“Mine shafts? Who told—?”
“Henry Gilbert, for one.” Donovan’s voice grew even huskier as he brought his face closer, causing Corisande’s breath to snag in her throat. “You’re quite amazing, Corie. Bloody amazing. Is there anything you can’t do?”
Corisande had no voice to answer, Donovan’s mouth so near to touching hers that she found herself closing her eyes and tilting her head, every part of her suddenly aching to believe that she had truly heard sincerity in his voice. But she no sooner felt the stirring pressure of his lips upon hers than she started as if stung— Dear Lord, what was she doing? What was she thinking? With Donovan’s gift for sarcasm? He was mocking her, not praising her. Mocking her! Oh, she could already hear his taunting voice…” You said you wanted a good-night kiss, didn’t you?”
“No, don’t you dare kiss me!” Her hoarse cry sounded like a thunderclap in the room as she pushed away from him, Corisande just as horrified that she could have been sitting there nearly atop Donovan’s lap, and he was naked—wholly naked—while she was practically naked too!
“Corie?”
“No, I don’t want to hear any more! You’re mean and cruel and—and I hate you!” Feeling stupid and so ridiculously naïve, she lurched to her feet only to jump in surprise when something hard clattered to the floor, barely missing her toes. She looked down but then backed away, s
aying brokenly through the tears swimming in her eyes, “I—I don’t like knives. You’ll have to pick up the damned thing yourself!” Then she spun and ran around to the other side of the bed, never more grateful that it was so huge. She climbed in and pulled the covers tightly over her head, biting her clenched hand and feeling a total fool that she could be crying.
Donovan sat at the edge of the bed for a long, long time, shaking his head and wondering what the hell had just happened. He could hear muted sniffles under the bedclothes, but eventually they quieted, Corisande, he imagined, having fallen asleep.
Eventually he lay down, too, after returning the knife to the bottom wardrobe drawer where he kept his pistol. But he couldn’t sleep, instead listening to the mounting wind whistle and howl outside and glancing from time to time at the still, shrouded figure on the opposite side of the bed. She looked more like an Egyptian mummy underneath all those bedclothes than his temporary wife.
Hell and damnation.
Women.
Chapter 20
Men!
If it wasn’t enough that Donovan continually occupied Corisande’s mind, this past interminable week had proved a trial like nothing else she’d known, now that Oliver Trelawny’s whereabouts plagued her, too, and she was growing more worried by the hour.
Staring out the window into the pitch-dark night, Corisande hugged her arms to her breasts as she looked for the signal that she’d been awaiting for three days now. It wasn’t ten o’clock yet, though she still couldn’t help looking.
Corisande sighed and glanced over her shoulder at the small gilt clock above the mantel. No, only quarter to ten. Fifteen minutes yet to wonder and worry if Oliver and the twenty-man crew of the Fair Betty were back safe and sound from France. Lord, what could have kept them?
Oliver hadn’t sailed out early last Wednesday morning as he’d planned, the gale he’d so welcomed becoming a fierce spring storm that had churned up the sea and slashed the Cornish coast with torrential rain, delaying his departure until Friday before dawn. Those two days for Corisande had been the worst, when she’d been cooped up in the house with Donovan because the weather was simply too foul to venture out.
Oh, he’d left her alone. He’d left her alone all week, in fact, those first several rainy days by staying in his library much of the time and saying he had work to do. So she’d played the agreeable wife and left him alone, too, spending her time reading dusty old novels and exploring the house with Ellen Biddle.
It hadn’t been her idea, but the housekeeper had seemed eager to get started on what yet needed to be done around the place, and she wanted Corisande’s opinions. Of course, Corisande knew nothing about the latest styles in drapery and upholstery fabric and the best ways of arranging furniture, but she tried to show suitable interest. Yet all the while she couldn’t help thinking again of how within weeks every room would be shuttered and closed, the house settling once more into dust and disuse.
Oddly enough, the thought had bothered her. Everything seemed to be bothering her, so she tried to keep such troublesome musings out of her head.
Like the fact that Donovan rarely spoke to her. No, not even in front of the servants, which had made her task of appearing content all the more difficult. He was especially silent at night when that dreaded time came for them to adjourn to bed, but thankfully much of the awkwardness had been eased straightaway when he’d gruffly said it made no difference in whose room she was found sleeping in the morning now that she had been “properly bedded.” Since then, he had made no other reference to that disconcerting night, clearly not wishing to discuss it further, and neither had she.
That bothered her, too. Not that he wouldn’t discuss what had happened, but that it had happened at all.
Oh, Lord, she still couldn’t believe she’d come so close to allowing Donovan to kiss her. He might have done so before, but this time had been different, disturbingly different. She didn’t like to admit it, but she’d wanted him to kiss her. At least for a split second before she’d come to her senses.
It was all so ridiculous. What a stupid fool! To think she had believed for even an instant that Donovan might have spoken sincerely—that sarcastic, self-centered cad! Then her getting so upset, crying even. Bloody ridiculous!
Her face blazing at the memory, Corisande looked outside again, but she saw nothing, only inky blackness. Sighing more heavily this time, she began to pace although she didn’t stray very far from the windows.
When the storm had finally passed and she’d been able to go about her business, she had felt as if she’d been released from prison. But not before Donovan had insisted on Friday morning that she first see the document he had drafted saying the tinners would continue to be paid fairly no matter the state of his personal affairs or his whereabouts, which had bothered her too.
And it bothered her that she should be bothered! So Donovan could think of nothing but annulling their marriage and returning to Spain. Good riddance! And where was Oliver, that grizzled rogue? The Fair Betty should have been sighted late Saturday, and here it was Tuesday night…
Corisande swatted at the blue velvet draperies when another glance outside proved fruitless; with another ten minutes to kill, she needed something to clear her mind.
One bright spot in the week had been a letter from Lindsay, posted the very day Corisande had written to her about Donovan, so Lindsay had known nothing yet about her temporary marriage. Held over in Helston because of the storm and delivered to the parsonage on Friday, the letter had been raced over to her at the church, where she was working on the accounts, by a breathless and giggling Estelle, an indignant Linette, and Marguerite hard on her heels.
“A letter, Corie! From Lindsay!”
“I had it first, too, but Estelle took it from me,” Linette had groused, scowling at her younger sister only to glance back pleadingly at Corisande. “Remember, Corie? You said we would read it together—”
“And me!” Estelle had chimed.
“Me too!” Appearing as eager as the others, Marguerite had looked expectantly at the letter, her lovely brown eyes alight. “I want to hear about London, Corie. Go on, open it!”
So Corisande had done so, perusing the letter very quickly to make sure there was no reference to Donovan and their sham marriage before she’d read it aloud, delighting in every word. She went to the writing desk now and retrieved that same letter, smiling to herself as she plopped onto the bed.
Suddenly it felt as if Lindsay were there in the room with her, breathlessly recounting everything she’d seen since she’d gone to London, her somewhat reckless handwriting spilling forth in an animated tumble as lively as her speech…
Oh, Corie, I can hardly believe I’m here! So many things to tell you—where to begin? London is so very, very grand, and so much bigger than I’d expected! I’ve never seen so many people—ah, but more of that later!
Aunt Winifred is a dear, though terribly cowed by Olympia, poor thing. It seems she received reams of instructions on where I’m to go, how I’m to deport myself, how I’m to dress, the people I must meet—what silly rubbish! You know I hope to strike out on my own, but Aunt Winnie is quite excitable, even more than I remember—Lord, her lady’s maid, Matilda, doesn’t dare leave the house without smelling salts in hand! So I must take care—oh, Corie, you won’t believe what I’ve to tell you!
Some things here are so strange. I’ve seen gentlemen in corsets! Yes, corsets, their waists cinched so tight they look like plump-breasted pigeons, and their collars so starched they can no easier look to the left and right than if their necks were encased in plaster….
Corisande let the letter drop to her lap, imagining what it must be like to see such startling things.
Of course, she didn’t regret that she hadn’t gone to London; she would never have met Donovan and…and for heaven’s sake, that wasn’t the point either! She wouldn’t have been able to help the tinners on such a vast scale if not for Donovan, and that was virtually the only th
ing for which she had to be thankful about meeting him!
Corisande focused once more on Lindsay’s letter, but she felt all bothered again and hardly in the mood to read. And she still had five minutes to go, she saw irritably as she glanced at the clock. Lord, if that signal didn’t come tonight—
“Corie, may I come in?”
She froze, her gaze flying to the sitting room door, a door she’d left pointedly closed all week as a clear sign that Donovan was not welcome. He hadn’t made any move to disturb her until now—bloody hell, why tonight of all nights? It was almost ten o’clock and, oh dear, she’d retired early, claiming a headache, and here she was dressed in her sturdiest clothes and ready to go out at the first sign…
Corisande had only a moment to leap into bed, still holding Lindsay’s letter, fully clothed, shoes and all, and yank the covers under her chin before she heard Donovan enter the room. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her heart raced. She made no move at all as he crossed to the bed, but she knew at once he didn’t believe she was sleeping when she heard him sigh heavily.
“You haven’t bothered to douse the lamps, Corie, and I heard you pacing just a few moments ago. You can’t have fallen asleep that fast.”
She didn’t readily open her eyes, moaning instead. “Of…of course I was pacing. My head hurts so…”
“Then I should have Ellen Biddle bring you a pinch of laudanum in some tea—”
“No, no, I don’t want any laudanum!” Realizing that she’d half shouted, Corisande tried to control her annoyance as she stared up at Donovan. “I mean, my headache isn’t all that terrible, but it does hurt. I—I’m sure I’ll be fine if you’d allow me to sleep. Would you please turn out the lamps for me, Donovan?”
He seemed taken aback by her docile request although quite reluctant, too, to leave her side, the tension in his body plain to see. “Actually, Corie, I thought we should talk–”
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