The Reckless One

by Connie Brockway

  “Fia?” Rafe echoed, scowling.

  One of the swains—a handsome blond man whose name Favor could not recall but whose fetid breath she did—stepped forward. His lip curled in derision. “The Lady Fia Merrick. Lord Carr’s daughter. You do know Lord Carr, don’t you, fellow? For either he’s your host”—he turned to Fia, doubtless so he could witness the appreciation his next sally was sure to bring—“or your employer.”

  The other swain, a green lad who’d the previous night confessed to Favor his fervent desire “to be baptized in the ways of sin,” took his blond friend’s cue.

  He shot a quick, guilty glance in Favor’s direction before averting his eyes and addressing her. “Miss Donne, never say your taste for rural pleasures is what’s kept you from sampling a more cosmopolitan fare. I didn’t believe Tunbridge when he claimed it so, but”—he hid his mouth behind his hand—“I can scarce doubt my own eyes.”

  “You must have gone to some trouble to locate me, Lady Fia.” Favor tried once more to divert attention from Rafe. He’d been mad to walk into the center of one of Carr’s parties. If she didn’t think quickly, he’d be found out. “And in quite a hurry to do so. Lord Tunbridge left not ten minutes ago. Was there something imperative that you needed to see me about? Or were you eager to see us?” The innuendo was sharp and unflattering yet Fia barely glanced in her direction.

  The men, either too dull-witted to catch the inference or simply uncaring, were watching Rafe, who had gone mute—strange behavior from a man who hadn’t lacked for words a few minutes before. Favor studied him. But though at first glance one might have supposed that he, too, had fallen under Fia’s siren spell, there was nothing of desire in his gaze. It was searching and somehow sad.

  “Is this brute one of your employees, Lady Fia?” the youth asked. Favor held her breath, willing Rafe not to take umbrage.

  Fia answered without removing her gaze from Rafe. “No.”

  “You know him, then?” the blond man said.

  “I don’t know,” Fia said reflectively. “There’s something familiar about him.” She stepped forward.

  “Here now,” she said imperiously, “do you know me, sir?”

  Rafe hesitated. The sorrow intensified in his eyes. He shook his head. “No. I do not know you.”

  A shadow passed over Fia’s countenance, making her beauty suddenly tragic. Then it was gone and one high-curving brow rose haughtily.

  “I thought not. Nor do I know you.” She turned away but checked her step and turned her head. “Ah. I have it. I know where I’ve seen this fellow. Do you know my father?”

  An unpleasant smile curved Rafe’s wide lips. “Oh, yes. Him I know.”

  Fia nodded, clearly satisfied. “There you are. He is one of my father’s special guests and that is why we have not seen him. That, and his having apparently been”—her gaze passed to Favor—“preoccupied with other companions. Tell me, Miss Donne, does my father know you are dallying with his … guest? He won’t like it.”

  Favor’s heart beat thickly. Silently she prayed Fia would not reveal her interest in Carr to Rafe. Not yet. She needed time. Time to …

  “He doesn’t like sharing,” Fia went on. “Never got the knack of it.” Her three-point smile lit her smooth, youthful countenance and she motioned for her swains. They came like puppies to a milk bowl and she linked her arms to each, one on either side.

  “Come, gentlemen. Despite Miss Donne’s conviction that we were sneaking through the woods hoping to surprise her and this fellow in an indiscretion, I still desire to find the stag’s anders Mrs. Petrie claimed to have seen. Oh, yes. I heard your query, Miss Donne, and no, I did not come to see you.”

  She did not look back as she allowed her sniggering male companions to draw her away. In minutes they were lost to sight in the rocky, tree studded landscape.

  Favor, flooded with relief that Rafe had escaped more dangerous notice, sank to the grassy floor.

  “Why did she warn you about Carr?” Rafe asked, standing above her. “What did she mean?”

  Her recent relief died. She should tell him the truth: that she was here to become affianced to Lord Carr. She kept her head averted, steeling herself to say the words. And why shouldn’t she tell him? He already knew half of it: He’d accepted that she was seeking to make a brilliant match, to refill her clan’s coffers with a rich husband’s money. Why not Carr?

  Carr’s face rose in her mind’s eye. Other girls had wed men with far more years than Carr. It wasn’t age alone that stayed her tongue. It was the knowledge that she knowingly sought to take as her mate a man so evil.

  But Rafe wouldn’t know that. Rafe hadn’t stood beneath Carr’s lathered steed and stared up at him while he decided one’s fate with less thought than he’d give to drowning a kitten. Rafe hadn’t witnessed Carr’s satisfaction as he’d ridden off with his devil’s brood, leaving her alone in a blood-stained night rail among the dead and dying.

  Rafe wouldn’t know she maneuvered to become a monster’s bride.

  “Favor?”

  How sweet her name sounded coming from him. But he couldn’t match her Christian name with her surname. He didn’t know it. Just as she didn’t know his. And it didn’t matter.

  But it did. They’d followed their inclinations on instinct and emotion. Their relationship was a castle built on quicksand, doomed to disappear, swallowed by harsh realities and grim truth, surnames and pasts, obligations and penalties.

  But she could not see it fall apart yet. Not yet. She could cling to whatever she had of happiness, stretch it out a few more hours or days or …

  “I think she was talking about you, Rafe.”

  He’d squatted down on his heels beside her, his brow worried. “What?”

  “When she said Carr didn’t like sharing. I think she mistook you for one of the gamblers and I believe she meant Carr would not like sharing you with me. I might divert your attention from the tables.”

  “I see.” He’d accepted her he, too concerned about her to give it much heed. “Are you all right? Did those men offend you? I can—”

  “No!” She reached up, grabbing hold of his forearm. The muscle tightened beneath her grip. Sensual awareness ambushed her anew. She drew back her hand. “No. You can’t do anything. You have to keep hidden or you’ll be found out.”

  “No one will find me out.”

  “They almost did! You’re safe now only because of Fia Merrick’s certainty that no one could breach her father’s castle.”

  That wholly engaging lopsided smile once more graced his bold features, making boyish what was normally so unremittingly male and mature. “Thank you for caring.”

  She made an exasperated face. “It’s not as though I want to care.”

  His smile spread into a grin. “I’m sure of that.”

  He knelt down beside her on one knee and raised a hand to touch her cheek. She scooted backward on her seat. She could resist him if he didn’t touch her. But why would she want to res—

  Ah, no! she thought, that way lies disaster!

  No similar cautionary thought seemed to occur to Rafe. He’d eased forward, prowling toward her. The smile still teased the corners of his mouth, a lazy smile now and quite, quite predatory. As were the dark eyes and intent gaze belying that charming, casual smile. He looked like the proverbial wolf come to court the lamb.

  She gulped, scooted back again, slipped and landed flat on her back. Before she could scramble up he was over her, arms braced on either side of her shoulders, blotting out the sky with his breadth.

  He reached down and grinned as she flinched, but his hand moved harmlessly past the quivering agitation of her mouth and chest and tangled in her hair.

  Her pulse galloped. The memory of his kisses was so fresh she could still feel his lips.

  “Why would you conceal its true color?” The smile slowly vanished from his face. “Ah, yes. The would-be suitors like a dark lass.”

  He released the strand of black dyed hair
and in one easy movement rose to his feet. He extended his hand down to her. She wriggled up onto her elbows, gazing blankly at his hand. Disappointment quickly replaced her trepidation. So, there was to be no dalliance, then?

  “Let me help you up,” he said mildly, as though he’d never held her, caressed her, molded her body to his and his lips to hers.

  “No, thank you,” she said, aware she sounded disgruntled.

  As if he knew the reason for her glum expression he grinned. “Here, little falcon. I may not be one of Carr’s well-heeled roués but at least my character is not so poor that I would ply my slight amorous skills here for any chance passerby to view. Neither, do I think, would you want that.”

  “Of course not!” she huffed, dusting off nonexistent pieces of grass, avoiding his amused eyes. Damn the man’s arrogance!

  “I don’t know what momentary aberration clouded my judgment, but you may be well assured there shan’t be a second such lapse,” she said.

  She clambered to her feet, ignoring his offer of assistance and turned a quelling eye on him. She acknowledged with gratification his bow in deference to her terse statement.

  And missed the smile his deferential pose concealed.

  Chapter 22

  Favor meandered toward her suite, peeling back her riding gloves as she went. She’d been away from Rafe only an hour and already she missed him. Not that she’d ever allow him to know that. And truly it had been insanity to let him kiss her.

  Let him?

  An impish smile appeared on her face, born of the knowledge that he was attracted to her far beyond what he was willing to admit. And if she suffered from similar pride—or fear—well, she didn’t really care.

  She’d just arrived at her chambers when the door swung open. Muira seized her wrist and yanked her inside, slamming the door behind her. Startled, Favor jerked away from her, only then realizing that Muira wore none of the makeup that created Pala or Mrs. Douglas. Instead a livid red welt crossed one weathered cheek.

  “What happened?” Favor asked in concern.

  “What hasn’t happened?” Muira snapped in reply. “While you’ve been licking icing from your fingers beneath some tree, ‘Pala’ had an audience with Carr.”

  “Did he do that?”

  “Do what?” Muira asked irritably, and then, seeing the direction of Favor’s shocked gaze, she touched her cheek. She made a dismissive sound. “This is nothing. We have far graver matters to consider.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course not, you stupid girl,” Muira said. “I’ll tell you what you’ve done. Because you were too delicate, too sensitive to endure Carr’s attentions, he’s decided that he needs a love potion to make you more receptive.”

  “What!”

  “Yes. A love potion. Which I will provide him. And later, when he hands you a drink, my girl, you will take it and drink it and within an hour act like his Cheapside doxy.”

  “I will not,” Favor breathed, repelled.

  “Don’t worry,” Muira sneered. “You’ll have at least one day to practice puckering your lips. Carr made sure of that by marking me with this.” She touched her cheek. “No paint will cover it and you can’t appear unchaperoned. I’ll send word that you have the headache. Tomorrow you’ll be ready to play Carr’s cooing lovebird.”

  Every fiber of her body rebelled at the notion. “No,” she said. “I will not do it.”

  “By God, you will!” Muira’s hand darted out with the speed of a striking snake, slapping Favor hard across the face.

  Instinctively self-protective, Favor grabbed hold of Muira’s arms above the elbow, stopping a second blow. Stunned, Muira stared at Favor’s hands. Her mouth fell open.

  Instinct might have incited Favor’s action, anger caused her hands to tighten.

  “Listen, old woman,” she said in a low, hard voice. “Long ago, you assured me that simply showing interest in Carr would be enough. I’ve been able to carry my role this far only because I did not have to pretend I was smitten.

  “I would never be able to carry off such a farce and not all your slaps or threats can make it so. I can barely tolerate his breath on my cheek! If you force me to try, you, and only you, will be responsible for the failure of your plan. Do you understand me?” She shook Muira, rage and pain and regret overwhelming her.

  “Now,” she grated out. “I shall not drink any vile brew and pretend that that bastard fills me with lust. Do we understand each other?”

  Muira, eyes wide and unblinking, nodded. “But what shall we do? He trusts Pala to make him a potion. She dare not show up without one. And it must work or he will never again trust her.”

  Favor released Muira’s arm and stood back, as disgusted with her violence toward the elderly woman as with Muira herself. She wondered if Muira was even aware that more and more often lately she spoke of Pala as if the character were a real woman.

  “Make your potion,” she said. “Deliver it to Carr. He’ll have to combine it with drink or food he intends to give me. I shall find excuses not to eat or drink anything he offers me. At the same time, I’ll make clear that the only time he will be alone with Janet is after he marries me.”

  “You think this will work?” Muira said, her shock at Favor’s ferocity fading. She eyed the girl with hidden acrimony. She was the one who’d held the clan together for the last bleak decade, not this little uppity bitch. It was her plan that would return the McClairens to power and prestige, not this … child’s. She, Muira Dougal, was the dark heart of the clan. And now this barely weaned little slut challenged her.

  “Yes,” Favor said, unaware of the dark path of Muira’s thoughts.

  Muira, her gaze never leaving Favor’s hard, determined countenance, nodded her compliance. And made plans of her own.

  “… and if what yer da says is true, ye’ll be in London by Christmas,” Gunna prattled on, she who was not given to chatter. Fia continued watching Gunna’s reflection in the mirror hanging above the dressing table. The twisted old woman brushed through Fia’s hair, turning the curly mass into a rippling, shimmering veil of black. “I’m thinking ye’ll like London. What do ye think?”

  “How can I fail to like it? It’s not Wanton’s Blush,” Fia replied.

  “Aye,” Gunna said. “That’s for certain and right ye are to be putting this wretched place behind ye. It’s no but a mausoleum yer father’s guests use like a brothel.”

  “What lovely imagery,” Fia said, softly ironic. “You’ve such a gift for words, Gunna.”

  Gunna cackled. “Well, I have no love of the great gloomy place but”—her eye fixed on Fia—“I thought ye’d a bit of care fer it.”

  “I’d an interest,” Fia corrected. “I should have liked to have known the castle when it was called Maiden’s Blush. As a matter of curiosity.”

  Gunna did not reply, concentrating on a snarl. Moments passed. The setting sun filled the bedchamber with amber light. Outside, the bare limbs of the oak trees tapped lightly on the windows, like a lover come begging.

  “You know he’s here, don’t you?” Fia said.

  Gunna’s hand checked. “Who be that?”

  “Raine,” Fia replied, and turned in her chair to search Gunna’s face. The ravaged countenance gave little away. It never had. “You knew he was here, didn’t you?”

  “Aye,” Gunna admitted.

  Fia nodded as she turned back around, facing the mirror. She’d thought so. And that Gunna, whom she’d always trusted, had kept this from her caused only a small prick of anguish. She was used to being disillusioned. “When did you find out?”

  “Yesterday. He’s been here some weeks and me never knowing, nor anyone else neither.”

  “How enterprising of him. Not even Father?”

  “No. I dinna tell ye because he did not want ye to know and I wouldna have ye hurt by his seeming indifference, though I do believe it’s not indifference as much as mistrust.” She caught Fia’s eye. “He doesna know ye, Fia,” she said fl
atly. “And what he remembers is that ye were yer father’s shadow.”

  “He’s quite right on both counts,” Fia replied calmly. “He has no reason to show interest in me or to trust me.”

  “Do not act callous for my poor benefit, Fia Merrick. ’Tis a waste of a good performance. I know ye better than that.”

  “Do you?” Fia whispered suddenly. Her voice was that of a lost little girl unable to hide her wistful hope that deep within she really was decent and honorable and … good, when she knew how unlikely that to be. She bowed her head, ashamed of such emotions.

  Gunna’s hand hovered briefly above Fia’s bowed head, hesitated and was retracted. She cleared her throat. “How did ye find out about Raine?”

  Relieved that Gunna would not pursue other topics, Fia answered. “He was on the picnic this afternoon. Attending Miss Donne.”

  “Miss Donne?”

  “Thomas Donne’s sister.”

  “Aye. I remember ye remarking ye were surprised by yer father’s interest in her. Ye thought it odd as he hadn’t paid much attention to her until the last week or so.”

  “Yes. Apparently not only my father but my brother is interested in Miss Donne. The Donnes hold some sort of fatal magnetism for us Merricks.” She regretted the words as soon as she’d said them. Even Gunna did not know exactly how much Thomas Donne had hurt her. She would just as soon not hint that the injury she’d sustained still bled.

  She could still hear Thomas’s voice, carrying above the gales blowing up from the sea to the garden where he’d led Rhiannon Russell for privacy. It had carried, too, over the garden wall where she’d knelt, listening:

  “This isn’t simply a rather nasty family. It’s evil.”

  “Carr killed his first wife.”

  “Merrick skewered a man’s hand just for cheating.”

  “His brother raped a nun.”

  “They are all as bad as their sire.”

  And finally, the mortal thrust,

  “Fia is nothing but Carr’s whore, groomed to fetch the largest marriage settlement possible.”

  Her entire body jerked in physical repudiation of the memory. She closed her eyes, hating that it still had such power, hating more that she, who’d spent her life building walls, was so vulnerable in this one last area. Once she’d loved Thomas Donne. But now, as with all love betrayed, she hated him with surpassing fervor.