Peg blushed fiercely, wrenched her hand free, stared at it, then back at Marcus. She blinked and dropped a curtsey. "Mornin', sir."
"Do I smell fresh bread? It's mouthwatering..."
His smile was a thing of handsome perfection and Peg succumbed immediately. "Sit yourself down, sir. It'll be ready directly. I suppose you've a hearty appetite this mornin'. Men always do after a hard night's work."
"They do indeed." One eyebrow lifted as Marcus darted a quick—and totally wicked—glance in Mariah's direction. She wondered if every woman surrendered to him as easily as Peg had done.
She felt the color creep into her cheeks and opened her mouth to respond, but a thundering at her front door froze the words and she jumped. "Good grief. Who could that be at this hour of the morning?"
"Want me to see, Mariah?" Peg put a pot of jam on the table and straightened her apron.
"No, I'll go. You feed Sir Marcus. He's probably anxious to get on his way." Mariah turned and headed from the kitchen.
"Leavin' us so soon then, are you, sir?" Peg's words followed Mariah, but she missed his response as more knocks pounded loudly and she rushed to answer the summons.
George Dart stood against the rising sun, flushed and angry, as Mariah swung the heavy oak open. His first words were loud and succinct. "Where is she?"
"George, this is very early to make such a racket." Mariah swallowed as she looked at him.
He was a big man, burly from his work in the fields and given to an appallingly bad temper at times. It got a lot worse after a few tankards of Mulligan's best down at the inn, but Mariah doubted he'd had any at this hour. She stood her ground.
"She's here, ain't she?"
"Nell? You're looking for Nell?" Mariah asked the question, knowing the answer before it came.
"O' course I'm lookin' fer Nell. If a man wakes up of a mornin' and finds his woman not makin' his breakfast, nor anyplace in the house, there's only one likely spot he'll be findin' her." His eyebrows nearly met as he snarled at Mariah. "Here."
He was angry, no two ways about it. Angry and hurt, perhaps, or worried—Mariah didn't know. She still kept her hand firmly on the door. "George, I don't know if she's here. I haven't checked the parlor this morning. And you know the rules." She lifted her chin and stared defiantly at him. "If Nell is here, then she's here for a reason. And most likely that reason is you. Now I suggest you take a walk and cool off a little. I'll see if I can find Nell. If I can't, I'll send you word. If you don't hear anything, then you'll know Nell is safe and will be home soon."
"Not good enough." Belligerent and clearly not willing to take no for an answer, George pushed at the door. "I want Nell now."
"I think not."
The voice behind her made Mariah jump and gave George reason to pause. It wasn't so much the words as the tone in which they were spoken.
Marcus had come silently into the hall and was now staring at the man on the doorstep, unblinking, expressionless—and altogether different than Mariah had ever seen him look.
There was an aura of powerful menace emanating from him, naked chest notwithstanding.
It was sufficient to defuse George, whose temper deflated within seconds and who stepped back, respectfully touching his forelock. "Sorry, sir. Didn't know Mrs. Dean had company."
Calmly, Marcus moved forward, stepping between Mariah and George. "I believe Mistress Dean has made a sensible suggestion. I would strongly encourage you to follow her instructions. Do I make myself clear?"
Mariah swallowed from behind the protection of his broad shoulders. Dear heavens, if she could only master that tone of voice, that air of command. But then again, it was probably an essentially male sort of thing. Two men facing each other down—she wouldn't be able to pull it off.
Pity, though. Such a skill would certainly make her life a lot easier.
It did now. George nodded and mumbled an apology, shuffling off her front steps and back along the path into the trees.
Mariah sighed and shut the door. "Well, thank goodness." She turned to find herself nose to skin with Marcus. He hadn't budged an inch.
"Suppose you tell me what the devil's going on?"
Still quiet, still menacing. And a bit angry himself too, if Mariah was any judge.
"Nothing to worry about." She stepped back and waved a hand airily, then patted him on the chest. "I expect you'll want to be on your way now that the sun's risen. Did Peg make sure you had breakfast? There's probably something we can wrap for your journey—"
Her polite phrases were ignored and her attempt to stroll back into the kitchen halted by a hard grasp on her arm.
"At the risk of repeating myself, I think not. What I just saw is most unsettling. I couldn't possibly depart knowing my fiancée might be in any kind of physical danger."
Mariah frowned at him. "You're not my fiancé." She hissed the words quietly.
"As of last night, my darling, matters changed." He pulled her close to his heat. "We shared a bed, in case you've forgotten."
"Of course I haven't forgotten. But it was for one night only, you idiot." Harassed and a bit confused, Mariah took refuge in a small bout of temper. "We agreed. One night in payment and you'd be leaving this morning."
"You agreed. I didn't." His gaze roamed over her face and came to rest on her lips. "And I'm glad I didn't. I want more."
"What?"
"You heard me. You are a wanton hell-raiser between the sheets, Mariah mine. Do you think I could walk away after one taste?" His lips softened. "There's so much more of you I've yet to sample."
"But-but—" Mariah struggled to get her mind to accept his words.
"So in the meantime, I intend to dress and then listen politely while you tell me what the bloody hell's going on around here. All of it."
He finally released her and it seemed as though her lungs suddenly started working again. She sucked in a breath. "I see no reason at all—"
"Doesn't matter. I do. That's more than enough." He headed for the stairs, stopping on the first one. "And don't think you can lie to me, my sweet. Remember..." He paused and glanced around the empty hall before lowering his voice. "I've fucked you. I was inside you when you fell apart. I know your face now, how your eyes change with every thought, every passion. I shall know if you lie."
He nodded at her and mounted the stairs, leaving Mariah seething in the hall.
And with an odd little flicker of happiness jiggling excitedly in the background of her brain.
*~*~*~*
Marcus dressed without realizing it, caught in the grip of a rather unusual fury.
He was not unused to violence—God knew he'd seen and experienced enough of it in the last year or so. But violence against women had never found favor in his eyes and to hear someone threatening Mariah, or at least menacing her—well, it had sent a red haze across his vision.
Which was unlike him and confused the hell out of him.
Where this sudden need to protect her had come from, he couldn't begin to imagine. He just knew it was there. If anyone so much as laid a finger on her, he'd—he'd—ripping them limb from limb seemed an acceptable course of action right at that moment.
At some point between his arrival on the beach last night and his appearance in the hall this morning, he'd developed a strong possessiveness about Mistress Mariah Dean that would brook no interference.
Whether it was her body, her wit, her independence—or whether it was the way she'd given herself to him so completely when he took her—whatever it was, it was there. He knew that wherever the roots of this emotion lay, he'd have to face them and deal with them.
One thing was sure. It would appear his "quest" might be over.
Mariah was his.
He knew it to the very bottom of his gut, to the depths of his soul and probably to the soles of the boots he was pulling on at that moment. He'd found his woman, his mate. He couldn't imagine fucking another, not now, not after he'd sunk himself to the balls in Mariah's heat.
&
nbsp; He could imagine doing it again and again. He could—and this was a first for him—imagine spending a long and contented lifetime doing it again. He could even summon the odd thought about children; the vision of her stomach swollen with his son stirred him even as he dismissed it.
Too soon. Much too soon.
He could see all these things, but there was one small impediment to his roseate future fantasy. The lady herself.
Things were going on around her that he didn't understand. And because of that fact, he wasn't the blissfully happy man he should have been at this moment. He was irritated, anxious to get to the bottom of matters and then move on with the "claiming" stuff.
At length.
Marcus shook his head at himself as he glanced quickly into the old warped mirror over Mariah's dresser. For quite some time now, he'd been wondering if there was a woman out there who would capture his heart. In his imaginings, she'd been elegant, aristocratic, exciting in bed and devoted to him.
Other than exciting beyond belief in bed, Mariah certainly didn't fit his requirements in any way at all.
Except—she was the one.
She was a countrywoman, independent to a fault and other than one great night in bed with him, apparently wanted him gone from her presence and her life. She wasn't elegant, couldn't be described as an incomparable by anyone's stretch of the imagination and she'd made it quite clear she'd expected him to take his leave. Immediately, if not sooner.
Hah. She was going to have to rethink that little misconception.
Dressed and ready to face whatever the day might bring, Marcus left the bedroom. There was no doubt in his mind that his fiancée would indeed be exactly that before too long and his wife shortly thereafter.
Exactly how he was going to accomplish this remained to be seen, especially since the woman in question was glaring angrily at him from the kitchen door as he came down the stairs once more.
"You have to leave."
"Really? Why?" Marcus strolled toward her.
"Because—because—you just do, that's all." Her frown was quite intimidating.
Marcus, however, wasn't intimidated in the least. "Not good enough, sweetheart." He ambled past her into the kitchen. "Why don't we have a cup of tea and you can explain to me exactly why you think I ought to depart."
A snort of aggravation accompanied him as Mariah stalked angrily to the kettle and fluttered over a teapot. "One cup of tea."
Although the way she was banging things around, Marcus wondered if there'd be any crockery left to serve it in. "No sugar, thank you." His lips twisted into a little grin. She was definitely making her growly noise again.
"And while we're enjoying our morning refreshment together, you can tell me what I want to know." He pulled out a chair and sat down comfortably, stretching his legs and crossing them at the ankles as he watched her. "Start with the smuggling."
"It isn't smuggling." The kettle met the hob with considerable force, as did the teapot and its lid.
"What would you call it?"
"Free trading."
Marcus shrugged. "Semantics, my dear."
"Not to the men who risk their lives doing it." Mariah turned and thumped his tea down on the table in front of him.
He leaned back, avoiding the inevitable slosh of liquid and carefully picked up the cup. "All right. So it's free trading. I won't argue. I just want to know why you're involved."
She sighed and sat, slumping a little as if her temper had fled and taken the starch out of her spine along with it. Staring at her cup, Marcus tried to put himself in her place. She was confused, certainly. She seemed to trust him and he'd shown her last night that he was no particular friend of the revenue brigades.
"Mariah, please tell me. I'm not about to run to the authorities. Can't you place a little trust in me?"
Gray eyes lifted to meet his gaze and for a few seconds, Marcus felt he was being measured—evaluated in some way he couldn't quite put his finger on. It was a tiny bit unsettling to a man who was usually on the giving end of such a look, not the receiving end.
She straightened. "Very well."
Aha. Now the truth will out.
"If you've traveled at all recently, you know that things are not smooth sailing for a lot of country people these days." She ran her finger absently around the rim of her cup. "There's not enough money, a lot of times not enough food. And there are often too many new mouths to feed. Soldiers returning home—being apart from their wives for so long—well, it's a natural consequence."
Marcus nodded. This wasn't news to anyone with eyes in their head. Waterloo and Bonaparte's defeat might have been a military victory, but the aftereffects of war could be equally devastating in more subtle and personal ways.
"So, being seafaring men, our local lads turned to activities that would bring in a few extra coins. Often the difference between life and death."
"Makes sense. I can't quite see where you come in though."
She sighed. "These men have families, Marcus. Youngsters. They're not proud of what they have to do to survive and would prefer their children not know if at all possible. I offered to be their lookout instead of them finding someone either less reliable, less trustworthy or them asking one of their wives to leave the children and spend hours on the beach with a lantern, waiting for them."
"I see." Marcus kept his thoughts to himself, sensing there was more to come.
"I also managed to arrange for the distribution of their cargoes."
"Hmm."
She glanced at him briefly, then returned to her study of her teacup. "I have a slight reputation as someone with intelligence, a person of reasonable stature hereabouts. Being a widow—my late husband was a sort of magistrate when he was sober enough to consider it—people trust me. I do my best to make sure I keep that trust."
Marcus sipped his tea and thought about what she'd said. It made sense and he told her so. "A flawless plan. I would guess that the families think no more than that dear father is enjoying a few tankards at the inn. The men themselves know there's someone in charge, waiting for them, ready to signal whatever needs to be signaled." He thought some more. "A discreet and reputable widow walking at night on the beach, especially one known to live nearby—well, it would occasion little or no comment from the curious. Just as landowners, or local gentry, might not be in the least bit surprised or curious were said reputable widow to mention over tea that she had access to some—what—unexpected stores of fine brandy?"
"Something like that, yes."
"And what do you get out of it?"
Mariah blinked. "Nothing. Nothing at all." She seemed surprised at the question.
"No golden guineas to be tucked away for impetuous purchases of furbelows and jewels?"
She swallowed and her stare turned frosty. "If that's what you think of me, then you may leave now. This conversation is ended."
Marcus held up a hand, deflecting her anger. "I had to ask. 'Twas a natural question. The men are gaining the extra money..." He let his voice trail off.
"And you wonder what I am gaining?"
He lifted an eyebrow in response.
"I'm gaining the knowledge that a dozen families will still have a father in the morning. That there will be enough food on the table to feed them all for another few weeks or so." Her cheeks flushed. "Is that not more than enough?"
"For some, yes. For many people it would barely rate a moment's consideration next to the potential for financial gain."
"Those are not people I care to know."
She was fiery, passionate about her beliefs. Marcus hadn't really seen this aspect of her until now. She launched into a detailed description of some of the families and the hardships they'd endured. At no time did she mention if—or how—she'd offered assistance, but Marcus was prepared to bet his last pair of boots that she'd given whatever she could possibly part with.
Her home was clean, tidy and furnished. But not richly or elegantly appointed. Her larder—well, he'd have
to see how much food she had laid by for her own needs.
He was beginning to fill in little areas of the picture of Mariah he'd begun painting in his mind. There were many facets of this woman he'd yet to uncover and he found he was rather looking forward to it.
He could, in fact, spend a lifetime learning about her. And probably not experience one dull moment while he was doing it, either.
He grinned, surprising her.
"What?" Mariah looked at him in question. "Is my conversation amusing you?"
Marcus kept on grinning. "Not at all. I like watching you talk when you're passionate about something."
"Oh." She seemed a little uncertain. "Are you mocking me?"
"Absolutely not."
"Well. Um—good. That's—er—good then." Mariah bit her lip and watched him, a puzzled look in her eyes.
And it was at that moment, with a confused gray gaze fixed on his face and a cup of tea rapidly cooling on the simple table in front of him, that Sir Marcus Camberley parted company with his mind and uttered the unthinkable.
"Marry me?"
Chapter Five
Mariah couldn't help but laugh.
Really, this man was a constant source of humor, charm and surprises. Of course, he couldn't be serious.
"No." She chuckled as she collected the cups and took them to the sink. "Don't be silly."
"I'm not being silly." His voice sounded—odd. A little indignant.
"Yes you are." Time to put an end to this nonsense. "It's completely ridiculous and you know it." She sighed. "I've told you of the free-trading matter. Perhaps I should also tell you what else I do. Then you can leave with all your questions answered."
Marcus seemed to struggle with himself. "You do something else? Besides running this farm and acting as a lookout for smugglers?"
"Free traders." She corrected him sternly.
"Sorry."
Nervously, Mariah lifted a hand and smoothed her hair. "Even if I were to give your proposal serious thought, which I'm not since it's too absurd to even consider, I suppose I do owe you a more detailed explanation."
Buckler's Hard Page 5
