What You Propose (Anything for Love #2)

by Adele Clee

  Anna nodded, acknowledged the few people she knew and sat in the chair Marcus held out for her. "For a moment, I thought they were going to chain us to pillory and leave us for the crows to feast."

  He sat forward, brushed his fingers across the soft apple of her cheek, aware of her sudden intake of breath. "Shush," he said. "You must get used to a certain level of familiarity if others are to believe our deception."

  She gave a derisive snort. "In London, a gentleman does not openly court a lady. Not even his mistress."

  Marcus glanced around, noting a butcher, farm labourer, the blacksmith's apprentice. "But we're not in London, Anna, we're in France. This is not high society. The people here are far more accepting. Now, would you like something to drink?"

  Her cheeks flushed. "I'll have wine or ale or whatever you think is safe for consumption."

  Marcus laughed as he pushed out of the chair. "I'll go up to the counter. It will give me a chance to gauge Lenard's mood without him being distracted by your beauty."

  He did not give her a chance to respond and was soon back with two small pewter mugs and a copper jug half-full of wine.

  "Wine is easier on the stomach," Marcus said, sitting down at the table and pouring them both a drink.

  Anna took a sip from the mug, shivering visibly as the potent liquid slid down her throat. "Easier on the stomach but not so on the head, I fear."

  "Lenard always serves me his best."

  He watched with keen interest as she took a few more sips. Was it nerves that drove her to drink more quickly? It occurred to him that they should use this time together productively. A man should delve a little deeper into a lady's mind and heart if he stood any chance of winning her favour.

  "So, what will you do when you leave here?" Marcus said, relaxing back in the chair. "Will you go back to London?"

  There was no chance of him doing so. Marcus vowed never to set foot on English soil again. Not while his father was alive.

  Anna shrugged. "I'll never go back to London. I'm afraid I will always be regarded as Madame Labelle, proprietor of a bawdy house." She stared at the candle on the table, at the drop of wax trickling down its length. She tapped her finger to the hot liquid, rubbing it against her thumb until it solidified. "I like the country air, the lush fields and rolling hills. It brings back happy memories of my childhood."

  A vision of a pretty girl with honey-gold hair flashed into his mind. He imagined her smiling, carefree, running against the wind. "How will you provide for yourself?"

  In the countryside, she'd hardly find the type of work she was used to. There were no houses of ill repute desperately searching for a new madam. And there were not many men willing to take a wife with her chequered history. However, he believed her bewitching beauty was as valuable as the best debutante's dowry.

  "I have a cottage nestled in a quiet country village. I have enough money put aside to give me a comfortable life."

  The inquisitive, manipulative part of his brain jumped to attention. The cottage she mentioned must surely be the same place where Miss Beaufort was hiding. It made perfect sense. Anna had fled to France while Dane's lady had fled to some quaint village to look after her cottage.

  Interesting.

  He was about to pry further when she said, "What of you, Marcus? Will you continue in the same vein without Tristan? I imagine you'll find working on your own far more difficult."

  For some reason, it hadn't occurred to him that Tristan might not come back. A hollow void opened up in his chest, and he feigned arrogance in a bid to banish it. "I work better on my own. Tristan is too cautious, too sensible to be of any use."

  Despite trying to infuse a hint of contempt into his words, he knew she did not believe his pathetic protestations. She stared into his eyes as though they were open doors to his soul. "And you're far too rash, far too reckless, which is why the two of you work so well together. I can see you'll miss him terribly."

  Bloody hell.

  Was she some sort of mystic? Or was he just so easy to read?

  He took a large gulp of wine whilst using the opportunity to observe Lenard.

  "Perhaps you judge me too harshly without knowing all of the facts," he finally said, confident Lenard was simply going about his work.

  She smiled and arched a brow. "I believe your scars speak volumes."

  Panic flared. "Scars?" he repeated.

  "There's a small one just to the left of the dimple on your chin." She pointed to the offending article. His heart thumped in his chest for an entirely different reason now. Anna had studied him sufficiently to notice his faint battle marks.

  "This one came from the tip of a blade," he said running his finger over the thin line cutting through the bristles. "Dane was with me at the time. We were ambushed whilst rescuing a lady from an asylum."

  Anna's eyes widened. "Good heavens. Why were you rescuing her from an asylum?"

  Marcus sighed. "It is difficult to explain. But suffice to say, the lady was not mad at all, and had been put there at the behest of her husband."

  Married women were just as helpless when it came to dealing with selfish men.

  "I have a few scars, too," she said pulling up her left sleeve and turning her arm to show him her elbow. "I've one here. Can you see it?"

  "This one?" He traced the pale pink line with the tip of his finger. "Is it a battle scar?"

  "Yes, in a way." She yanked her sleeve back down. "I fought with Victor over a girl he brought to stay. I helped her to escape. He couldn't prove I had anything to do with it, but he still knocked me to the floor in a violent rage. I hit it on the grate."

  Marcus gulped to swallow the lump in the back of his throat. If Victor were still alive, he would hunt him down and gut him like a fish.

  "I'm sorry." The words tumbled from his mouth.

  "Why?" She looked puzzled. "It's not your fault."

  When she took a sip of wine, he nodded to her hand. "I noticed a mark on your thumb. Is it another battle scar?" Part of him did not wish to hear another tale of the cruelty she'd suffered. Part of him wanted to know every intricate detail about her.

  Placing her mug back on the table, she held her hand to the candlelight. "Two gentlemen were arguing over Maudette. Sometimes men imagine the girls are in love with them. One of them threw a vase at me when I asked him to leave. I covered my head with my hands but it hit the wall next to me, and a piece grazed my thumb."

  "What was his name?" His voice sounded harsh, unyielding. "The man who threw the vase."

  "Why?" she laughed. "Will you sail all the way to England in a bid to avenge me?"

  "No. I'll get someone else to do it on my behalf."

  She stared into his eyes. "You're serious."

  "I am."

  Her gaze softened, and she swallowed visibly.

  "I have a similar scar." He turned his hand over and showed her the mark on the pad of his palm just below his thumb. "From a woman who'd convinced herself she loved me. She charged at me with a broken perfume bottle."

  She took his hand in hers and examined it beneath the flame. "You were lucky. An inch lower and it would have pierced a vein."

  "An inch lower and a woman would have succeeded where many men have failed."

  "Love is a dangerous business, is it not?" She gave a weak smile. "I must say I find these coincidences a little unsettling. Thank goodness I don't have scars on my back else I would be worried. I assume you received them during one of your mysterious assignments?"

  A dark cloud descended, surrounding him, swallowing him whole until he almost choked on his disdain. Bitterness and resentment surfaced. He wanted to close his eyes until the feeling passed and he could breathe easy again.

  "You don't need to tell me," she said, concern evident in her tone. "Forget I mentioned it."

  Was he so transparent? Could she see the pain in his eyes?

  "The marks have nothing to do with an assignment." He couldn't look at her, yet felt compelled to reveal his secret, t
o let her know why he behaved the way he did. Staring at the naked flame as it flickered back and forth, he said, "I was eighteen when my mother died at the hands of that bastard."

  He stopped as raucous laughter filled the room: a response to some silly joke. Yet in his warped mind, it sounded like his father's mocking jeers.

  Anna put her hand on his sleeve. "You speak of your father?"

  "He is no father to me." He covered her hand with his own, the heat warming him to his core, and she did not object. "He provided the necessary funds for us to have a reasonably comfortable life. My mother was so pleased when he agreed to pay for my education. But he grew angry when I refused to visit him during the holidays, stopped paying the rent whilst I was away at school. She died in the workhouse, and I knew nothing of her plight."

  He could feel his throat closing tight until he gasped for breath.

  She leant forward and brushed the lock of hair from his brow. By God, he wanted to take her in his arms as a way to banish the Devil from his door.

  "She died alone, Anna. I never got the chance to thank her for all she'd done for me."

  A tear trickled down her cheek, and she pursed her lips, pressing them together tightly.

  "When I confronted him, he had his valet hold me down while he horsewhipped me for my insolence. I have not set eyes on him since that day."

  He stared into her brilliant blue eyes, taking in their radiance as though they held a magical ability to heal all pain. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the two men walk behind the counter and disappear through a door at the back.

  Marcus exhaled, shook his head to bring his mind back to the present.

  "Anna, I need you to do something for me."

  "Whatever you need," she said. Her willingness to trust him caused his heart to soar.

  "In a moment, I want you to shout at me, slap me hard across the face, grab your cape and march out of the door." He ignored her gasp. "Once outside, I want you to walk to your right, around to the side of the inn and wait for me there. Can you do that?"

  Anna nodded though the confusion in her eyes suggested she had a thousand questions.

  "You must make it look realistic," he continued. "Feel free to proceed whenever—"

  The loud crack stung his skin. Even though he'd been expecting it, he almost jumped from the chair.

  "Leave me alone," she cried, leaping up and throwing her cape around her shoulders.

  "Anna, wait!" He called after her as she opened the door and disappeared out into the night.

  Good, he thought, as numerous heads dropped as he met their curious gazes. Shrugging into his greatcoat, he threw a few coins on the table and raced out of the inn in search of his enchanting accomplice.

  Chapter 11

  Her hand stung. Her fingers throbbed where she had slapped him hard across his cheek. It had happened quickly. She'd been too scared to wait. The violent act prevented her from doing the only thing she desperately craved. It stopped her pulling him into an embrace in a bid to soothe the pain she knew festered like an open wound deep inside.

  Wrapping her cape tightly around her, she turned right as instructed, stopping halfway along the outside wall of the inn to wait for him. The sound of her ragged breathing cut into the stillness of the night. Her emotions were raw, fragile, but it had nothing to do with the haunting memories of Victor.

  With trembling fingers, Anna touched her chest. The wild, erratic thumping was a result of two conflicting emotions: shock and her desire for Marcus Danbury. For days, she had tried to ignore it, pushed those thoughts aside. Her feelings were harder to identify or define, having felt nothing but disdain for most men.

  The obvious questions demanded her attention.

  Could she trust him?

  Were his amorous protestations genuine?

  Or in the end, would he prove to be a worthless scoundrel?

  Before she had a chance to rouse a coherent response, he charged around the side of the inn, his greatcoat flapping behind him like huge brown wings. He appeared every bit the Devil's angel: dark, brooding, a dangerous disciple on a mission to wreak havoc.

  He tapped his finger to his lips as he came to stand in front of her. "We must whisper now," he said, his broad frame swamping her.

  She tried to focus on the assignment. After all, it must surely be the reason behind his odd request to hit him. But his unique masculine scent filled her head, travelled through her body sparking every nerve to life.

  He pressed closer. "I'll just take a look around the back of the inn."

  She felt the loss instantly, her body shivering as if exposed to a bitter breeze. Why tonight? Why was she suddenly so aware of him now? Hearing his sad tale had affected her deeply.

  Then he came back, standing closer still, his head just a few inches away from hers. His soft breath brushed across her cheek like a lover's caress.

  Good heavens.

  Was it the wine?

  "The men are moving contraband from the cellar," he whispered against her ear. "There's a wooden hatch in the ground back there. We need to listen for a few minutes."

  His muscular thigh brushed against her leg causing a bolt of heat to pool, her core throbbing and pulsing in response.

  "How … how many men are there?"

  God help her! Surely he must hear it in her voice — the overwhelming need, the deep longing.

  "Two, plus Lenard."

  In the darkness, she couldn't see the raised red imprint of her hand on his cheek, yet she imagined the size and the shape as a way of focusing her mind.

  "Shuffle closer," he said, tugging the edge of her cape and pulling her nearer to the end of the wall.

  Deep masculine whispers drifted through the air, the odd curse, a few groans, but she felt no fear.

  Why would she?

  She had lived with a devil for years. Nothing could ever surpass the horrors she had witnessed. Besides, she felt safe with Marcus. Just knowing he would protect her with his life caused her heart to swell.

  Indeed, it proved to be the biggest revelation of all.

  She had never trusted anyone. Yet despite his arrogant facade, she knew she could depend on him. Desire hit her again as she gazed up at his chiselled jaw, at the wavy locks tied at his nape, and she felt forced to clear her throat to suppress it.

  "Shush," Marcus whispered.

  "Did you hear something?" Lenard's voice received a mixture of replies from his devious counterparts. "Someone's out there."

  "Bloody hell," Marcus cursed. "Forgive me." She was about to ask why, when he pushed her back against the wall. "If you want to live don't fight me."

  He claimed her mouth without any hesitation, without the teasing nips and caresses she'd expected. He didn't give her a chance to tell him she had never kissed a man. Victor had brushed her lips roughly on occasion, but nothing more.

  Marcus angled his head, traced the line of her lips with his tongue and then plunged deep inside — wild and frantic. She tried to calm her breathing, tried not to choke on her inexperience. He tasted of wine, of some other potent flavour that made her head feel light and dizzy.

  He tore his lips from hers, moved to nuzzle her neck and she almost sagged to the ground. "You had better start kissing me back. Else I'll be dragged off you and beaten to a pulp."

  He parted her cape, his hand drifting over her hip as he claimed her mouth again. This time, she tried to clear her mind, tried to draw from the desire she felt for him. Heavens she couldn't tell him the truth. She would have to act as though she knew what she was doing.

  When his hand moved slowly up to cup her breast, things became much easier. The throbbing between her thighs returned, a frisson of excitement ran through her and so she followed his lead. Putting her hand on his hip, she tugged the shirt from his breeches, dared to let her fingers roam beneath the material, dared to let her tongue dance with his.

  She sensed the shift in him immediately. The groan resonating from the back of his throat gave her more con
fidence to experiment. His skin felt hot to the touch, searing the tips of her fingers as they drifted over the rippled muscles in his abdomen, but his waistcoat prevented her from exploring further. Instead, she moved her hands to his nape, threaded her fingers into his hair and tugged gently.

  In the distance, she heard a low chuckle, French mutterings, someone saying to leave them be, that they'd best be on their way.

  She expected Marcus to pull away when she heard them slam the wooden hatch. But he continued his sensual assault, cupping her cheeks to deepen the kiss.

  "God, Anna," he whispered as he stopped to catch his breath. "You make me insane with desire."

  She felt her face flush, shocked at the realisation that she wanted him to kiss her again.

  Without thinking, she stood on the tips of her toes and brushed her mouth softly across his. The taste of him, the earthy masculine smell that clung to his skin was like a potent elixir. The addictive essence fed her craving.

  "I was expecting another slap." He raised an arrogant brow as his heated gaze lingered on her lips. "Although you seemed to be a willing participant."

  "What choice did I have?" Her body still ached for his touch. "You jumped on me before I had a chance to protest."

  The corners of his mouth curled up into a sinful smirk. "I have to admit I was a little surprised. I liked the way you feigned naiveté just for my benefit."

  If she told him the truth, he would never believe her.

  "I'm pleased you approve," she said offering a coy smile to disguise her embarrassment. "I thought it best to add a little more authenticity to our charade."

  The lie fell easily from her lips. She couldn't imagine there would be a need to kiss him again, so he need never know any different.

  Without any warning, he lowered his head and kissed her once: a soft, chaste kiss on the mouth. Perhaps he had heard her thoughts and wished to protest.

  "What was that for?" she asked playfully, despite feeling a frisson of fear. She wanted him to kiss her a hundred times. This strange and sudden need she had for him felt like a living thing growing inside, increasing with every touch, with every sinful look, every kind, thoughtful word.