Martha stormed over to the shore. “I’m more worried you are going to fall through and perish in a watery death.”
“I would rescue you,” Frederick promised, lifting his hands over his head in a show of solidarity.
Martha swatted at her son’s arm, and as the pair debated Graham’s march across the ice, he continued his measured walk. Leveling himself slowly to a knee, he pressed a gloved palm over the surface, testing the feel of it. When he returned moments later, Frederick rushed him.
“Well?”
He inclined his head. “The ice is strong.” On the heel of that was the realization that he’d overstepped. Graham cared about Frederick, but the boy wasn’t his child, and he answered to only one. But I’d like for him to be mine… “Of course, the decision is your mother’s. Her judgment in this area is equally sound. Perhaps more.”
A daring glimmer sparkled in Frederick’s eyes, revealing a hint of who Graham suspected the boy would one day be as a man. He recognized that daring trait as something he himself had always had.
“Mother?” Frederick pressed.
Martha nodded hesitantly. “But slowly,” she called after Frederick as he started on the same path Graham had taken.
Together, she and Graham watched from the shore as Frederick, arms stretched out to steady his balance, picked a path over the ice. Occasionally, he would propel forward, much as he had in the ballroom. Throughout, his laughter pealed around the empty grounds of Hyde Park.
“Forgive me if I interfered,” Graham began. “It was not—”
“No.” She stopped his apology. “I’m… I’ve just been so accustomed to making every decision and having no one around to share opinions on Frederick. Hmph,” she said, following Frederick’s careful path across the river. “Actually, I’ve never had that. My father was more a playmate than one who knew how to care for children. My husband…” A shadow fell over her eyes.
Graham captured her hand, raising it to his lips. He’d not have Waters’ ghost haunt this place Martha had always longed to be. She stared at their connected fingers. “I’ve sought to protect Frederick so much that I sometimes fail to allow him to go off and simply be… a boy.”
“You love him, Martha. And someday, that is what he’ll remember most and see in that protectiveness.”
They remained there, side by side, a long time, the wind brushing the fabric of their cloaks together. Martha leaned against his shoulder.
At last, after nearly an hour spent watching her sketch, captivated by those loose curls, Graham caught them and brushed them behind the shell of her ear. “Is it time for me to see it?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Not yet.” Whipping around, she gathered up her sketch pad and returned to her previously vacated seat.
While she scraped her charcoal across the page, Graham followed Frederick… until he reached the opposite side of the river. The little boy lifted his arm and waved excitedly.
Graham returned that exuberant greeting.
This was the life Graham wanted—one with Martha and him together, as a family. And why can’t you? Despite the lies with which he’d entered her life, there was happiness now. Surely that mattered, if not more, then enough?
“All right.” Martha held her sketch pad facing toward her and close to her chest. “Close your eyes first.”
Striding over, Graham reached for the book. “The unveiling?”
She nodded. “The unveiling.” But still, she retained her hold on it.
Graham wiggled his fingers. “Well?”
“It is very rough. I’d have spent more time on—”
“Martha,” he interrupted.
“Fine,” she muttered and reluctantly relinquished her sketch pad.
Graham turned the book over and stilled.
The figures upon the page were unmistakable. From the harsh angular planes of his face, to the fit of his coat and breeches, it was Graham as he’d been moments ago, his legs stretched before him as he gazed off at Frederick tossing snowballs at the trunk of a towering oak. There was a rawness to her artistic ability, as if she’d frozen time to allow herself the opportunity to capture every last detail, from the bend in a branch, to the sheen upon the ice, with nothing more than charcoal.
But there was someone missing. Her… He wanted all of them, plus the two gap-toothed redheaded girls she’d described, in that sketch.
“You don’t like it. As I said, it is just a rough render—”
“No. No,” he repeated. “It is perfect. You are… Your work, Martha, is magnificent.”
She blushed. “The sketch is yours,” she said softly. “As a thank-you.”
Just like that, the moment was shattered and, with it, his patience. “I don’t need… nay, I don’t want your gratitude, Martha,” he clipped out. “I want you. I want to be a family with you and Frederick and the girls.”
“What are you saying?” she whispered.
“I’m saying I want to marry you.” He grimaced. Bloody hell, how had he, once a rogue with every last word and endearment in an arsenal he’d employed to charm, found himself blundering any exchange with this woman? The only one who’d ever mattered. “Nay, I’m asking you to marry me.”
She closed her eyes. “Oh, Graham. I love you.”
“Then that is enough.”
An agonized laugh escaped her that set his teeth to gritting. “It’s not that simple. You are a duke’s son.”
“The third born son, nor would it matter if I was the damned ducal heir.”
“Not to you. But to your father—”
“Who can go hang.”
“Who also offered me one thousand pounds to set you free,” she reminded him, yanking her book from his hand. “Despite your insistence, his approval matters. As does your mother’s.”
“That is rubbish,” he snapped. “I don’t live my life for their approval anymore.”
“Simply saying it doesn’t make it true.”
He blinked. What in blazes was she saying?
Martha drew in a shuddery breath. “But this isn’t about your parents. This is about us living in two different worlds.” She cupped his cheek. “You speak of wanting to live a life of purpose and about the guilt you still carry for your brother. All the while, you’ve failed to see…” She went silent.
What? What was it she believed he didn’t see? Graham clenched his fists, waiting for her to speak, too proud to ask her.
“You are still in search of approval, Graham.” Clasping his hand, she pressed the sketch pad to his chest. “Just as you taught me that I need to see my own worth, you need to see that in you.” She drew her sketch pad back. “I’m a bigamist. My children are bastards, and we will all be scorned, and one day you will be because of it.”
He glared at her. “But we’d be together.”
“And what if you came to resent me? That I could not live with.”
Graham worked his gaze over her face. “If you believe that, then you don’t know me, Martha.”
From across the river, a squeal of laughter went up, followed by Frederick’s familiar laugh.
Furrowing her brow, Martha rushed to the shore and stumbled.
Graham caught her by the elbow, steadying her.
In the distance, Frederick gave chase to a girl, the pair only specks on the horizon as they darted about. Graham belatedly registered Martha moving farther and farther out into the open clearing. Until she stopped.
“Martha.”
She pressed her fingertips to her lips. “I’ve not seen him play with another child since his sisters left.” Tears welled in her eyes, and she stared on, watching Frederick and the golden-haired little imp, who just then tossed a perfect snowball, hitting him square in the chest.
The grounds resonated with the little boy’s war cry as he raced after the spritely girl.
“Who is she?” Martha asked, doing a sweep for a missing nursemaid.
“I don’t—” A young couple strolled over the slight crest in the walking trail, the
lord and lady a study in golden English perfection. The Duke of Huntly carried a small child easily in his left arm, his other looped through the duchess’ arm at her side.
Graham’s entire body tensed. His features turned to stone. A moment later, a husky, dark-haired gentleman came bounding over that same rise, chasing after a squealing boy and girl.
“They are so… happy,” she whispered. “I didn’t believe a noble family could be”—she glanced at Graham and then back to the heartwarming tableau—“like them. Affectionate and playing games and—I always wanted that for my own children.”
“You should return, Martha,” he said tightly. “Come.” He motioned for her to accompany him, and when she made no move to join him, Graham reached for her hand. “I’ll gather Frederick.” But Martha was already pulling away, picking her away across the frozen Serpentine.
“Martha,” he implored.
Then, just as another slightly silver gentleman and an auburn-haired woman reached that same rise, Martha jerked.
Christ.
“It is Lord Exeter,” she said blankly. “And…”
The former Lady Waters.
*
One summer night, when Martha had been a girl, she’d spent an entire long summer day outside, sketching. Her skin had turned such a shade of red, and her body had become fevered. She’d been racked by chills that set her teeth to chattering, while simultaneously burning from a nauseating heat.
This moment, observing the real Lady Waters, a woman who’d been married to the same man Martha had, had the same effect.
Her teeth chattered.
This was the viscount’s family.
All… One, two, three… Seven adults and so many little babes and children running about that in her numbed state, Martha could not focus to properly count.
But they were all there, of all ages, from babes, to young children Frederick’s age, to the silver-haired Lord Exeter with a babe of his own in his arms, and all smiling.
My children have siblings within that mix of people I don’t know aside from the earl.
The Earl of Exeter glanced across to where Martha stood. His cheeks went white.
With a sickening, horrifying slowness, each member of that happy party looked to where Martha stood on display.
I’m going to be ill.
Graham touched her shoulder.
“Please get him,” she whispered.
He nodded, and then with long glides, slid the remainder of the length of the frozen river.
He went, no questions asked, at nothing more than her request, a hero, while Martha, coward that she was, turned so quickly that she stumbled and fell. Agony shot along her hip and radiated pain down the length of her leg.
She ignored the discomfort.
Struggling to stand, Martha concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. All the while, her nape burned from the stares of Lord Waters’ family. After an interminable trek, she reached the shore and continued her cowardly retreat to the copse.
The moment she stepped within the shield offered by the enormous oaks, Martha let her shoulders sag.
An arm snaked around her, knocking the sketch pad from her hands. She opened her mouth to scream.
The stranger shoved his palm over her lips, burying all hint of sound. Her pulse beat loud in her ears as she writhed and thrashed against the punishing hold.
“You haven’t made this particularly task easy for me, Miss Donaldson,” he muttered. “But you and your family all being present here has certainly been convenient.”
Miss Donaldson. How…? Who…? All the questions tangled in her mind, muted by panic.
Terror battered at her as she scanned her eyes over the horizon, searching for Graham. Oh, God. Frederick was with him.
“You have been a very difficult young woman to get to in London, you know?” he muttered, dragging her quickly through the brush.
Martha wrenched her neck frantically and bucked against him, digging in with her heels to try to slow their retreat from the path.
“I’ve no desire to kill you, however, or even hurt you, if you cooperate.”
Liar.
She jammed her heel against his leg, but her skirts dulled the strike.
He sighed. “And now you are going to make this difficult for me, I see. Very well.” His fist collided with her temple.
An inky blackness crept over her vision, and then she knew nothing more.
*
The first thing Martha became aware of was a pounding pressure in her temples.
She blinked and attempted to make sense of where she was.
And then it all came rushing back.
Hyde Park.
Her assailant.
The attack.
“You are awake. That is good. As I said, you do me no good dead and little good asleep.”
Martha forced her eyes open and then promptly closed them. An agonized moan spilled from her throat.
The clink of crystal touching crystal was followed by the stream of liquid.
“Here,” her assailant said, as if he handed over a glass of tea in one of his formal parlors. “Drink.”
Martha attempted to open her eyes again and this time forced herself to not shut them.
The first detail she noted was the gleam of the Chippendale furniture, a peculiar detail to note after being knocked unconscious and dragged off.
“Here,” the gentleman said again, holding the glass out. Somewhere in his fiftieth year, with a faintly receding hairline, he was noble-born. His rank spilled off his person. As such, he expected her to accept the glass and take a dutiful sip.
Shoving herself up, Martha swung her legs over the side of the leather button sofa and pointedly ignored his offer. “You must think me mad to take a drink from a man who’s tried to kill me.”
The gentleman perched his hip on the arm of the sofa. “Tried, Miss Donaldson? Rest assured, if we’d wanted you dead, the arrow that day would have found a mark in your chest and not lodged in that tree.” He spoke with a smile, like it was the most natural thing in the world to snuff out a person’s existence. “From my understanding, you made quite a ruckus crawling across the ground. Though I do commend you for being fearless enough to climb into a felled tree and remain there for one hour and seventeen minutes.”
My God… he knows that?
The gentleman smiled. “I know everything.”
Something else he’d said took root. We. He, or they, had driven her off into the middle of the woods and had been there all along. Waiting. And they could have ended her. But they didn’t. Despite the tremor that racked her frame from the remembered threat, she found a calm in that. “Who are you?”
He set down the glass in his hands. “Lord Charles Fitzmorris.”
“Your name means nothing.”
He chuckled. “Not to you. To the Crown, the king, and the Home Office, it means a good deal.”
Since she’d committed herself in marriage to Viscount Waters, Martha had allowed life to happen around her and impact her, but she’d never taken control. Not truly. She’d been dependent, first upon her father, then her husband, then Lord Exeter… even Graham. She’d not be toyed with by this man. “What do you intend to do?” To me.
She was not so very brave to bring herself to ask about his intentions for her fate.
“To put England to rights.” That cryptic pronouncement was met by a knock at the door. “Enter,” he called out, coming to his feet.
Martha’s mind spun. What had he meant by that statement?
A brawny footman entered.
She’d bet her right arm for sketching that the man standing before them was no servant, but some thug who did this man’s bidding.
Lord Fitzmorris stalked over to the mahogany campaign-style desk. Gathering a small stack of notes, he held them out. “See them delivered immediately, and when they arrive, show them all in.”
After the servant rushed off, closing the door behind him, Martha took to unsteady feet.
She swayed, blinking back the fog from the ache at the back of her head, and stormed over to his desk. “You still have not said what role I play in all this,” she said.
Lord Fitzmorris picked up his glass. “As I said, I intend to put England to rights, but you, Miss Donaldson, you are going to help me.”
Chapter 22
Graham was going mad.
Slowly.
This insanity had nothing to do with the defect that had kept him from focusing on his studies. Rather, it was an insidious poison rotting his mind and, with it, the reason and logic he normally prided himself on.
And yet, he could not turn himself over to the panic, because now it was not just himself he had to think of.
Now, there was also Martha’s son—Frederick.
Following Martha’s abduction, Graham sat here, useless, while members of the organization searched for some information about her fate. For some clue of who’d taken her. Of why they’d wanted her. Waiting for a note. For some word.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
“Useless,” he whispered, to hear himself speak, or the tortured sound of silence would further drag him down the path to madness.
Seated behind his mahogany desk, his elbows on the top, he stared blankly at the gleaming surface. The smooth shine reflected his haggard visage. He’d been charged with looking after Martha and her son, and he’d failed her. He’d failed… again. The other failings, however… his father’s ill opinion of him, his brothers’ mockery, none of it meant anything. Martha… she meant everything.
A piteous moan spilled from him.
Filled with a restiveness, he jumped up and began pacing.
There had to be some clue… something that he was missing. A person simply didn’t vanish. Not in Hyde Park. Not in broad daylight.
Who was it? Who was it?
“The Barretts,” he said quietly. They were the likeliest lot, and it made the most sense that they’d wish Martha to vanish.
Edmund Deering, the Marquess of Rutland, was known first and foremost for the blackness of his heart. One of the greatest scoundrels in London, he’d been rumored to keep a book with the names of his enemies.
Graham scrubbed a hand over his stubbled cheek.
The Rogue Who Rescued Her Page 24
