Enchanted in Regency Society: Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress / The Gamekeeper's Lady

She hesitated.

Would she lie? The warmth dwindled, but he tried to hold it fast. After all, he had his own dark secrets.

‘I told you I was brought up with the Castlefield children,’ she said. ‘We spent a year or two in India. While travelling in some parts it was safer to dress the girls as boys. I took fencing and riding lessons with William…I mean, Lord Castlefield. I loved it. Sometimes I wished I’d been born a boy.’

William. Her familiarity with the man sent the heat of anger flooding to his brain even as he analysed her slight hesitations and carefully chosen words. No doubt about it. She was lying.

He kept his expression cool, detached. ‘I envy you. I have never been outside England. The war with France made the Grand Tour impossible.’ Not to mention his uncle’s protectiveness.

She set down her half-full glass and stared at the rolling vista. ‘It was the same for the oldest son, the heir. He hoped to go abroad once the war was over. He was killed in a carriage accident not long ago. Now William must return and take up the duties as heir. In a way, I’m glad.’ Her voice caught. ‘I hated thinking of him in danger.’

Garrick couldn’t see her face, but he heard the note of deep longing in her voice. Clearly no matter what he did, she would prefer this man. Jealousy surged, twisted in his gut, knotted with a cold, hard lump of anger and bitterness. The thought of this other man wounded him in a way he hadn’t expected, a way he’d never before experienced. He forced himself not to care. ‘Is it your wish to go to him when he returns?’ The hard edge in his voice told him he’d failed.

‘Oh, no.’ She sounded sincere, almost appalled.

More acting? And why would he care? His plans for the future didn’t involve a woman. He eased away from her, rose to his feet and began packing away the remains of the picnic.

‘One of your servants came to Castlefield, once,’ she said, passing him her wineglass. ‘He’d been in the same regiment as the old lord, and your father, I believe. A man named Piggot.’

His stomach lurched. The ground beneath his feet seemed to shift at the sound of a name he’d not heard in years. He stood stock-still. ‘Piggot?’

‘I can remember the Earl being quite upset after his visit, but he did not say why.’ She rose to her feet and dusted off her breeches, her small hands patting the round curve of her derrière.

A tremor, so deep it did not disturb the surface of his flesh, quaked in his bones. Would Piggot have revealed the events surrounding his mother’s death to Castle-field? Did the information that could destroy him lie in Castlefield’s hands, awaiting imminent discovery? How Ellie would revile him if she learned the truth. And yet, in some dark corner of his soul lay a measure of relief at the thought of laying down a burden too heavy to bear.

Unseeing, he stared at the blanket in his hands.

‘On guard.’

A sword point flickered in his face. He recoiled. ‘What the deuce?’

She laughed, her eyes sparkling. She twirled her blade, then raised it in salute. ‘You promised me a lesson.’

Sweat trickled off his brow and ran cold down his cheek. He let go a long breath and smiled. ‘So I did.’ He collected his weapon from the gig and took off his coat.

He bowed, then saluted. ‘On guard.’

She took up her stance, lithe and alert. As their blades hissed together, he recalled her amazing skill. She’d been taught by a master. A worthy opponent, indeed, though she did not have the strength of wrist or the reach to best him. He demonstrated his technique of twisting a blade free of his opponent’s hand. She grasped the theory quickly, but had trouble putting it into practice.

‘It will work for you with a weaker opponent,’ he said.

Clearly exhausted, the tip of her sword resting on the grass, she nodded and wiped her face on her shirtsleeve with a laugh. ‘Enough, my lord. I can barely lift my arm.’

Her face was flushed, beads of sweat shone on her brow and her shirt was undone past what was decent. Delicious. Tantalising. His body quickened.

‘Aye. It is time you changed, before my servant comes to retrieve the picnic, and he recognises you as the highwayman I kissed.’ He led her into the barn.

Ellie tugged on his hand. ‘Why did you kiss me that night? There was no legend, was there?’

He smiled at her frown. ‘Because, like a fool I’d left my pistol in the coach.’ And lucky it was he had. God, even now she might be dead.

‘I was a fool to let you get so close. I’d not do so again.’

‘There will not be a next time.’ Cold fear struck his heart. He pressed her against him, the urge to keep her safe overwhelming. ‘Will there?’

Against his arm, her spine stiffened. Her grey eyes cooled as she hid her thoughts. ‘No. There is no reason for it any longer.’

He kissed her hard, trying to break through the barrier she’d put up. It worked. She melted against him and his blood grew thick and heavy with need.

‘How do you do that?’ His voice was low and husky with desire.

A laugh caught in her throat. ‘I was going to ask you the same thing.’

He hoisted her into his arms, while she laughed and kicked. He put her down on the blanket amongst the straw, a lovely wild creature as comfortable in a barn as she was on a feather bed. An enigma. Perhaps that was the root of her attraction. She was unlike any other woman he’d known.

What was it about her that drove him to distraction? Perhaps not knowing how much of her was real and how much playacting held him enthralled. She’d been a virgin when she came to his bed, but there was nothing innocent about Lady Moonlight. Would he ever know the real woman behind the mask?

And if he did, would she disappoint? Was it better not to know?

She reached up and cupped his jaw in her small hand, dragging his face down to her lips with a saucy smile. Today, he had Lady Moonlight. God help him, he’d take whatever she felt free to give.

He wrestled with the buttons of her shirt while her lips were fastened to his, only breaking away to pull it over her head. When she did the same for him, he felt humbled. Honoured. He lay beside her, kissing her lips, her throat, the rise of her breast. Her nipples leapt to life under his tongue. Passion and adventure all rolled up in one unique woman.

While he nuzzled into her breasts to the sound of her delighted giggles, he unfastened her breeches, easing them over the curve of her hips. He caressed the soft skin of her buttocks and pressed her hard against his arousal.

She pushed him away. She laughed at his disappointment and, leaning forwards, nipped his shoulder with her teeth.

‘Ouch!’

She slid slowly to her knees, her hands trailing down his chest and then his belly until they reached the waistband of his breeches. The white skin of her back melded into the roundness of her plump firm buttocks at its base. Groaning, he reached down and unpinned her silky golden hair so it flowed softly around her as she unbuttoned him and his shaft sprang free, rampant and ready. She kissed him, a quick shy brush of silky soft lips.

Mon Dieu, it felt good. A breath of pure pleasure hissed between his teeth. But he wanted more. He wanted to feel her soft curves against him. He lifted her to him and kissed her mouth. He plunged his tongue deep into her and felt her bold response.

‘I need to be out of these clothes,’ he whispered.

She cast him a shy smile of encouragement. He sat up and quickly stripped off his boots and breeches and turned to lay beside her. She gazed deeply into his eyes, seeking…what? Assurance. The passion in her smoky gaze drove blood from his brain to his groin.

He gathered her close, oblivious to everything except her warmth, her scent, the hint of vanilla. An honest, earthy scent. The sounds of desire from her throat while their mouths joined drove him wild with wanting. His fingers dipped into her moist, hot centre and he groaned. This was where he belonged. Somehow, he would make her forget her past.

He nudged his knee between her thighs and she, generous and yielding, let them fall open. He entered her and they became as one. He drove into her, thrusting again and again. Her gasps of excitement, the breath warm in his ear, her nails sharp points of wicked pain on his back and buttocks, drove him to new heights of desire.

The scent of her arousal filled his nostrils. Her cries, increasingly demanding, filled his ears.

So close. His own release threatened, demanded, tortured, tightened his groin until he thought he would explode. He clamped his jaw. Strained to bring her with him. Fought for control.

He shifted. Stroked her tight insides with his body, feeling the flutter and pull of her inner muscles goading him on. He reached between them, found the source of her pleasure, the swollen bud of her desire, and circled and rubbed, hard, fast.

‘Oh God, Ellie, now.’

Her body clenched around his shaft, hot spasms against the sensitive head. He was going to die of pleasure. Not without her. Not alone.

Then she shattered. Crest after crest of heat and tight, clenching, muscles. In a panic, he withdrew, spilling his essence on her belly as he followed her into the surf. He collapsed on his side, grabbing his shirt to clean her skin. The scent of sweet-smelling straw and lovemaking in his nostrils, a harmony of breathing and slowing hearts, a paradise on earth. Blissful, sated, sweat cooling on exposed flesh, he gazed up into the ancient beams. If he stayed in England with her at his side, perhaps his inner demons could be vanquished.

With a smile, she nestled deeper in the crook of his arm, her straw-coloured hair trailing over her breasts like a silken veil. He ran a fingertip across her arm where it lay across her stomach, her hand resting on his hip. A beautiful, extraordinary woman.

His eyes drifted closed. When he came to and looked at her next she had turned on her back. His first thought was to kiss her awake and make love to her again. But tears were sliding from under her long, golden lashes and running down her face.

He reached out and captured a tear on his thumb and brought it to his lips. He tasted salt. What made her cry in her sleep? His stomach roiled as he forced his mind to recognise what his heart would not. She wasn’t happy.

It was like a knife twisting in his chest, this sense of impending loss.

Yet perhaps it was as well. What if this thing inside him caused her harm? He’d never forgive himself.

Would he harm a woman he only wanted to protect? The legends spoke of blind rage. He was almost sure he’d experienced it first-hand three times now, the sensation of control and memory slipping away. His gut churned.

Her eyes opened and she looked at him with a slight frown, as if she was trying to recall where she was, then her eyes cleared and she smiled.

‘Why are you crying?’ His voice sounded tight and hard.

‘I didn’t know I was.’ Her laugh shook. She rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘A bad dream? I don’t recall.’

A wave of guilt washed over him. He should have given her the money she needed and made her leave, instead of killing any dreams she must have of her noble patron.

He only wanted to give her happiness. In his selfishness, he had tried to win her heart, to make her want to stay, but if she cried for Castlefield after a day as perfect as this one, she’d never been his. Sadness rose up inside him, painful and dark.

He had spent years learning to control his deeper emotions, building a wall to keep out anything that might disturb his calm as a matter of survival. She had pierced that wall and he must make it whole again. He would tell her he was tired of her, send her away.

But not yet. Not today.

‘Come, Dan will return soon. Let me help you dress.’

On the drive back to the village, Ellie rested her head on his shoulder, her body rocking against him with the horses’ steady rhythm. Unconsciously he pulled her closer and she snuggled into him, nuzzling his neck. His heart felt tattered, torn to shreds, and he welcomed the pain.

They pulled up outside her front door. ‘Goodnight, Ellie,’ he whispered into her hair. He tipped her chin and brushed her lips with his thumb, aching for more.

‘Goodnight, Garrick. Thank you for a wonderful day,’ she murmured.

Tomorrow, he’d gather the strength of will to set her free. After all, she’d never been his to keep and a man with a stain on his soul didn’t deserve happiness.

Chapter Six

Eleanor closed the door the moment the gig drove away. She busied herself preparing supper, trying not to think about the path she’d chosen and what it meant for her future.

He’d given her a beautiful day in idyllic surroundings and it hadn’t been too hard to imagine herself spending the rest of her life with him. He was thoughtful, charming and fun. Most of all, when he made love to her, she forgot his reputation as a rake, forgot the duty she owed to her family, forgot she was ruined. It wouldn’t matter how good he was to her, he could never marry her now.

Nor could anyone else.

And until their bargain was over, she must not let him steal her heart.

That foolish organ gave a funny little skip, a happy little hop in her chest. Too late, apparently.

She jabbed the fork into a slice of bread. What a fool. Each time she thought about bidding him goodbye, she cried. If she didn’t take care she’d turn into a permanent watering pot. She’d always despised lachrymose females who complained about their lot in life. She’d made her bed and she’d lie on it, cheerfully, and think about the future when it arrived.

If she had a future. Drat it, there she went again.

She stared at the toast and jam she’d put on the plate, but there was no room in her stomach for food. Tea. She needed a nice cup of tea. In bed. And a book. She put the kettle on and changed into her nightdress and robe.

Her front door creaked open. Her spirits soared. Garrick had returned. She ran to greet him.

It wasn’t Garrick outlined in the doorway, but a stranger. Large and threatening, with a wind-reddened face and heavy black brows above a red-veined, bulbous nose, he barged over the threshold. Oh, God. She must have forgotten to throw the bolt.

She backed away, her mouth dry and her heart beating loudly. While not tall, he was heavyset and could overpower her in an instant. Her stomach lurched as small black eyes ran down her body, eyebrows lifting. The worst thing about him was his grin, loose wet lips drawing back over broken yellow teeth beneath a greasy black moustache.

‘Get out.’ Her voice shook. She clasped her hands together, seeking strength. ‘You have no right to be in here.’

‘Now, now, my lady, don’t get excited, I’ve come with a message from his lordship.’

‘The Marquess of Beauworth?’

‘The very same.’

Something jarred about his words. She gasped. He had called her my lady. Garrick knew? Her rapidly beating heart clogged her throat. She swallowed. ‘Get out.’

He made no move.

She glanced around for a weapon. If only she had not left her sword at the barn.

The man closed the door with his heel, following step by step as she backed away. She daren’t take her gaze from his face in case he attacked.

A weapon. She needed something heavy. She sidled into the bedroom, working her way to the brass candlestick on the night table. Breathing steadily, clutching fast to her courage, she backed around the bed. The table nudged her back. Her fingers fumbled behind her and found cool metal.

She held up her other hand in a warning. ‘No closer.’

He reached into his pocket. He must have a pistol or a knife. She had to act.

She grasped the candlestick firmly, hefting it in her hand where he could see it. ‘Stay back or I will put a dint in your face so large your mother will never recognise you.’

His hand emerged with a small brown bottle. He laughed, an evil, sneering sound. ‘Them’s fighting words, my lady.’ The sound of the front door opening sent a chill down her spine.

‘Where the hell are you?’ a male voice called.

More of them. Bile rose in her throat.

‘In here, Sarg.’

She might be able to deal with one, but two? Dear God, what did they want? Her chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. ‘There is money in the chest under the bed,’ she croaked.

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ bulbous nose said. ‘Later.’

The chill down her back turned to ice. She launched the candlestick at his head.

He knocked it aside with his arm. ‘Ouch,’ he bellowed. ‘You little bitch!’

He lunged at her. She ducked under his arm. He caught a handful of her hair. Pain shot through her scalp. Eyes blurring, she twisted in his grip. Lashed at his groin with her bare foot and hit his thigh. She stumbled. He yanked her back by her hair. More pain. Her eyes streamed. She flailed at his face with her nails.

Arms grabbed her from behind, around her throat and waist. A belt buckle jammed into her back. The second man. Panic chilled her to the bone.

‘I told you to wait.’ His voice in her ear was low and angry. ‘Where’s the bottle, Caleb?’

‘’Ere, Sarg.’

A grinning Caleb held the small brown bottle to her lips. She recognised the smell. Laudanum. She clamped her mouth shut. The man behind pinched her nostrils. Hard. Painfully hard, while Caleb pressed the bottle against her lips. The fingers around her throat tightened. Arms crushed her ribs. Her lungs burned. Her head swam. Air. She needed air.

One quick breath. Turning her face, she opened her mouth. A bitter-tasting liquid flooded in. She swallowed. Managed a breath.

‘More,’ Sarg said.

More liquid. She struggled blindly. Her movements became weaker. Dizzy, she felt her limbs loosen. The triumphant leer of the man Caleb faded.

The cottage had an air of desolation. An emptiness. Garrick sensed it the moment he entered and still he called out, ‘Ellie?’ Silence.

He placed her sword and scabbard gently on the pine table. He’d thought she might want to keep it. He wandered into the bedroom, just to be sure. The bed was stripped, the clothes’ press empty. She’d taken everything.

A hollow, sick feeling hit the pit of his stomach. Knowing how unhappy she was, he’d planned to send her home, rehearsed what he would say over and over, all the while hoping she might want to stay.

It was better this way. She’d gone of her own accord. Less painful. Then why did his chest ache? A small scrap of white poked out from under the bed and he picked it up. A minute square of lawn edged in fine lace. He pressed it to his nose. It smelled clean, fresh with traces of vanilla. Ellie. It was the only thing left. No note. Nothing to show she had ever lived here. He stuffed the handkerchief into his coat pocket and went back to the kitchen.

Barely conscious of his actions, he pulled a bottle of brandy and a tumbler from the dresser and set them on the table. He fought his bitter disappointment. Why not say goodbye? Had she found him so lacking?

He pulled out the plain ladder-back chair, turned its back against the scrubbed table and sat astride. Chin resting on his sleeve, he glared at the honey-coloured table top, as if it could provide an answer. Had she somehow seen the evil in him? She didn’t lack for courage, but it was enough to send anyone running off into the night.

Bloody hell. Why couldn’t he accept she loved Castlefield instead of trying to place the blame elsewhere? An urgent need to drink one glass after another and dull the pain tightened his gut. He reached for the bottle, astonished at the way his hand shook as he splashed liquid oblivion into the glass and on to the table. The pungent aroma stung the back of his throat, brought tears to his eyes. Oh, yes. Fool yourself about this, too. He smiled wryly. Tomorrow reality would stare him in the face, the way it did every day. He ought to be glad she’d gone, glad she’d never look at him in horror.

He buried his head in the crook of his arm. Rage, despair, roiling emotions he couldn’t name, made his skin feel too tight, as if he might burst like an over-filled water-skin. With a muffled roar, he rose and lobbed the glass into the fireplace. It shattered with the sound of hail on a tile roof. Then silence. Brandy fumes hung in the air like the stink of an inn on a Saturday night.

What the hell good had that done, except waste perfectly good brandy? He picked up the bottle to put it away. The front door slammed back against the wall. Ellie?

Garrick turned, his heart beating hopefully against his ribs. Without warning, a blond, red-coated soldier lurched across the room and grabbed at his throat. Choking, he tore at the man’s fingers.

‘Where is she, you goddamned thrice-misbegotten whoreson?’ the man yelled.

Even as his vision blackened around the edges, Garrick knew this man. ‘Hadley?’ His enemy.

A red wash coated his vision, rage running like liquid fire through his veins. He embraced it. Used its strength. He brought his arms up and around. Broke the other man’s hold, shoved him backwards and raised his fists, longing to beat the furious face to a pulp.

‘Not so fast, my lord.’ The muzzle of a rifle pressed coldly against the back of Garrick’s neck.

With his back to the door, Garrick had not seen the man enter, but he recognised the deep rumbling voice. He released his breath in a long, shuddering sigh, gaining control, clearing the red mists from his sight, tamping down the killing rage. ‘Well, if it isn’t Ben.’

‘No, my lord. Martin Brown, at your service. Put up your weapons.’

Martin Brown, the relative she’d spoken of, was also Ben the highwayman? Merde. How many more lies had she told him?

Garrick lowered his fists.

Martin Brown withdrew his rifle and held it ready across his chest.

Hadley fixed his hard grey gaze on Garrick and repeated his question. ‘Where is she?’

What the hell was going on? What did this man have to do with Ellie? No. This must be about some other woman. He racked his brain for possible contenders, women he’d forgotten, while he kept his face a blank slate. ‘What are you doing here?’

Anger boiled up again, at Ellie, at himself, at this man from his past. He curled his lip and glanced down at the man’s twisted right leg. ‘Come for another beating, Hadley?’ He shouldn’t have said that. Hell, he’d always denied being Hadley’s night-time attacker.

The other man reddened. ‘Castlefield now.’

Garrick reeled. The breath left his body as if he’d been struck in the kidneys. This was Castlefield? ‘But—’

‘Haven’t you done enough, you bastard? Did you have to take your revenge out on my sister?’

For a long moment Garrick’s mind stuck on the word revenge, the old issue between them, the fight over a woman and the accusations hanging over him at school. The reason for Castlefield’s halting gait. The second occasion he’d lost control and couldn’t remember.

Finally, the word ‘sister’ forced its way to the surface. The floor beneath his feet seemed to tilt. ‘Ellie is your sister?’

‘Lady Eleanor Hadley, to you. My twin.’

His twin sister? He could only stare in stunned silence. Finally he found a shred of voice. ‘She left.’ His mind scrambled to make sense of what his ears were hearing. ‘She must have gone home.’

Martin Brown shook his head. ‘The bailiffs are gone, but no sign of her ladyship.’

A sense of dread filled his stomach. ‘Then she went to her sister.’ He refused to think about where else she might have gone.

‘Damn you, Beauworth!’ Castlefield choked out. ‘If I find that one hair of her head has been harmed, I shall hold you fully responsible.’ He drew his sword.

‘Put up, my lord,’ Martin Brown said sternly, his ruddy face grim. This time his rifle was pointed at the Earl. ‘This was all her own doing. I did my best to stop her and when I could not, I did my best to protect her.’ He nodded at Garrick. ‘He became involved when we held up his coach and he followed us. She said she would set him free and go to Scotland.’ He flushed. ‘I had a feeling there was more to it. That was why I waited for your ship in Portsmouth. But if she’s gone, she’s gone to your aunt, or to her friend in Scotland. We should look for her there.’