Marcus would never admit it later, not even to himself, but he flinched. Very well, it was more than a flinch. He went rigid with shock, lost his grip altogether, scrabbled uselessly at the wall for a split second, and then fell to the ground like a rock.
Thud.
He landed flat on his back, no wind left in his lungs. His teeth snapped hard on his tongue and his brain rattled in his skull.
First thought—Ow.
Second thought—What in the hell was that?
The Beast of Barrowby? Surely not. Yet, whatever it was, it was undoubtedly large and predatory and Marcus had no intention of being prey. He dragged air back into his lungs and scrambled to his feet with his back pressed to the wall of the house.
How could anyone have slept through that horrible noise? Unless they were used to it—or, more likely, knew the source and discounted it? Which meant that everyone in this house knew something he didn’t.
Marcus just hated that.
The roar did not repeat. He almost wished it would. Fleeing—er, making a strategic retreat—from a beast would be easier if one knew where said beast was located.
Searching through the shadowy grounds of a strange estate for some mighty beast—as rabidly as his curiosity twitched within him—proved too stupid a concept for even his rash nature.
No, better to leave while he still had the chance. He carefully, silently left the way he’d come, a mere shadow among shadows. The secret of the beast could wait.
A stick cracked behind him.
Julia was still fuming over the invasion of her valued privacy. It seemed some of her erstwhile suitors would take more convincing than others.
Now fully dressed, she pulled one slipper over her stocking foot and reached for the other. If it was that overeager bore Eames, she was going to stuff his pompous—
Suddenly a great roar shattered the morning quiet—a roar that most definitely wasn’t coming from the specially heated stable addition she’d had built as far from the horses as possible.
Nor was that the “I’m bored and need entertainment” roar, or the “someone forgot to feed me” roar.
That was the hunting roar.
She jumped to her feet and ran from her bedchamber, hopping on one foot to pull on her other slipper as she went. She was joined in the hallway by Beppo and Pickles, moving at a run. There was no need to exchange words—the entire staff knew what to do.
Sebastian was loose—and there was a stranger on the grounds.
The beast stood on Marcus’s chest, its great weight pressing the life from his lungs, its hot, stinking breath bringing up primordial instincts of fear, its mighty jaws opening wide to—
There wasn’t a single bloody tooth in its mouth. Not even one lone, ivory survivor.
Oh, this was just perfect. “Bloody hell,” Marcus wheezed. “You’re someone’s blasted pet, aren’t you?”
The lion leaned down and snuffled his face, drooling enthusiastically on his cheek. Marcus gasped for air as the great weight shifted to press more heavily on his chest.
“Ge-orff!” He shoved at the broad muzzle with both hands. Stars were beginning to spin before his vision but he noticed the lion’s miffed expression as its friendly overtures were refused. Maybe if he kept offending it, it would go away.
“You’re molting”—gasp—”and you drool”—gasp—”and you really ought to chew mint leaves for that breath—”
The sound of lightly running steps came closer. “Oh!” A feminine noise of disapproval followed. “Shame on you, Mr. Blythe-Goodman! What a terrible thing to say to a poor, defenseless animal!”
Marcus rolled his eyes upward to see an upside-down Lady Barrowby glaring at him with her fists on her hips.
“It isn’t”—gasp—”listening anyway. Get the bloody thing”—gasp—“off!”
Her expression told him quite plainly that she considered him to be the greatest pansy ever to walk the earth, but she knelt to the grass and held out her arms.
“Sebastian,” she cooed to the colossal, malodorous creature. “Come to Mummy, my darling!”
The beast finally climbed off Marcus. Unfortunately, it traveled in the direction of its mistress, which meant that the enormous hind feet also left permanent impressions on Marcus’s rib cage and he saw more of the undercarriage of the great cat than he truly cared to. It was enough to make a man bloody insecure.
“Unhh.” He rolled to one side and spared a moment to drag sweet, lovely, untainted-by-beast-breath air into his tortured lungs. At least now he knew the secret of the Beast of Barrowby. Alas, the answer only raised more questions.
His breathing returned to normal and his rib cage apparently still operational, Marcus looked up at the Beauty of Barrowby where she sat with her Beast. His mouth went dry, for she wore a morning gown of some filmy pale blue fabric that draped closely to her curves as she lounged half over the golden beast to scratch the thing on its opposite ear. Her bodice barely won the day against the bounty of her creamy bosom and her golden hair hung loose on her shoulders. Marcus’s wayward mind flashed on some of the more erotic passages he’d read in her diary, pelting him with thoughts of bare, wet breasts and round, eager thighs that wrapped hungrily about his waist—
Yet imagination could not compare with the real woman before him. She was a bountiful pagan goddess of fire and ice—one that made a man consider abandoning his religion to worship at her feet.
That or ravaging her unto mutual madness, preferably on a lion-skin rug.
Both were dangerous thoughts for a man on a mission.
She took her attention off soothing the hurt feelings of the lion long enough to shoot him an assessing glance. “What brings you to Barrowby so early today, Mr. Blythe-Goodman?” She laid her head on the beast’s broad skull and gazed at Marcus coolly.
“My deepest apologies, my lady.” Marcus made to stand, but one look at the great cat’s eerie, alert, golden gaze cautioned him to stay where he was.
He arranged himself on the ground with somewhat more dignity, leaning on one hand with his other elbow supported by a raised knee. A casual, picnicking sort of pose, not at all as if he feared another round with the Breath of Death. “I was taking my morning constitutional and I fear I strayed too close to Barrowby in my enjoyment of the day.”
The excuse was weak as hell, a fact that could not have escaped her, considering that Barrowby extended for miles in every direction, but she only nodded slowly. “It is lovely in the morning, isn’t it?” She smiled down at the lion in her embrace. “Sebastian couldn’t bear to stay in his stable on such a warm day.”
“It was a most memorable walk.” He gave her his best careless grin. It wasn’t as good as Elliot’s but it had worked more than once.
To his surprise, she looked away, small spots of color rising in each cheek. It was the sort of response one might expect from a schoolgirl, not a wicked widow. It caused an answering, protective response in himself. Defend the maiden. He examined that response with detachment, decided it was only to be expected from a gentleman of his caliber, and dismissed it.
Nonetheless, he went on his guard. The chivalrous man within didn’t seem to have many defenses against her gamesmanship. That man saw a sweet, untarnished beauty who needed protection and devotion.
Stupid fellow. Marcus knew better.
But damn, she was good.
She’d had a lover, perhaps many. She’d likely drawn in man after man with that dewy, “protect me now” façade …
“Oftimes the best way to play a target is to use their own game.”
Wise words from the Prime Minister—and quite probably the answer to Marcus’s dilemma. He had the advantage. He knew her deepest weakness, her lustful nature … he also knew she found him attractive despite her caution.
There might be a reasonable explanation for the exotic pet. There might be a rational purpose behind the strange household staff. There might even be some sort of understandable reason for the wicked diaries—although he doubted it.
Yet he would never know unless he became closer to her—much, much closer.
As usual, he acted instantly.
He stood smoothly, one eye on the lion, who did not object this time. Marcus bowed deeply, smiled, and held out his hand. “My lady, would you care to walk with me through the garden?”
Julia blinked at the inviting light in his green eyes. The garden? There was little to see there but mulch and brown vines … yet her hand rose to nestle into his anyway.
“Yes,” she heard herself say. “That would be lovely.”
6
The scent of the rose petals beneath seep into my bare skin until I feel steeped in perfume and passion and him.
Well, damn. Marcus looked about him in alarm. The garden was a mess, all brown and dry. The rose garden he’d pictured from her diary entry was nothing but rows of skeletal sticks, truncated a foot from the ground. There was nothing but stripped vines covering the grim stone walls and nothing but yellowed grass and gravel on the ground. In the pearly morning light it looked more like a graveyard than a garden.
How was a bloke supposed to stage a seduction in such surroundings?
Lady Barrowby walked slightly ahead of him down the gravel path, her hands clasped behind her back. He noticed that her fingers were twisting together. Another display of girlish nerves from the Beauty of Barrowby?
That was reassuring, but also a reminder of their other companion, the great Beast who padded along at the lady’s side, his tail twitching ominously.
Why was he having so much trouble with this mission? He knew what he needed to do and he knew how to make her respond to him. He was a charming fellow usually, prone to making ladies smile and flip their fans his way. What was it about Lady Barrowby that left him tongue-tied with mingled lust and fury?
Lust he’d felt before, so it must be the fury. He’d charmed the knickers off a few widows in his time, but he’d never faced one who held the power to destroy his dreams.
He was going to have to put his mission from his mind, that was all. He was going to have to pretend that she was just another pretty widow, albeit one with a penchant for lions and making love out of doors.
He bottled his fury, stoppered it and put it away for the day he would need it—the day he destroyed her. Finally, with a mind cleansed of anger, he stepped smartly up to her side and smiled down upon her with easy sincerity. “Lovely day, is it not?”
She blinked in surprise. Surely he’d not been all that much of a bear?
“Well,” she said slowly. “It is chill and damp, I don’t have a wrap, and I think I smell something dead over in the alliums.”
“No,” he said firmly. “It is a lovely day.” He shrugged free of his coat and slipped it over her shoulders. “You do have a wrap.” He steered her away from the alleged deceased down a pretty path lined by small trees whose arching branches in the summer must have met overhead in a charming shade. “And I don’t smell anything but roses.”
Thankfully, the Beast preferred to investigate the smellier portion of the garden and left them to their own devices.
She snorted. “Nicely done. The roses, however, exist only in your imagination, I fear.”
He leaned close and inhaled deeply. Her eyes grew wide at his forward behavior.
“No,” he said, his voice a caress. “I most definitely smell roses.”
He saw her swallow hard and hot triumph flared within him. He fought it down. He was Marcus Blythe-Goodman now and Blythe-Goodman actually liked Lady Barrowby.
He straightened and grinned down at her. “Your name is not Julia,” he declared, apropos of nothing.
She went very still. “W-what did you say?”
Interesting reaction, but to be stored away for later review. Now, he lightly touched a gloved finger to the tip of her nose. “I dub thee Helen, or perhaps Persephone.”
Her breath gusted in a small, relieved laugh. “Oh, you are stuffed like a sausage full of blarney, Mr. Blythe-Goodman. And here I thought you a more discerning sort.” She turned away, shaking her head.
He caught her hand and pulled her back to him. “Why?” He moved closer. “Because I compared you to legendary beauties?” He kept his voice low and intimate. “Or because I think you are a woman to tempt the gods?”
Her eyes locked on his. He felt her fingers tremble in his and felt his own body answer her shiver. Her lips parted and her warm breath feathered against his mouth.
“And are you tempted?” she whispered.
Hot need ignited in him and this time he let it flare. There was no chill now. Instead, there was heat, between them and around them, until Marcus feared they would set the desiccated garden aflame.
There was a ruin ahead, a garden affectation that had been fashionable a generation ago. Marcus took her hand tightly in his and dragged her several feet down the path until he came to the raised dais of the Roman-style temple.
Then he turned and wrapped his hands about her waist and lifted her to stand on the dais. She gasped, breathless from their run. Her cheeks were pink and her blue eyes alarmed. He liked her that way. “Mr. Bl—”
He couldn’t wait another moment. He kissed her hard, with his hands in her hair and his body pressed to hers.
The hell of it was, she kissed him back.
She was going to hell, there was no doubt about it. Here she was, a widow of only a week, kissing another man.
And oh, sweet heaven, what a kiss!
His mouth was hot and needful and his hands were pulling her hair too hard and she felt his erection pressing into her belly through the layers of her gown—
She became aware that her own hands were fisted white-knuckled in the front of his weskit and she was making sure that her lower body didn’t miss a bit of his.
And she’d never, ever heard that pleading hungry sound come from her own throat before.
No. I am not that woman.
She pushed him away, shoving hard against his shoulders until he staggered back. He stood there, his gaze blank with lust for a long moment.
“Sir, I fear you’ve gained the wrong impression of me.”
He shook his head sharply and passed a hand over his face. “I am most assuredly impressed, my lady, but I think I am in the wrong.” He laughed regretfully. “Have no fear, Lady Barrowby, I think I am definitely going to pay for overstepping so severely.” He bowed. “My deepest apologies and my most heartfelt thanks. Good day.”
With that confusing remark, he turned briskly on his heel and strode away, leaving his coat about her shoulders and a small helpless smile on her face.
Impressed, was he? And here that had been her very first kiss.
Marcus strode from the sleeping garden with his head down, fighting his own compulsion to return to the heat and pent-up passion that was Julia.
She’d kissed him as if she’d been waiting all her life for his lips on hers. God, she was a seductive creature. He reminded himself of all the men who had come before him. She had filled volumes with her exploits, for pity’s sake!
The hell of it was, he ought to go back for the sake of his mission. He ought to press her, to work his advantage, to seduce the seducer—
“You bloody piker.” There was no mistaking Elliot’s supercilious drawl. Marcus lifted his head to see Elliot standing in the drive with the reins of two horses in his hands. A groom came forward to take them from him, but Elliot shook his head sharply. “No, Mr. Blythe-Goodman was just leaving.”
Marcus narrowed his eyes, for it certainly seemed that he was about to embark on a journey. There stood his stallion alongside Elliot’s nag, fresh and shiny from his pampering in the Middlebarrow stable, fully saddled and packed with what looked to be everything Marcus had brought with him on this mission.
“You really orta let me take them ‘orses, sir.”
Elliot ignored the groom, who shrugged helplessly and turned back to the stables.
“You cleaned out my room at the inn.” He turned his gaze back to Elliot. “How though
tful of you.”
“Yes. I stopped by there late last night to tell you ‘no hard feelings’ and what did I behold? You weren’t in bed as you’d claimed. I waited, thinking you’d decided to visit the privy after all the ale you drank, when it occurred to me that you spent the evening nursing a single flagon. And if you weren’t drowning your sorrows, you had a reason to make me think you were.”
“You came up with all that on your own?”
Elliot did not ease his glare. “I’m smarter than I look.”
Marcus folded his arms. “One would hope.”
“So I searched your room.”
Marcus blinked. “You’re bloody cool about it.”
Elliot nodded slowly. “Do you know what I learned about you last night?”
Not a bloody thing. He’d made sure there was no evidence of his real identity in his belongings.
“Not a bloody thing,” Elliot said. “No letters, no medals from the war, no miniatures of your mother. Tell me, what sort of fellow carries nothing personal with him?”
An idiot, apparently. Damn, he ought to have fabricated Blythe-Goodman more carefully. And he sure as hell ought to have investigated Elliot No-surname immediately!
“So I decided to give you a hand with your packing. No real point in you staying on, after all.” Elliot held out the reins. “Mount up. Your visit to Middlebarrow is over.”
“Leaving so soon, Mr. Blythe-Goodman?”
Marcus turned to see Lady Barrowby exit the garden. He was about to answer her when Sebastian followed her through the open gate.
The two horses went instantly mad with fear. Elliot was pulled from his feet as both his nag and Marcus’s stallion reared and spun about to race away down the drive. The groom came running back at the equine screams, but he was too late to do anything but help Elliot from the gravel as they all watched the shiny haunches of the horses disappear down the long drive. All except Elliot, of course, who gaped at Sebastian, blinking forcefully as if he were trying to convince himself that he wasn’t really mad.
“Told you I ’orta had took them ’orses,” the groom muttered.
“Thank you, Quentin,” Lady Barrowby said with warning in her voice. “Do put Sebastian to his breakfast, if you will.”
Celeste Bradley - [Royal Four 03] Page 7
