A Rake to the Rescue

by Elizabeth Beacon

  ‘Hold still, you great baby,’ Aline told him as she carefully removed a couple of strands of fine linen thread from the wound and he flinched as it throbbed anew.

  ‘No man is a hero to his own sister,’ he explained wryly to Toby. They exchanged manly glances and Magnus was relieved to see colour back in the boy’s cheeks. Magnus wanted to reassure him no harm would come to him or his mother while he had breath in his body to prevent it, but he didn’t have the confidence to after this latest attack. At last Aline and Hetta were satisfied he really wasn’t badly injured and agreed the wound was best left to heal in the fresh air rather than being wrapped in a bandage as if Magnus had no say in the matter. Half his attention had been outside the vehicle all the while and he was relieved when the road dipped down again to see a more generous countryside with fertile fields and only scattered trees to give shelter to neat cottages and farms. Not much risk of someone creeping around this landscape unseen and he guessed not many strangers passed this way when their now very dusty carriage and four was greeted with such wide-mouthed astonishment.

  ‘We’re there. It says Abrah on that old stone,’ Toby informed them.

  Magnus was glad, first that they were indeed about to turn between two ancient stone gateposts with gates that did not look as if they had been shut since the Civil War and on to a well-kept drive. Second that the boy’s mangling of the English language diverted Aline from fussing over him.

  ‘Please don’t think I have forgotten what happened, Mr Haile. I am not a fool and I know that was no wild shot from a local poacher or a footpad taking a holiday in the country, so don’t you dare lie to me,’ Hetta told him very softly as he sat back to let Toby and the ladies descend first, despite his gentlemanly duty to hand them down on to the swept gravel in front of the venerable old oak door.

  ‘As if I would dare,’ he murmured when he was finally allowed to clamber out of the vehicle like an invalid and could look for any suspicious pockets of cover nearby. Not much chance of an attacker slipping in here with so many servants milling about the place, Magnus was surprised there had not been several collisions already in their hurry to greet the visitors. Either Isabella was being very badly served by whoever managed the estate now, or Sir Hadrian had decided it was time he stepped in to protect his family a little too late in the day.

  ‘You would dare anything if you thought it would help keep us safe,’ Hetta told him not very admiringly. He shrugged under her critical gaze, then flinched when the movement jarred his wound.

  ‘A suspiciously large staff for a house empty for the last decade, don’t you think?’ Aline observed when brother and sister were left in the hallway while Hetta and Peg bore a protesting Toby off to be washed and settled in a room running off his mother’s and already marked out for them before they got here.

  ‘Sir Hadrian is a step ahead of would-be assassins keen for more Haile blood this time. I wonder how many gardeners and grooms the old place really needs to keep it in perfect order.’

  ‘Dozens, I expect,’ Aline said as if she didn’t think so either.

  Magnus wondered if she had anything to do with this vast staff being here to care for the needs of a small party on an informal tour of the West Country and looking to stay in one place for a week or so. She’d seemed uneasy on that day at Chesil Beach as well, but if she’d written to him it had taken Sir Hadrian a long time to put plans for their greater safety in place. Magnus frowned and felt the idea of a wild card slip into his head, someone Sir Hadrian did not have a stealthy watch on. He suspected the man was not wrong-footed like this very often and someone had managed it this afternoon despite all his best-laid plans.

  ‘They will fall over one another looking for something to do before long,’ he said as he glanced out of a side window and saw gardeners scything a lawn that had already had enough attention to make it forget years of being grazed short by livestock instead of manicured within an inch of its life.

  At least he could let himself feel weary and even a little bit shocked now they were here and all exits and entrances covered. He had already watched the coach dragged into the long-disused coach house by enough grooms to staff a racing yard and the coachman and guard greeted by a head groom more like a retired prize-fighter than a son of the turf. His would-be assassin would be caught if he tried to get anywhere near the place to try again, but the nagging worry he was someone too close for comfort haunted Magnus. He felt the heaviness of suspecting Gresley could be behind this latest attempt to draw Sir Hadrian away from Carrowe House. All the sleepless hours he had spent on guard against this very outcome and trying to keep lustful thoughts of Hetta at bay stacked up on him all of a sudden and he stumbled over his own feet. It only took that misstep for his sister to get on the other side from his injured arm and try to support him up the stairs when she was almost a foot shorter.

  ‘I dare say Jem will soon be up to unpack and set this already immaculate room to rights, so I suggest you wash off the dust and grime with his help, then rest for an hour or so, big brother,’ Aline said after nodding approval of the cool and inviting bedchamber made ready for him.

  ‘Maybe,’ he conceded with a longing glance at the wide and comfortable-looking feather bed, wishing he was clean enough to sprawl across it straight away and fall into dreamland. ‘I don’t get shot at every day,’ he added with a wry smile. She shook her head, murmured something unladylike and left him in peace.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was very early the next morning by the time Magnus woke with a curse, glad he had at least bathed and shaved before he’d fallen so heavily asleep he missed dinner and another evening of trying not to lust after Hetta too openly. He shook himself like a great dog, discovered his arm felt almost as good as new and threw on the clothes Jem had laid out for him last night. Raiding the silent and for once empty kitchen for a large slice of pork pie to calm at least one ravenous appetite, Magnus let himself out of a side door and trod softly over newly pampered lawn until he was far enough away from the house to stride out through the stir and sleepy twitters of predawn lightness. Going upwards almost by instinct, he stood just below the summit of the hill above Abrah House, so he wasn’t outlined on the horizon, to survey the generous valley below. Hugged by the hillside and protected from harsh winds coming in off the not-so-very faraway sea, Magnus could easily see why Lord Carnwood had bought this neat estate and fine old house when Isabella was his ward. Rich pasture for cattle and fine summer grazing on the surrounding hills for sheep would mean a good return for tenant farmers and landowner alike.

  He frowned down at the stone-tiled roof of the gracious old house as a glimmer of rising sun picked out details in the landscape. Lovely though the place was, it did not seem secure enough to offer a safe haven for Hetta and Toby once the staff were whittled to a simple enough household to see to the needs of a couple of ladies and one boy, when Toby was not busy elsewhere. He thought Isabella was about to offer this place to Hetta to live in while Toby was at school, but it was a devilish long way from London with thick and dangerous woods all along the only road out. He let out a huge sigh and reminded himself it was none of his business where Hetta chose to live in future.

  Now he was still supposed to be responsible for hers and Toby’s safety, he should be watching for stealthy enemies, not dreaming in the soft light of dawn or speculating on Hetta’s future. At least here there was no prickling sense of danger to raise hairs on the back of his neck. Instead a familiar warmth and heightened awareness whispered Hetta was close even before he saw her standing under a nearby tree watching him watch the empty and still-dreaming valley for invisible enemies.

  ‘You seemed very preoccupied by your thoughts,’ she said when he was close enough for them to speak and not disturb the peace.

  ‘I wanted to be sure all was well, considering I slept so long I should resign from the Watchman’s Guild before they throw me out,’ he said lightly even as awarenes
s tingled along every nerve and it seemed as if they were the only two people in the world awake so early in the day.

  ‘Is that what you are, our watchman?’ she asked huskily, almost as if she shared the feeling they could be so much more than this if things were different.

  ‘Not a very good one,’ he said gloomily.

  ‘On the contrary, we are all alive and safe and you were the only one who got hurt yesterday.’

  ‘I can hardly feel it now,’ he said, trying to appreciate the way the rising sun picked out more and more detail of the fine valley below them when all he could think of was her.

  ‘Yet you seem to think I don’t know that bullet was inches from killing you yesterday. And do you think I am too stupid to realise the scoundrel could have been aiming at me when you got in the way?’ she demanded as if it was his fault.

  ‘I don’t think you stupid at all,’ he said, pretending he was watching a couple of farm servants fetch in the cows for milking at the farm down the valley.

  ‘Then at least look at me while I thank you for saving my life,’ she demanded with an exasperated sigh.

  ‘You have no idea how hard it is for me not to look at you, Mrs Champion,’ he told her dourly.

  * * *

  She had brooded about his injury all yesterday evening, stayed awake for most of the night and woken up from an appalling nightmare where the bullet had hit him somewhere vital and he’d done the unthinkable and died on her. Died on her, not on his sisters or his mother or his brothers or anyone else. She noted her very specific description of the terror that woke her up gasping and on the edge of screaming until she recalled herself back to reality. Fortunately, Toby slept as if it was his life’s work and was still blissfully unaware in the adjacent chamber when she checked on him.

  She let her eyes rove greedily over Magnus while he was looking the other way, to be sure it really was a nightmare and he wasn’t concealing some huge hurt not obvious at first glance. She had jumped out of bed with that last appalling dream still in her head and knew she must wait for Magnus to wake up before she could check he was really and truly still alive and her appalling dream only the work of a horrified imagination. So, she washed hastily, bundled into underpinnings and her favourite muslin gown, dashed a brush through her rebelliously curling hair and crept out here to wait for him to wake up. Except he was already out here, already busy about what he thought of as his duty to protect her and Toby from his father’s murderer.

  ‘Hetta,’ she corrected huskily, then wondered if it was best if Mrs Champion faced him today. She was a little stiffer and more correct, maybe even more sure of herself than Hetta. Mrs Champion knew what she wanted out of life, but Hetta struggled with needs and desires Mrs Champion did not want to hear of.

  ‘You should have brought a shawl, Hetta,’ he told her when she shivered at the thought of some of those needs and this terrible temptation to find out if he could fulfil them more richly than Bran ever had, even when he was still trying to be her ideal husband and win her family over to a hasty marriage over the anvil.

  ‘I am not cold,’ she murmured, wilfully playing with fire.

  ‘I like you covered up,’ he said as if the words were forced out of him.

  ‘Oh, really?’ she asked coolly, stung because he looked as if he wished she had stayed away and waited for the world to wake up as well, so he could hope they would be interrupted.

  ‘No, I like you any way you care to be, but it won’t do, Mrs Champion.’

  ‘No, it won’t. I am sorry. I should not have come outside at such an hour and ought to have gone away until the world is awake when I saw you standing so intent and alone.’

  ‘You should,’ he said austerely, but his deliciously intense dark brown eyes were saying something very different and Hetta badly wanted to read their message instead of listening to the wise words coming out of his mouth.

  ‘I still have to thank you for saving my life yesterday,’ she argued as she held his gaze, and most of her breath, and wished she could tell him how terrible that moment had felt when the shot rang out and she felt him flinch at her side. The noise of it had haunted her ever since. Maybe he would be embarrassed if she poured all that out as if they mattered uniquely to one another. He had another woman fixed in his heart and a very different child he wished he could be father to than her beloved Toby.

  ‘An exaggeration,’ he dismissed her words impatiently and he didn’t think nearly enough of himself, whomever he loved.

  ‘No, the truth,’ she argued and cursed Lady Drace for making him doubt the deep-down strength and integrity of the Honourable Magnus Haile.

  ‘The truth is I would rather die myself than live with the memory of seeing life seep out of you in front of me, but we two cannot afford to deal in truths, Mrs Champion.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop calling me so,’ she said impatiently and defied him with a challenging gaze to rival his. The ever-present temptation of being more than two polite strangers travelling together argued with the caution his mouth was saying while his eyes agreed it was a waste not to give in.

  ‘Your father will be on his way soon, eager to get to the end of this sordid little mystery and relieve me of my task of protecting you and your son. If I do not address you in the proper form, I expect he will have me sent to the colonies in chains for disrespecting his daughter,’ he said, almost as if he thought it was a joke she would laugh at lightly, then trip off to breakfast, as if he wasn’t out here making every other prospect but him dull and lifeless.

  ‘You had best kiss me now, then, had you not? While we still have a chance of not being found out,’ wicked Hetta whispered and leaned back against her tree to squint up at him as the steadily rising sun got in her eyes.

  ‘I am only human,’ he muttered almost to himself before he blotted out the sun for her and who cared if it was dark or light, sunny or stormy, when he was close enough to touch?

  He was here. His breath was short and fast as he gazed at her mouth so hungrily she slicked it with her tongue and let out a little gasp of half-nerves, half-eagerness for his kiss, his touch, anything and everything about him, and Hetta really was a bad woman, wasn’t she? ‘I love human,’ she whispered.

  ‘Fool,’ he chided her even as he bent his head that last delicious inch and there was nothing guarded or hesitant about his kiss. It was full of pent-up frustration and heat and as intense as the late summer sun she could feel warming his back when she wound her arms round there and added to the heat of Magnus Haile’s desire for her, for her—not Lady Drace or some other, more convenient, female, but her, Hetta Porter, the real, wanting woman who lived behind Mrs Champion’s disfiguring glasses and dull plumage because she was so scared of trusting the fire and need inside her with a man like this one. No, not one like him, only this one. There were no more like him. Never mind his brothers and all the other Haile cousins and uncles who apparently resembled one another as if marked out as a tribe. None of them had his strength and sensitivity and character because none of them was him.

  And he felt as if he had been guarding this headlong need since they last kissed at Develin House all those long and frustrating weeks ago. Even as she bent into his passionate kiss, let him know how urgently she wanted him back, she soothed his tense and pent-up muscles, caressed her way down the supple line of his spine and secretly chided him for being too strong. If only he was a weaker man he would have kissed her again in every inn she had slept in along the south coast this summer, made those nights magical and gloated over instead of stark and often sleepless without him. If he wasn’t Magnus Haile he could have been her summer lover all this time and to hell with murder and mayhem and the risk of making a noble bastard.

  Hetta spared a second from being hot and far too happy about being kissed again by this unique man, and desperate for more, to worry at the idea. Heat blossomed at the heart of her and a poignant shard of
something wistful stoked it at the thought of carrying his child there, deep inside and secure as its father adored the little thing and lavished even more sensual attention on its proud mama than usual. It didn’t seem impossible standing here, but it was. He was who he was and she dreaded the captivity of another marriage based on necessity and not love. A child in need of a name would be a very different necessity from Bran’s wild ambition to be an admiral before he was forty, or her own desperation to get away from the Dowager Lady Porter’s relentless drive to get her unsatisfactory only grandchild married to rank and fortune. It would still be a marriage made because Magnus refused to have another child of his called by another man’s name. Some of the magic fell off her cloud of bliss at the thought the beautiful Lady Drace had been his last lover and now he was kissing plain and impulsive Hetta instead. Maybe he felt her withhold some crucial part of herself and wanted to lure her back. Anyway, he inflamed the heat between them by pulling her away from the hardness of the hoary old tree, so she could be closer to the hardness of his powerful and vigorous body. A body she was eager for in every pore and sensitive inch of her, she reminded herself as she luxuriated in being so wanted, so deeply needed the urgency of it all, she was goading them both to let it take over the world and never mind the day gradually waking up around them.

  ‘We can’t,’ he murmured after a tortured groan, but he still held her so close she could feel every rigid and tightened inch of him.

  His gloriously taut muscles trembled like a racehorse eager for speed, or a man desperate for his lover. Her breasts were tight and almost painful against his sober summer waistcoat and all that delicious manly haste and quickened breathing she had caused. Her nipples tightened and hardened even more as she brushed closer to him and bent a little further back against his arms to stare up at him with a wordless challenge. Yes, there was heat and ravenous hunger battling with cool sense and wariness in his dark eyes. She felt tears threaten as the reality of who they were rushed back and put caution in his gaze.