Lord of Mistrust (Trysts and Treachery Book 4)

by Elizabeth Keysian

  He roused a little when the missing horses and litter were returned and directed that they should be sent to the driver’s widow, along with a purse of gold from his own pocket, and his deepest condolences. He could not rid himself of a sickening feeling of guilt over the man’s loss. Had he not embroiled Chloe in this affair, the litter would not have been attacked, and the man would even now be sitting under his own roof, taking his ease. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

  There was no sign of Chloe. He put a few further plans into action, then dined alone, assuming she must be asleep. He was desperate to see her, but didn’t want to sully her reputation any further with his presence.

  “Robert?”

  The soft voice had him leaping to his feet. He bowed deeply. “Mistress Emmerson. Chloe.”

  She looked well, quite beautiful, in fact, despite the deep bruise where that vile Spaniard had hit her. His fists curled, and he found he could not regret disposing of the man who had so trespassed.

  She stood before him, fingers awkwardly entwined. How he longed to hold her and make her forget her fears! But he contented himself with the possession of her fingers, which he conveyed to his lips.

  “How is your arm?”

  “Sore.” Bless her, for caring about him. “But it is of little matter. I don’t want to alarm you, my sweet, but I’ve asked for men to guard the inn tonight. One will be below your window, so be not afeared if you see him skulking in the shadows. Let us hope Tilshead’s men will apprehend the remaining villain ere long. I know I shall breathe the easier for it.”

  She transfixed him with her hazel gaze, and his heart raced.

  “Thank you, Robert.”

  He loved the sound of his name on her lips. Had the circumstances of their meeting been less catastrophic, he would have given thanks. But the deaths of men, both guilty and innocent, weighed heavily on his conscience. He had much to remedy.

  “Chloe. Can you ever forgive me for what I’ve put you through?”

  She colored charmingly, belying the strength of purpose and the indomitable will that lay beneath the sweetness. “Robert, I forgive you with all my heart. You saved my life today, at considerable cost to yourself.”

  He nodded his appreciation, his heart too full for words. He didn’t deserve her forgiveness.

  She gazed at him expectantly, her luscious lips slightly parted, as if waiting for his kiss. But that way madness lay. He’d endangered his mission and put both their lives at risk—he must not touch her again. She’d refused the protection of his name, so they must take their separate paths, and pray no one ever found out what had passed between them.

  Particularly not Sir Mortimer Fowler.

  “Your pardon, but I expect to be much occupied upon the morrow, and you must be seen safe back to your aunt and uncle. We both need our rest. I bid you goodnight.”

  Like a churl, he refused to meet her gaze and didn’t look up again until he heard the door close behind her. Then he yelled for the landlord to bring him more brandywine. He meant to sleep deep and dreamless this night.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chloe awoke well after cockcrow the following day. Stretching her aching limbs, she revisited the events of the previous day and touched a hand to her sore cheek. Robert had been so angry that she’d been struck, but her tormentors had paid the price. He was not a man to be crossed, was Sir Robert Mallory. Courageous, warrior-like, unyielding.

  Yet he was tender, too—she could recall the feel of his cradling arms on the ride back to the inn, and the softness in his voice when he’d called her “sweeting”. His warmth had enveloped her, his indomitable maleness infusing her with a complex mixture of security, excitement, and elation.

  But, of course, some of his behavior was simply down to his gentlemanly code of upbringing. He’d done his duty and saved her. His honeyed words had been to calm her. Because no man of his rank could ever have more than a passing interest in the bastard daughter of a whore.

  Enough of such melancholy! She must dress and break her fast, after which she would feel far less maudlin. And she’d see Robert. The very thought of him set her heart a-flutter.

  Only, he was not to be found. There was no guard outside her chamber when she opened it, and no one to be seen in the downstairs room where a table had been laid with a simple repast of bread and coddled eggs. A trickle of anxiety slid down her spine, and her hunger vanished. Was he still abed in the hayloft? He’d taken a wound yesterday—had it worsened in the night?

  She hurried out into the hazy morning sunshine and made straight for the stables where she called his name, but there was no answer.

  A creaking hinge made her spin around with her heart in her mouth. But it was just Sim, bearing a pail of water in his hand.

  “Are you wanting Sir Robert, Mistress?”

  She recovered her breath. “Aye. I understood he slept in the stable loft?”

  Sim grinned. “Not last night, nay. A room was freed up, alongside yours, and he stayed there.”

  That was a relief. “And the watchmen? Guards?” She knew not what to call those who had aided Robert in his hunt for the traitors.

  “Walsingham’s men?” Sim touched a finger to his freckled nose. “I know all about them. They’ve been called away, as all’s safe here now.”

  So where was Robert? Had he gone with them? Had he abandoned her? She felt her cheeks color.

  “Did Sir Robert go with them?”

  “Nay, Mistress. I suspect he’s still abed. I haven’t seen him, if that’s your meaning.”

  He dipped his head politely, then marched off, water sloshing from either side of his pail. Then he helped himself to a besom leaning up against the tack room wall and set to work cleaning the cobbled courtyard.

  So, Robert had not gone. She could break her fast and hope he’d soon be down to join her.

  Only he wasn’t. She made her meal last as long as possible, but there was still no sign of him. The sun was already high, and the inn fully awake and bustling, ready for the day’s trade—what could be keeping the man?

  Worry gnawed at her. Mayhap he was ill? What if he’d caught a chill from his soaking in the river, or was debilitated by loss of blood? Someone should go and see. And given that she was the person who most needed their mind put at rest, it ought to be her.

  Tucking her hair carefully under her coif, she smoothed down her skirts, and hastened upstairs to the room closest to her own, and knocked gently on the door. There was no response. She waited a while, then rapped her knuckles hard against the wooden panels. Still nothing, nor any sound of movement when she set her ear against the door.

  Fie—this would not do! Catching a glimpse of someone beyond the passageway window, she flung it open and clapped her hands, capturing Sim’s attention. Dropping his besom, he came at a run and was soon beside her, awaiting her pleasure.

  She jingled her hanging pocket. “A groat for you if you can get me into this room. I mean, us. I cannot waken Sir Robert.”

  Sim was off down the corridor like a hare, returning shortly afterward with a large iron key. “There’s always at least one spare,” he explained, winking at her and holding his hand out for the coin. As soon as she’d dropped it into his palm, he chased off again.

  This was not the plan. It was totally improper for her to enter Robert’s bedchamber alone—why had Sim not stayed?

  Propriety be damned. The man might be sick. Or one of the traitors had climbed in his window during the night and—God forbid—done away with him. With trembling fingers, she unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  The chamber was in darkness—Robert had kept the shutters closed. The room did not feel empty of human presence, and she was relieved to hear the even rhythm of Robert’s breathing as he slumbered. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, the shape beneath the sheets gradually resolved itself into her rescuer, blissfully unaware of her presence. But why had he slept so late when he was usually so vigilant? How could he not have heard her knocking, or h
er entry into the room? She would have expected him to leap up and put a knife to any intruder’s throat rather than continue sleeping.

  What little light there was revealed he was lying on one side with his bandaged arm above the covers. A bolster was propped at his back, presumably to stop him rolling onto the injured limb. She moved closer, needing reassurance. Aye, he was breathing. His firm, full lips were tantalizingly parted each time he drew breath. She would never forget how those lips had kissed her and awakened all manner of yearnings of which she should be heartily ashamed.

  The faint light lent an added softness to his face, and his long-lashed eyelids concealed the disturbing brilliance of the blue eyes beneath. His tawny hair lay tousled upon the pillow, and she put out a tentative hand, torn between the desire to caress it and the need to wake him.

  Nay, it was too dangerous to touch him—in more ways than one. She lifted the catch that held the shutters in place and pulled them back, allowing the bright sunlight to spill into the room. He groaned in protest, but before Chloe had time to move or speak, there was a sudden knocking at the door.

  As she spun around in horror to face it, he leaped from his bed and—dagger in hand—sped to the door. He made no attempt to cover his nakedness—he didn’t even seem aware she was there, trapped guiltily between his bed and the window.

  “Who’s there?” he called, his voice still thick from sleep.

  “It’s Tilshead, Sir Robert. I have news for you.”

  Before Chloe could make a sound to alert him to her presence, Robert had opened the door to peer around it.

  “Odd,” he muttered. “’Twas locked last night. The maid must have been in already.”

  Tilshead’s gaze dropped to the dagger in Robert’s hand, and he moved back a step.

  “Easy, sirrah! God give you good day. I—” The man broke off, and a broad grin spread slowly across his rugged features as he caught sight of the cowering Chloe.

  He gave her a polite bow. “Good morrow, Mistress Emmerson.”

  Robert’s head snapped up, and his shoulders stiffened.

  Don’t turn around. I beg you, don’t turn around!

  But it was too late. Nothing could remove the image now etched permanently into her mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  What in the name of Mercy was Chloe doing in his chamber? The dagger slipped from Robert’s fingers, landing dangerously close to his bare feet.

  A muffled snort emerged from Tilshead, who seemed unable to tear his eyes from Chloe’s sun-haloed figure.

  “This is not what it seems, sirrah,” Robert growled. He grasped Tilshead by the front of his doublet. “So, you can take that leer off your face.”

  The other man sobered. “I—my message can wait a moment or two more, I daresay.” He blinked, and Robert released his grip.

  “Wait for me in the taproom. I’ll be with you as soon as I may.” Robert shut the door, locked it, and looked over his shoulder at Chloe.

  She’d turned to face the window, and her hands were clasped about her in mute distress. Not the behavior of one who’d entered his room with seduction in mind—sadly. Her response was that of an innocent young woman, shocked by her first sight of a naked man. Pressing his lips together, he wound the sheet about his waist and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “You may turn around now.” His voice sounded brusque. It was folly to intrude on his privacy like this, thus compromising them both. As if it weren’t bad enough that she was Sir Mortimer Fowler’s daughter.

  She moved slowly, looking as if she were praying that the floorboards would part and swallow her. Her face was crimson. But instead of apologizing, she pointed an accusing finger at him.

  “How was I to know you didn’t wear a nightshirt?”

  He stared at her, nonplussed. Then threw back his head and laughed.

  “I apologize for offending your sensibilities. Had I known you’d invaded my territory—” He would have behaved differently? Nay. He would have done precisely the same. Shame on him, but he was starting to enjoy her mortification, her heaving bosom, and the roses in her cheeks.

  But there was a glint of anger in her eyes.

  He squared his shoulders. “Any doubts I may have had about your profession or your character, have now been completely dispelled. If only you could see yourself now. Your expression is beyond price.”

  “How fortunate that you find this amusing.” Her glare sliced him like a knife. “You may not have a reputation to damage, but I fear mine is irretrievably sullied after my recklessness in coming to see how you were.”

  “You came to see how I was?” He fought down the urge to look smug. “Whatever for?”

  “You were wounded, so I was worried. And you hadn’t risen yet, and there was the threat of that man who eluded capture—”

  “So, you came here to protect me, armed only with a key? I must chide you for such foolishness. What if there had been an enemy at my throat? What could you have done?”

  “Don’t tease me, Robert!” Her voice caught. Had she been genuinely concerned about him?

  “You can make a jest of it if you will.” Her hands were clenched. “But you will see that I’m not laughing. Whatever will people think of me?”

  She stepped around the bed and hurried to the door.

  Nay—she mustn’t go like this. He rose, putting himself between her and the door, and squared his chin at her. “Sit down, Chloe. We must discuss this.”

  “Nay!” She ducked her head, avoiding his gaze, and tried to push past him. He grasped her arms, cutting off her escape.

  “We must speak of this, lest there be consequences. Forgive my amusement. I meant no offense.”

  “You sounded so angry.” She refused to meet his eyes but made no attempt to pull away. Good. He was enjoying holding her so close. Sleep had numbed his senses, but now they were waking up to her scent, to the feel of her and her soft, feminine warmth.

  “Be not downcast—I’m not angry anymore. And fret not about your good name. I’m sure Tilshead won’t say anything—in fact, I’ll make sure of it. How did you come by the key to this chamber?”

  “Sim parted with it for a small bribe.”

  He chuckled. “Then I shall bribe him again to keep his lips sealed. I’m sure no one else knows you’re here.”

  As he spoke, he stroked Chloe to soothe her, then slid an arm around her waist to draw her into his embrace. At her pull of resistance, he realized what he was doing and immediately released her. Why did it feel so natural to touch her? They were in trouble enough already, without him making things worse.

  “I must dress and see Tilshead, or he’ll be wondering what’s going on. Now, my lady—let’s see a smile from you, not that miserable frown. I swear there’s nothing to worry about. Your reputation shall remain unsullied.”

  She eventually raised her eyes to his, searching his face. A pox on’t! The woman looked stunning with her color up and her eyes shining. It was a battle not to send propriety to blazes, and do what his body urged.

  “Still not smiling,” he chided, folding his arms across his chest.

  She blinked at him, then immediately looked away. But not before he’d seen the glitter of tears on her lashes.

  “Chloe, what’s amiss?” How he longed to kiss those tears away and cover her drooping mouth with his.

  Shaking her head, she shoved past him toward the door.

  “Nay!” He put a restraining hand on her arm, and she glanced up expectantly.

  “I must be sure there’s no one outside. I won’t tempt Fate, as she seems somewhat at odds with me at present.”

  He poked his head outside, but there was no one in sight, nor any sound of approaching footsteps.

  “Go. I shall see you anon, and tell you what is to be done.”

  To his astonishment, she flung past him, keeping her head averted, and slammed into her own chamber, locking the door loudly behind her. He gaped after her a moment, then retreated into his room.

  W
hat had he done to distress her this time? Surely, the sight of a man’s naked body wasn’t enough to make a woman cry? He had the uncomfortable feeling he’d committed some terrible sin, either by something he’d said—or neglected to say.

  He’d taken advantage of the daughter of the man to whom he was in debt. He’d led her into danger, almost got her killed, and threatened her reputation. And now, he’d upset her deeply.

  It looked as if his dealings with Mistress Chloe Emmerson were far from over.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chloe dragged herself up to respond to the rapid knocking on her door. “Who is it?”

  “Need you ask?” was the soft response.

  Robert! She had known he’d come to her, sooner or later, so why did she feel so ill-prepared? Why were her lungs working as if she’d run a mile?

  “One moment.” She splashed cold water on her face and quickly dried it. He must never see the marks of the bitter tears. Her heart had suddenly opened for him, ready to welcome his affection, but his interest in her as a woman had died. He hadn’t renewed his offer of marriage to save her reputation, despite the compromising scene witnessed by Master Tilshead—and worse still, he hadn’t held her when she’d most needed it.

  Only yesterday, she’d flirted with the idea that she might marry the infinitely preferable Sir Robert Mallory and escape the clutches of Lord Brooke. Now, the idea had become a necessity—Robert was her hero. Robert had saved her. She wanted to marry him because she couldn’t imagine ever feeling this much for any other man. She was overwhelmed and drowning.

  He stepped in as soon as she opened the door, took one look at her, and said, “Why, Chloe, whatever is the matter? Forgive me, I didn’t mean to abandon you, but I needed to hear Tilshead’s report.”

  She turned her back on him and retreated to the bed, hoping the light blazing through the window behind her would shadow her reddened eyes.

  “You’ll want to hear it, too, I wager,” he added, settling down next to her, his thigh pressing against hers. He laid his hand over her trembling fingers and stroked them reassuringly.