The Rogue Who Rescued Her

by Christi Caldwell

  Martha’s features contorted into a mask of such grief and horror that it briefly robbed him of breath. “I was married to a man who was married to another woman…” She drew in a breath, stirring another one of those little clouds of white from the cold, and then through the fabric of her cloak, Martha rubbed at her arms. “At the same time. Except, I came second.” Her lips twisted in a macabre rendition of a smile. “The second Viscountess Waters.”

  He knew what she was saying. All the words were there. Only this time, the jumbled thoughts in his head were not a product of his madness or dull wits, but rather, the implications of what she revealed. The murder of the lecherous Viscount Waters had rocked Polite Society. Graham hadn’t bothered with the tawdry details that had riveted the ton. Now he wished he had kept on with the gossip for altogether different reasons: that nobleman had been Martha’s husband.

  “I’m a bigamist,” she whispered, misunderstanding the reason for his silence. Martha bit down on her lower lip. “Not intentionally, of course. I would have never… Had I known, I wouldn’t have…” She stopped her ramblings, and studied the ground intently. “But I didn’t know. My father murdered him,” she whispered.

  “He…?”

  Martha slowly lifted her gaze; shame brimming in their depths. “He murdered him for making me a bigamist and my childr…son a bastard.” This was where he was to say something. Good. Waters deserved the fiery fate he was surely enduring in Satan’s inferno. Nor was he gentleman enough to coat that ruthless glee. He opened his mouth to say as much; to tell her that the bastard had deserved to die…and painfully.

  He was too slow.

  Martha hastily averted her gaze. “Now you know, Graham. I… should go find Frederick.”

  As she rushed off, Graham remained motionless, staring after her until she’d gone from sight.

  He scrubbed his hands over his face. Bloody hell.

  This first assignment was supposed to be simple—no doubt the reason they’d given it to him. He was to have reported on Martha Donaldson’s circumstances.

  He’d believed himself an unfeeling rogue who cared about nothing more than his own pleasures, only to discover here, between the broken and hurting pair, that he was capable of feeling. And he despised it. He preferred a world where he felt nothing, compared to this stabbing agony at Martha’s and Frederick’s suffering.

  And, something told him, that when he left this place, he would never be the same again.

  Chapter 13

  She’d told him.

  In a moment of weakness, she had revealed everything to Graham Malin.

  Nay, not everything. Not Creda or Iris, but rather, all the shame that had led to her sending her daughters away.

  Seated on the floor, alongside the hearth, with her legs drawn close to her chest and her sketch pad forgotten beside her, Martha stared into the wildly dancing flames.

  Or, mayhap confiding in Graham had not had anything to do with a moment of weakness or Frederick’s urging.

  “Mayhap it had nothing to do with either,” she whispered into the quiet. Mayhap it had come from at last having another person to speak to. Had there ever truly been anyone she’d talked to about anything that mattered?

  She had been so young when her mother died that Martha carried no memories of her. Martha’s father had been loving and devoted, but he’d placed her upon a pedestal, a figure to be cherished like a prized heirloom left behind by his beloved wife. Never had they discussed her hopes or dreams, or anything aside from the day-to-day dealings of their property. It was why he’d sought a noble match for her, one that would raise her pedestal all the more.

  All the while never considering what Martha had wanted or why she’d agreed to that match.

  Because she’d not told him. Because she hadn’t known how to talk to him.

  Martha rubbed her chin back and forth over the coarse fabric of her wool skirts and stared off to the doors that led to the kitchens and beyond, to Graham’s rooms. How to make sense of this inexplicable ability to speak to him, a man she’d known less than two weeks? A man whom she’d not seen since her confession.

  The front door burst open, and heart racing, she looked up.

  Glowering at her, Frederick kicked the door closed with the heel of his boot. “You told him, didn’t you?” Fury spilled out from his expressive brown eyes.

  Martha came scrambling to her feet. “I don’t… What…?”

  Her son charged forward. “Mr. Malin.” His voice climbed. “Who do you think I’m speaking about? He’s gone.”

  The earth dipped, and Martha searched her fingers around the air before finding purchase on the back of the sofa. “What?” she repeated, gripping the high back. Her heart sank.

  “Gone.” Frederick began pacing, his little legs furiously pumping as he strode back and forth. “I woke up early to muck the stalls before he was there. And then I’d finished, and he’d never come, and so I went to his rooms—” Her son came to an abrupt stop. “Gone.” The fight went out of his voice and eyes, until he was left vulnerable before her in ways he hadn’t been since his father’s death.

  “Y-you are certain?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

  He gave a jerky nod. “His horse is missing, too.”

  Martha slid into the nearest chair. Trying to think. Trying to process what her son had revealed. And unable to manage anything past that one truth: Graham had left.

  Of course, it had been inevitable. He was never destined to remain on forever. He’d left, just as the previously loyal men and women who’d served their modest household had. But neither had Martha allowed herself to think of the day that Graham eventually would. And that day would have always included a parting. A word of goodbye and well-wishes expressed by each of them.

  Something from a man who’d been more of a father to Frederick than the man who’d sired him. Something from the man who, one late night, had cared for her injury and then kissed her.

  No.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. By Frederick’s account, Graham was gone, and as much as that announcement should have come as a matter of fact based on the inevitability of it all, an emptiness gnawed at her heart. Whether it denied reason or not, the truth remained: She cared about Graham Malin. And he was gone. What did you expect? That you should reveal that he was employed—and not in a paid post—by the village bigamist, and he should be the one person who’d not condemn you for that?

  Martha bit her lower lip.

  She had deluded herself with that dream.

  Fool. Fool. Fool.

  “Are you listening to me?” Frederick cried, giving her shoulder a shake.

  Martha snapped to. “Yes,” she said with a calm she did not feel. How am I so composed?

  Her son thumped his fist on the back of the sofa. “Damn it, what happened when I left you?”

  Unable to face her son, Martha gathered up her sketch pad and charcoal and stood. “I don’t like your tone or language. Ask again.”

  Frederick stamped his foot. But this time when he spoke, he did so in more measured tones. “Mother, would you share what transpired between you and Mr. Malin upon my leaving?”

  “We spoke…” she hedged.

  Frederick’s panic-laden groan trailed behind her. “You told him,” he repeated, his voice cracking.

  “You advised me to tell him.” Placing her materials atop their place on the easel, she carefully arranged the items, lining up the charcoals.

  That you are a woman should not prevent you from seeing yourself as the artist you are.

  Martha blinked back the dust in her eyes and instead focused on the inane task before her, so she didn’t have to confront the truth: Graham was gone. And her cottage was not unkempt, but rather, there was an altogether different reason for the sheen blurring her vision.

  “And?” her son prodded from across the room.

  Martha discreetly wiped the back of one hand over her eyes before facing her son. “And that is precisely what I did.”

>   “I was angry,” he cried, racing over. “You weren’t supposed to really tell him.”

  “You were angry,” she said softly. “But you were also correct. That secret needed to be brought to light, and if it had not been me…” It would have been one of the nasty High Town villagers. The same men and women whom Graham had gone toe-to-toe with to defend her honor. That, however, had been before he’d known what had so earned Martha the disdain and disgust of all.

  Including him.

  Her throat closed up.

  Odd that she’d known Graham less than any of the people in this entire miserable village, and yet, his defection landed worse than any of the vicious slaps doled out by her husband.

  Through her own misery, Martha registered her son’s absolute silence, and then her heart crumpled all over again. In her selfishness, she’d fixed almost exclusively on what Graham’s departure meant to her. The sharpest, most intense of all the guilt filled her—maternal guilt. Thrusting aside her own feelings and hurt, Martha urged her son over. “Come here, Frederick.” When he made no move to join her, she spoke in firmer tones. “I said ‘come here’.”

  Her son hesitated, and then dragging his heels, he at last complied. Martha sank onto the bench near her easel, so she could look him in the eye.

  Then promptly wished she hadn’t.

  For it was not pain or confusion reflected back.

  Hatred sparked in those brown eyes that were the viscount’s eyes, exuding that same antipathy. Mayhap it was Martha’s lot to be despised by all. And surely there was some deficiency in her that merited it. But all those other detractors could go hang. This boy and the two girls she’d sent away were the only ones her heart beat for. “Frederick, Mr. Malin was only kind and generous and helpful. But, dear-heart, he was not going to stay forever.” But I wanted him to stay longer, too. I wanted to wake up knowing he was here with us.

  “You drove him away,” he exhaled. “You drive everybody away. Father, Creda, and Iris. Even Grandfather is gone because of you.”

  Had he kicked Martha in the gut, his accusation couldn’t have hurt more. It didn’t matter that she’d made the decision to send Creda and Iris away so they might receive an education. It didn’t matter that the choice had been hers. Frederick’s words stung like vinegar on an open wound.

  She was saved from trying to formulate any response by an unexpected knock at the door.

  As one, she and Frederick looked toward the front of the room. Another heavy rap followed, and something she’d not seen in too long lit her son’s features—hope and happiness. Those like sentiments sent her heart pounding into a double-time beat.

  Frederick took off flying across the room, yanked the door open, and then deflated. “Oh,” he said dumbly. He stepped back. “You.” Martha’s hopes sank along with his.

  Squire Chernow barely spared the boy a glance. “Master Frederick,” he offered, an obligatory greeting. “How—?”

  Before the lanky leader of the village had gotten the remainder of that query out, Frederick darted around him and went off running.

  “That one’s become rude, Marti. A real problem there,” the squire admonished, ripping off his gloves and letting himself in.

  She knew he was rude, but hearing someone else disparage her son was an altogether different matter. “He is not, Squire Chernow. He is… direct.”

  “He’s rude,” the older man persisted, stuffing his gloves inside his jacket and advancing forward.

  Oh, bloody hell. He intended this to be one of his lengthy visits. “I’m afraid I cannot—”

  “Regardless, he’s not the reason I’ve come,” he cut into her curt dismissal. “The sole reason, that is,” he amended.

  Unease stirred, that all-too-familiar sentiment that had lain dormant for eleven days. How odd that she’d had protective walls up, along with her guard, these past years, only to let them all collapse around Graham… and because of him. Because of that false sense of security, she found herself in a place she had not been since her husband’s death—knocked off her guard.

  Sidestepping his approach, Martha made a measured trek for the chair closest to the door—and close enough to escape. She placed her father’s beloved upholstered walnut chair between her and his former… friend. “Why don’t you say whatever it is you’ve come to say?” And be gone. She bit her tongue to stifle that tart retort.

  “I’ve heard the rumors about you, Marti, and I don’t approve.”

  “The rumors?” she echoed. Society had somehow learned those sordid details more than six months ago.

  His cheeks turned a florid shade of red. “This… this… servant you’ve hired.” Graham. “You do not have the funds to pay him.” Not anymore. At one time, the Donaldsons had employed an entire staff. “I made you an offer, which you declined only to make yourself whore in the cottage I own to a stranger to High Town.”

  A haze of red fell over her vision, briefly blinding, and she tasted the fury, acerbic on her tongue. “Is your affront over the fact that I’ve”—she tensed her mouth and had to squeeze the words past her lips—“whored myself in this cottage, or that I’ve whored myself to a man other than you, Squire Chernow?”

  His flush deepened. “You ungrateful girl. Since your shame has been brought to light, I’ve only done everything in my power to ease your way here. And you, Marti, have not been suitably appreciative.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him off, but then there was no doubt he would toss her and Frederick out.

  And then where will you go?

  He smirked, a man confident that he’d come out triumphant in this particular battle. “If you wish to remain here in this cottage, Marti, there are certain rules I would go over with you.” And then, the owner of her home in every way, Squire Chernow motioned to her father’s chair.

  Martha struggled. The spirited, prideful woman whom she’d had to restrain wanted to order him out on his arse, the consequences be damned. Her gaze, however, went to the latest sketch that hung upon the easel, only partially completed—the outline of her son’s visage alongside Graham’s. The image of the child was a reminder that whatever she wanted or wished to say came second to that little person—the three of them—who depended on her.

  With stiff, jerky movements, Martha sat.

  Squire Chernow smiled. “Splendid.” Withdrawing a page from inside his jacket, he unfolded the sheet and gave the creased page several slaps. “Now, let us begin.”

  *

  Graham paced the floor of Lord Edward’s office.

  He’d arrived at the Brethren’s Leeds field offices nearly three hours ago, but there was still no hint of his superior.

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  He glanced at the clock.

  Again.

  At this hour, Frederick would have already risen and seen to gathering Martha’s water. She would be awake.

  It would be only a matter of time before they discovered Graham was missing.

  At the faint click of the door handle being pressed, he abruptly stopped and faced the entrance.

  Lord Edward strolled in.

  Strolled. As if walking through damned Hyde Park or a damned ballroom.

  Graham’s ire threatened to spill over. “You’re late,” he snapped as the other man pushed the door closed behind him. “That’s a violation of Code Three. Being late sees men and women killed and missions compromised.” A very likely possibility when an ever-suspicious Martha rose to discover him gone.

  Instead of any hint of remorse, Lord Edward, a file in hand, continued over to the brass-bound mahogany decanter box. “Sit, sit,” the commanding officer urged, waving Graham to the pair of chairs in front of his desk. “A drink?”

  “I don’t need a goddamn drink,” he said restlessly. “I’ve been gone four hours now.” Two and a half more than he’d anticipated.

  “It’s your half day at the Donaldsons’,” Lord Edward noted. The clink of crystal touching crystal and the quiet stream of spirits had al
ways had a calming effect—until now.

  “She’ll notice my absence.” And it would undo any trust he’d built with her. Trust that had all been constructed of a lie.

  Nay, not all of it. She would not, however, see it that way. That was, were she to ever discover it. Which she would not.

  Three days. There were just Three days left…

  An odd pressure squeezed off his airflow.

  Snifter in hand, Lord Edward turned a frown on him. “She shouldn’t,” he said flatly. “Stable masters go unnoticed.”

  He flushed. “I’m the only damned servant in her employ, unless Miss Donaldson is a lackwit”—which she decidedly was not—“she’d notice.”

  His superior’s lips turned down farther at the corners as he slid into his seat. And then in a display meant to demonstrate his absolute control, Lord Edward reclined in that thronelike chair and waited, sipping his damned drink.

  Suppressing a growl, Graham yanked the chair out, scraping the legs along the hardwood floor, and seated himself.

  Even with that, Lord Edward took several slow sips. “Now,” he said, setting his glass aside and reaching for the folder. “Your report on Miss Donaldson?”

  Reaching inside his jacket, Graham withdrew the notes he’d kept and shoved them across the immaculate surface of the desk. The pages touched the edge of the brandy that remained forgotten.

  The older man picked up the pages and skimmed the meticulous notes. His expression deadpan, his gaze revealing nothing, he continued to read.

  How bloody casual the other man was… about everything surrounding Martha. From his tardiness to this appointment, to the speed of his steps, to the stop at his liquor cabinet, and now that almost bored skimming.

  Fury pumped through him.

  “She is in dire straits,” he said icily, wanting some damned reaction from the man.

  “I see that.”

  And still nothing in that acknowledgment. “They’ll be dealt with now. Finish out the assignment you’ve been given, and by that point, a plan will be set.” With an air of finality, Lord Edward opened his black leather diary and began to write furiously.