Mary and the Marquis

‘The doctor said we are to sit with you, my lord, in case you develop signs of fever. Ellen will take over at midnight and then Mrs Lindley will relieve her later on. I am taking the first shift.’

‘With no chaperon? You are brave, my dear. Many a lady’s reputation has been ruined for less.’

‘I am a widow, my lord. My presence here is no different to Ellen, or to Mrs Lindley for that matter. And, might I point out, you are in no fit state to ravish anyone?’

‘But I wouldn’t be imagining ravishing Ellen or Mrs Lindley, now, would I? But a comely young widow—well, this is an unexpected turn of the cards.’

In the flickering light of the candle, Mary recognised the glint of admiration in Rothley’s dark eyes as he looked her up and down. Resentment slid through her veins. It seemed as soon as a man learned she was a widow, his interest quickened. And he’s not mistaken, is he? She felt the heat build in her cheeks as she recalled her earlier thoughts. She stiffened, stepping away from the bed.

A low chuckle sounded. ‘There is no need to retreat. As you acutely observed, I am in no state to take advantage of anyone. At least, not at present,’ he added, with a grin. ‘It is possibly a touch late for formality, but I should introduce myself. Rothley, at your service.’

His attempt at a bow was no more than a bob of his chin as he lay in the bed and Mary bit back a smile at the absurdity. She relaxed. He was right. Despite his provocative words, he was no danger to her. Yet. And she would be long gone before he could make any serious attempt at seduction. She feared a Lord Rothley, in full health and vigour, might very well prove irresistible, despite her antipathy towards rakes in general.

‘I know who you are, my lord. You introduced yourself when we met in the woods.’

He frowned. ‘The woods, you say? What...?’ His brow cleared. ‘Yes. I remember now...vaguely. I owe you my gratitude for your help today.’

His lids drifted shut and he was silent. Mary approached the bed again and was about to sit in the chair by its side when he shifted in the bed. A moan, soon cut short, alerted Mary. She leaned closer and put her hand to his forehead. Still cool, but a touch clammy.

Rothley opened his eyes and regarded her ruefully.

‘Never mind your reputation, this won’t do mine any good at all,’ he said, with a lopsided grin. ‘Here am I, in my bedchamber with a beautiful woman for company, and the only moans to be heard are my own.’

Mary laughed at his disgruntled tone. ‘You must console yourself, my lord, with the knowledge there is nobody within hearing distance, even were you to entertain a bevy of beauties within these four walls.’

‘Indeed,’ he murmured, capturing her gaze, his fine lips curving. ‘My expertise would be for the sole appreciation of the recipient, would it not?’

One dark brow lifted. He’s testing me, she realised, a slow blush heating her skin, unable—or unwilling? her inner voice teased—to tear her eyes from his. As she froze, his gaze focused and intensified. His eyes gleamed and his sensuous lips curved as Mary, still bent over him, remained transfixed, her pulse racing as his masculine scent assailed her senses and pervaded her very being. She felt as she imagined a mouse must when confronted by a crouching cat, fearful of twitching the tiniest muscle lest it prove the wrong move: the move that would trigger the pounce. Every nerve of her being quivered, every sense was on heightened alert. The stillness of the house weighed heavily, the only sounds the soft crackle of the fire and the ticking of the clock.

The slow movement of his hand broke the enchantment for a brief moment, before he enmeshed her further in his spell. His finger touched lightly at her temple, trailed a path down the side of her face and followed the line of her jaw to her chin. It then lifted to caress her mouth, tracing the width of her trembling lower lip. Mary’s lids fluttered closed as his hand cupped her chin and urged her closer, ever closer. His breath whispered across her sensitised lips as he feathered a kiss across her mouth. Desire snaked through her as his hand slid round to cradle her head. The moist heat of his lips as they moved against hers was an impossible temptation. Without volition, Mary’s hand lifted to his cheek and she leaned into the kiss, lost in the moment, her whole body awakening and responding, every nerve tingling, anticipation flowing from a tiny pinpoint deep inside until it flooded every vein in her body. She trembled, the craving for more near overwhelming her, until the distant sound of a door banging roused her from her trance and, with a gasp of horror, she wrenched her lips from his. She scrambled away, her face aflame, her hands flying to her cheeks in a vain attempt to cover her shame.

‘My lord...’ she gasped.

The heat in those ebony eyes was undeniable. He smiled at her: a slow, seductive smile that set her quivering with desire. Her heart was pounding and she could feel the pulse jump in her neck. How had he captivated her so very quickly? How had one kiss resurrected those feelings she had thought dead and buried long since?

She stiffened, angry and ashamed that she had become so mesmerised by the touch of this stranger’s lips that she had responded in a way no decent woman should. And she was furious she was now unable to conceal her embarrassment. Why should she make such a fuss over a stolen kiss that was no doubt a mere passing fancy to a rake such as he? She dragged in a deep breath to steady her nerves. It would test her ingenuity to its limit, but she must disabuse him of any notion she might be available for any sort of dalliance. Taking a moment, she smoothed her hands down her skirts. She then looked him in the eye, raising her brows in a way she hoped would make her appear unconcerned.

‘Well,’ she said, willing her voice to remain light and unconcerned, ‘I cannot pretend you did not catch me off guard, or I would not have allowed that to happen. However, although your kiss was pleasant enough, my lord, I shall be obliged if you will restrain your...more basic urges in the future. I have no wish to be constantly on my guard if I am to assist in nursing you over the next week or so. As a gentleman, I am sure you will accede to my wishes.’

‘Ah...but can you be certain I am a gentleman?’

Mary raised her chin. ‘I make no doubt you were raised as such,’ she said, ‘and, no matter what direction your life has taken since then, I would urge you to remember that. I am here to nurse you, Lord Rothley, and that is all.’

Rothley’s lips tightened a fraction, then a sudden gleam lit his eyes. Mary eyed him with suspicion.

‘I’m so hot,’ he murmured. ‘My forehead is burning. I feel feverish.’ His lids flickered shut.

‘Hmmph!’

Mary’s huff of disbelief was barely audible, but she caught the twitch of Rothley’s lips, so it had been loud enough. Without approaching any nearer, she reached across and placed her hand on his forehead.

‘Aaahh, so soothing, so comforting,’ he murmured as his eyes opened and he captured her gaze again.

He grinned as she snatched her hand away, her insides melting anew. His masculine aura tugged at her senses, her body responding with a readiness she had never before experienced, even in the early days of her marriage.

He is a rake, she reminded herself. Attracted merely because I am female and, seemingly, willing and available.

‘It feels quite normal to me, my lord,’ she said, as she crossed the room to the washstand, which held a bowl and a pitcher of water, ‘but I will bathe it for you, nevertheless. If—’ she glanced over her shoulder at Rothley as she wrung out a cloth in the water ‘—you promise to keep yourself covered up.’

His lips twitched as she approached the bed. ‘Does the sight of my manly chest bother you so?’

Mary tensed. She was a grown woman, not some silly innocent to be beguiled and misled by a silver-tongued rake, no matter how attractive. If she didn’t take care, nursing the marquis would prove impossible. She must—for her own sanity—maintain her distance for, if she was honest, his flirtatious ways were proving hard to resist.

‘It bothers me not one iota,’ she said brusquely. ‘I am simply concerned you do not catch a fever, for that would mean I am honour bound to remain here that much longer. The sooner you are recovered, the sooner I may leave.’

The amusement drained from his face. ‘You are under no obligation to me, madam. You are not bound to remain here against your inclination.’

Mary felt a momentary qualm. Had she overreacted?

‘My obligation is to my own conscience, my lord. I have experience of nursing and your staff, as far as I can ascertain, have very little. Besides, they are hardly under-employed in this household. An extra pair of hands will not come amiss, I am sure.’

‘Indeed. My household, as you rightly point out, is staffed at a totally inadequate level. No doubt you are used to better.’

His voice was tight, his brows lowered, but Mary felt certain it was not anger that generated his response. Rather, she thought, it was worry creasing his forehead. She recalled Mrs Lindley’s comments about the debts facing the estate.

‘Once upon a time, maybe,’ she said, as she applied the cool, damp cloth to his brow, ‘but not in the past few years, I can assure you.’

His eyes sparked with interest. ‘How so?’

‘My childhood was carefree for the most part, but adulthood brings its own challenges,’ she said. ‘Hard work is not unknown to me.’

She sought to divert him. ‘Do you remember what happened, my lord?’

His eyes glinted wickedly as he grinned up at her.

‘I remember a beautiful angel coming to my rescue. I remember her ripping open my shirt—’

‘I meant, what happened before,’ Mary interrupted. The teasing, flirtatious Lord Rothley was back. Her diversion had worked only too well. ‘Have you remembered how...why...you were shot?’

‘Killjoy,’ he murmured. ‘I had much rather discuss the softness of your lap.’

Mary’s face flamed. She had hoped he wouldn’t remember the laborious journey home from the woods in the back of a cart—his head, heavy in her lap and her legs extended either side of his body in an effort to cushion him from the worst of the jolts. His eyes locked with hers and she felt again the slow, nervous trickle of anticipation deep inside. Her breath seized, her nerves all on edge, her legs suddenly weak.

‘Your lack of denial leads me to assume my memories are not a wishful fantasy after all,’ he said, with a lift of his brows.

Mary stepped back and sat in the chair by the bed, staring towards the fire.

‘The doctor said you were very lucky,’ she said, seeking to cover her confusion.

He snorted, but weakly. ‘How so? I do not feel lucky right now.’

‘The bullet went straight through your shoulder without hitting anything vital. He believes you will make a full recovery, in time.’ Mary risked a glance at him. ‘It could have been a great deal worse, my lord.’

‘Time is what I don’t have,’ he muttered, as if to himself.

‘I beg your pardon?’

His expression grew sombre. ‘You asked me a question,’ he said. ‘The answer is yes. I remember every detail. Thieves...reivers...’

Mary’s gaze flew to his face. Reivers was the old name for raiders along the border between England and Scotland. His use of the term revived memories of the dispute between their fathers.

‘Surely,’ she said, ‘that practice died out long ago?’

‘It’s an old term, certainly,’ he said. ‘But where there is money to be made, some men will always take what is not theirs. Speaking of which...’ He frowned, his eyes distant. Mary wondered what memory had nudged at him. Did he remember her taking his horse? Had he seen—or heard—the children?

‘How did these reivers come to shoot you?’ she asked, keen to distract him.

‘I was checking my sheep, grazing up on the hills, when I came upon three men driving them away to the north. I tried to stop them. They objected. I was hit in the shoulder and lost control of my horse...’ His gaze settled again on Mary, his eyes widening. Mary felt sure he now recalled her riding away on Sultan. He made no mention of it, however, continuing, ‘Perhaps, with hindsight, it was fortunate. If we hadn’t been moving when they fired the second shot, I fear I might not be here at all.

‘And that reminds me,’ he said, pushing himself up in the bed before collapsing back against the pillows with a moan, sweat breaking on his brow. Mary jumped to her feet and leant over him, fingers curving around the solid muscle of his uninjured shoulder.

‘Please, my lord. You must remain still. Your wounds...’

‘I must speak to Shorey—or Hooper. Immediately!’

Shorey and Hooper were the grooms who had driven the cart into the woods with Mary to rescue Lord Rothley.

‘Can you not give me a message for them? It is late and I am certain they will be abed at this hour. I promise to relay any message to them in the morning.’

‘I suppose there is nothing they can do tonight.’

He groped until he found her wrist. His touch set her skin aflame but he appeared oblivious to the effect he had on her.

‘Tell Shorey and Hooper to go to the top pastures and bring the sheep nearer to home. They must go at first light.’

‘The top pastures?’ she queried. ‘Not the hills? But what about the sheep the men were taking? Did they succeed? Are they all gone?’

‘The men panicked and fled after they shot me. I managed to drive the sheep down...’

‘After you were shot? What were you thinking? You should have ridden straight away for help.’

His expression was grave. ‘Those animals will mean all the difference to the Hall this year. But they’re not safe, all the way up there. You must tell the men. Promise me.’

‘I promise. Please don’t worry.’

Rothley released Mary’s wrist, heaving a sigh as his lids closed. Mary rose and crossed the room to put the washcloth back in the basin.

‘Who are you?’ The soft query returned her attention to the man in the bed. His dark eyes glittered in the candlelight.

‘Mary Vale, my lord.’

‘Ah, yes, of course. I do remember. Sensible Mary.’

Mary turned away. How did that name still have the power to hurt? ‘Sensible Mary.’ What they really meant was Dull Mary. The name felt like an insult. Once upon a time she had been young and carefree, full of laughter. But now...

Rothley’s eyes had closed once more and he appeared to be drifting off to sleep, to her relief. She settled back into her chair, raking through the happenings of the day. How did he elicit such a ready response from her, despite him being everything she feared and despised in a man? Was it lust over an arresting face and a tantalising body? She pictured his strong arms and shoulders, the hard, muscled planes of his chest, the long, lean legs and the taut buttocks, glimpsed as the doctor extracted the bullet from his thigh. He was a man any woman might desire, but she could not risk yielding to temptation again.

Experience had taught her the physical act of love was a mere fleeting pleasure if there was no emotional connection—no love—between a man and a woman. The marital act had left her feeling hollow and empty and used, and Michael had become increasingly disillusioned: resentful and angry at both her and the children. Mary had vowed never again to put herself in the position of being viewed as a burden, or to allow Toby and Emily to be resented as encumbrances. She had only to recall Rothley’s strange antipathy towards children to know nothing could come of their apparent mutual attraction.

When she looked up, Rothley had roused—if he had indeed been asleep—and now watched her with that amused glint back in his eyes, as if he knew exactly what she had been thinking.

‘Where did you come from, Sensible Mary?’ he asked, when he saw he had her attention. ‘And what were you doing in my woods?’ He held her gaze for what seemed an eternity and then added, in a soft voice, ‘And why were you stealing my horse?’

She felt herself grow pink. ‘I thought it was a short cut,’ she said, ignoring his other questions.

‘To where, may I ask?’

‘The north.’

‘This is the north.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Where did you say you had come from?’

She eyed him warily. Her instinct was to give as little information as possible. ‘The south,’ she replied, ‘and I think it is time you rested. You look exhausted. You should sleep.’

‘Mayhap you’re right.’

As he settled down into the bed he grimaced.

‘Are you in pain?’ Mary asked. ‘The doctor left some laudanum for you.’

A flash of alarm crossed his face.

‘What is it? What is wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong. In answer to your first question: yes, I am in pain, but, no, I don’t want laudanum. I found myself in thrall to the poppy’s lure once before, in my youth. I shall never risk losing control in such a way again. Not unless I am desperate, do you hear?’

‘I hear.’ She pulled the covers up beneath his chin.

His lips twitched even as his eyelids drooped. ‘Do not imagine I shall forget, Sensible Mary. My questions will wait until tomorrow, when I am stronger. And then, I shall insist on some satisfactory answers.’

* * *

‘Mrs Vale! Mrs Vale!’

‘What is it?’ Groggy with sleep, Mary pushed herself up on one elbow. ‘Susan?’

‘Yes’m; Mrs Lindley sent me. It’s the master, ma’am. She said can you please come?’

Fully awake now, Mary threw back the covers and jumped from her bed. Susan handed her a shawl.

‘It’s one her ladyship left behind, ma’am,’ she said, in answer to Mary’s lifted brow. ‘Mrs Lindley said as how you didn’t have much in the way of clothes with you. Sorry, ma’am.’

Mary threw her a smile. ‘Don’t apologise, Susan,’ she said. ‘I am grateful for the attention. Is his lordship fevered?’

‘Oooh, yes’m. Tossin’ and turnin’ something awful, Mrs Lindley says.’

‘Has someone been sent for the doctor?’

‘Yes’m, Hooper rode out ten minutes since.’

They arrived at Rothley’s bedchamber. Mary entered to see Mrs Lindley leaning over the marquis, trying to restrain him whilst he thrashed from side to side, muttering. The tangled bedclothes had slipped to the floor.

Mrs Lindley looked up, sweat dripping down her face, as she gasped, ‘Thank goodness you’ve come.’

Chapter Four

Lucas opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. His head hurt, his shoulder ached, his leg throbbed, his mouth tasted foul and his throat was as dry and rough as the bark of a tree. With an effort, he moved his head on the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain that speared through his temple.

When he opened his eyes again, she was there.

In the chair, by the bed. His bed.

She was familiar, but a stranger. How could that be? Where had she come from?

The south. But how did he know that?

He studied her, allowing her restful presence, her alluring features, to distract him from his aches and pains. She might not be a classic beauty, but she was enchanting. Her skin was smooth and creamy, with a smattering of freckles across her small, tip-tilted nose. The colour of her eyes was hidden, but he knew they were the deep blue of cornflowers. Her long, pale lashes rested on cheeks as lush and inviting as sun-ripened peaches. Her lips—soft pink, full and tempting—were parted and, as rotten as he felt, still his loins stirred at the thought of tasting them. He frowned, a memory floating a fraction beyond his reach.

Her lips. He could feel them, he knew their taste—silky as rose petals, sweet as honey. But how? He licked his own lips, paper-dry and sour. The answer eluded him as he continued his perusal of the woman by his bed.

Her hair. He paused, feeling his forehead pucker. Why had he thought her hair to be guinea-gold? It was not. It was more beautiful by far—the soft golden colour of corn ripening in the August sunshine. Not brassy, not a mass of curls, but soft waves where it escaped from its pins. He wanted to see it loose, flowing down her back.

He frowned again as he watched her sleep, striving to remember, fragments of memories teasing at his mind: the woods, a child’s cry, Sultan, with a woman—this woman—astride, leaving him, deserting him. And something else. What else?

A pistol shot! Reivers! Stealing his sheep, his livelihood, his future!

Galvanised, he threw back the covers and made to rise. His torso barely cleared the mattress before he collapsed back in exhaustion, panting with the effort, as the pains racking his body intensified tenfold. He heard himself groan and stifled it, but it was enough to rouse the woman.

‘Shh,’ she whispered as she rose to her feet and leant over him, a smile on her lips. ‘Lie still. You’re still very weak.’ She placed a cool hand on his brow; it was familiar, comforting. He looked up into her eyes—cornflower-blue, as he had known they would be—compassion shining from their tranquil depths.

‘How...how long...?’ His voice was croaky, as though it hadn’t been used for a long time.

‘It is five days now, since you were shot,’ she said, pulling up the bedclothes, smoothing them. ‘Do you remember?’ He nodded. The faint scent of lavender assailed his senses. ‘You have been in a fever. You have been very ill, my lord. You will need to rest, to recoup your strength.’ She went to a table set up at the foot of the bed and returned with a glass. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘You must be thirsty. Let me help. Drink this.’

She slipped her hand behind his head and supported him as she placed the glass against his dry lips.

He gulped the cool liquid, but she removed the glass before he had drunk his fill, saying, ‘You shouldn’t have too much all at once. Give your stomach time to settle. You may have some more in a while.’

He watched her, drinking in every detail of her as she replaced the glass. She wore a blue dress that matched her eyes and showed her figure to perfection, as it clung to the roundness of her breasts and her hips. Her manner and her movements spoke of neatness and restraint, calmness and competence. But her face and her body! He studied her with appreciation: her satiny skin, her eyes, her soft, lush lips, the thrust of her breasts, the sway of her hips. They proclaimed the exact opposite: wild abandon, passion, excitement.

He turned his head on the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut against the unexpected hurt that surfaced. He had known another such a woman. Her beauty had promised so much, yet it had been an illusion. Julia! How weak he must be, to allow that witch to affect him after all this time.

Had he really been so befuddled by his vice-ridden lifestyle? Had his senses been so dulled by the opium he had once blithely consumed, not to see through her looks to the reality? Not to see her for what she was—a greedy, grasping widow on the prowl, targeting naïve young bucks to fleece? He had fallen in love with an illusion of his own making.

Why think of her now, after so many years? He had thought all memory of her long buried. He conjured up the image of her face: her white skin, guinea-gold hair and large cornflower-blue eyes. Of course! No wonder she had been on his mind—Mary’s eyes were the exact same shade of blue as Julia’s...

Mary!

Sensible Mary! He remembered. He frowned again. At least, I remember some of it.

He kept his eyes closed, struggling to recall. The quiet sound of her moving around the room brought him back to the present from time to time, even as, bit by bit, pieces of the puzzle fit into place. The sheep! The men and the dogs, driving them up the hill; the wild gallop after them; the shouts; the shots; the searing pain. His gut twisted and the fear that had plagued him for months reasserted itself as he realised the implications of losing those sheep. The estate simply could not afford...

‘Shorey.’ His voice, still weak, sounded no louder than a whisper. ‘I remember...you promised...’

She returned to his side and lifted his hand, murmuring, ‘Hush. Do not worry. I gave him your message and he and Hooper rounded up the sheep. They also brought the cattle closer to the Hall, in case the thieves try again. There are none missing and they are keeping a close watch on them until it’s time to take them to market.’