Mr. Merriweather looked up as she reached for an apron.
“Jessie! Come join us.”
“In a minute, Da.” She put the apron on over her dress and tied it in the back then went behind the counter and found her bucket and rag.
As she approached, she noticed a chess game set between the men. Da couldn’t be giving Lord Royden much of a game. When she’d first arrived, he’d shown her the small marble set. It was a prized possession that had been left by a patron years ago.
Da looked up and smiled at her. Then he stood and took the bucket from her.
“I’ll do that. You keep our guest company fer a while.”
“But…” She eyed Lord Royden suspiciously. Today he was actually dressed and she wondered absently who had helped him. The loose-fitting shirt couldn’t completely disguise the powerful set of his shoulders, and she could see part of the scar on his chest in the open vee. She did wonder how he’d gotten his breeches on over the large bandage wrapped around his leg, but not enough to try to satisfy her curiosity.
“Don’t worry, Jessie-girl.” He turned to Lord Royden. “She taught me how all the pieces move, but I don’t have a head fer all the thinkin’ needed. She’ll give you a better game than me.”
Jessie could feel a blush covering her cheeks as Lord Royden looked up at her, appreciation in his gaze. How had he so completely forgotten her? He knew she could play chess—they’d played the game exactly three times and she’d beaten him each time. After that, he refused to play with her again.
She smiled to herself. Maybe being bored meant he was willing to risk embarrassment again. Taking the seat Da vacated, she watched Lord Royden’s nimble fingers reset the pieces. They were long, graceful fingers, handling the precious pieces with care, and for a moment, she wondered what they would feel like caressing her skin.
Confusion tumbled through her. She didn’t want Lord Royden touching her. Knowing he was safely married was the only reason she was willing to bear him company now. That, and keeping tabs on whether he’d sent her uncle a message regarding her whereabouts. She’d checked the place Da normally kept outgoing mail and found nothing yesterday or today.
A mere fifteen minutes later, she was staring dumbfounded at the board as he neatly maneuvered her into a corner.
“Checkmate, Jessie-girl.” His use of the Merriweathers’ nickname for her only grated further. He smiled at her and her heart hiccupped. When had his smile become so devilish? “Although, I must protest.”
“Protest?” She looked up at him, her thoughts in disarray. “How can you protest a game you won?”
“I think you let me win.”
Her hackles rose. “I did not!”
“What? No sympathy for the injured guest?”
She bit back the retort that rose to her lips when she noted the amusement lurking in the gray depths. Teasing? Royden? She took a shaky breath and forced herself to smile.
“The bandit didn’t shoot you in the head, my lord,” she responded sweetly. “If we were running a race, I might consider some sympathy. But you’ve improved your chess game. Did you get tired of your wife beating you regularly?”
He threw back his head and laughed. The sound of his deep voice in unbridled mirth did strange things to her blood pressure and caused her to feel things she did not want to feel for him. Yet it was obvious to her he had changed considerably over the past two years. Had his wife wrought those changes?
Their fingers brushed as they reached for pieces to reset the board and she knew she hadn’t imagined the rush of sensation that surged through her at his touch. It was absurd. He was married—and not to her. She shouldn’t feel this way about someone she’d hated for the past two years.
They played another game. This time she concentrated on the board more, a difficult endeavor with her senses on alert and more in tune to the man sitting across from her than ever before. At the same time, she was impressed with his newly acquired skill. Before, he moved in reaction to her moves. Now he moved to his own strategy, and she was the one, more often than not, reacting.
They played the second game to a stalemate, a situation she’d deliberately created once she realized she couldn’t win. She wondered if he understood what she’d done.
“Bravo, Jessie-girl.”
She looked up into gray pools of admiration and couldn’t stop the warm rush of satisfaction that sped through her. With his hair bathed in the sunlight coming in the window beside him, he looked as she’d once imagined Apollo must have looked. By the end of the third game, she had to concede that he was a significantly better player than he had been two years ago, possibly better than her father, who was considered a master at the game.
He was also a better companion than he’d been two years ago. The Lord Royden she’d beat at chess two years ago often turned mulish and sullen when he lost. This Lord Royden actually laughed—laughed!—when she put him in check. Granted, he got himself out of it quite cleverly, but his former incarnation never laughed at finding himself at a disadvantage, even momentarily.
“Who taught you to play so well?” he asked.
The third game was obviously on its way to becoming another stalemate, so had been abandoned. She’d refilled his mug and fetched herself some water. Now the two of them sat, the unfinished game between them, and talked.
“My father. He loved games of strategy. Chess and backgammon were his favorites and we played often.”
“You’d probably drub me soundly into the ground at backgammon, then.”
She found herself grinning at him. “You’re safe for now. Da doesn’t have a backgammon set.”
He was in trouble. The last thing Max needed to do was fall for a woman while he was still a hunted man. He could not afford the softer emotions right now. There was still a killer on the loose. Until Max found him, his life was in limbo.
The carefree grin Jessie aimed innocently in his direction drew him in. She had no way of knowing how much he wanted to sample her lips, nor did she seem to realize how much she affected him. She called to him. Her intelligence and beauty beckoned. Mrs. Merriweather said she was a lady. Would she tell him more about herself if he asked? So far, the laudanum excuse had worked well. She needn’t know it had happened right after the war—almost five years ago—which was how he ended up framed for a murder he hadn’t committed.
His return from Waterloo hadn’t been handled well. Because of his injuries, he’d been unaware of the celebrating and boasting that accompanied his return. When he was finally coherent enough to understand what was happening, it was too late. The damage was done.
He shook his head and looked up at the wooden ceiling, feeling the cool air from outside on his temple. He couldn’t change the past, and he couldn’t change other’s actions. It wasn’t his fault comparisons had been made. But he wished an innocent hadn’t died because of it all, and he wished he’d had a chance to talk to his father before he left. Both weighed heavily on his conscience the entire time he’d been living in France.
He had come home from Waterloo a hero. Between Wellington singing his praises and Prinny lavishing him with honors, everyone knew he’d taken down a French soldier who had almost gotten past Wellington’s defenses. He’d nearly paid for that act of bravery with his life.
His father had kept him at Calderbrooke with a doctor and nurse to see to his every need. Desperate for some privacy, the day he’d gotten out of bed and walked across the room on his own, he’d sent them packing. They’d not been happy and the doctor warned him of dire consequences, but he’d had enough of the constant hovering and fawning. Perhaps he should have listened.
He closed his eyes for a moment. Even behind his eyelids, Jessie’s smile was warm and inviting, softening the mistrust he often saw in her eyes. What in the world had David done to her? Had it truly only been the attempt to force her into marriage?
Perhaps she’d tell him—after he told her the truth.
Sarah stood at the door to Lord Royden’s room chi
ding herself for the anticipation flowing through her. She was only bringing him his supper because Mona was serving the two gentlemen from London who’d taken the private parlor. Despite her waning concern over the discovery of her identity, she did not want to end up serving someone who might recognize her. Lord Royden’s company was preferable to someone from London—for now.
She balanced the tray with one hand and knocked on the door. Entering at his summons, she wasn’t surprised to find him sitting in a chair at the table. In only three days, he’d made remarkable progress. Da and his coachman had helped him downstairs earlier and the two had returned later to help him back to his room.
He had changed back into the nightshirt and dressing gown, but that didn’t make him any less appealing. Even the scar on his neck disappearing down beneath the nightshirt didn’t detract from his charm.
“Ma sent you some roast beef and potatoes,” she told him as she deposited the tray on the table. “She thinks you need fattening up.”
His boyish grin made her heart do a strange flip. Why him? Why now?
She didn’t know why, but she knew she didn’t like it. She would not fall for him again, even if he had become the most charming rascal she’d ever met.
He spread his arms and looked down at himself. “Hmm. I’m not sure. What do you think?” When he looked up at her she nearly melted into a puddle.
He’s married. She chanted it over and over. She would not think about him except as a patient and patron. Married. He was out of reach. Definitely out of her league.
Yet she couldn’t resist the warmth in his smile and reciprocated.
“I don’t think I will answer that.”
He chuckled as he picked up the napkin and laid it in his lap. She turned to go.
“Are you going to leave me all alone?”
She stilled and took a deep breath before turning to face him.
“I’ll be back with your dessert shortly. Ma made a pudding just for you.”
As she turned back to the door, he said, “Make sure you bring enough for you to join me. Sharing a sweet with a sweet will make it the perfect dessert.”
She only nodded in reply and shut the door behind her.
Married. He’s married. She resumed her mantra on the way down the stairs, willing the heat in her cheeks to recede. She could not possibly be attracted to him. Two years ago he’d tried to force her to marry him in order to get his hands on her father’s fortune. She stopped in the back hall and closed her eyes, trying to recall him two years ago. She needed to remember him as he had been then. Despicable. Devious. Dishonorable.
Unfortunately, all she saw was a smiling, handsome face with amusement lurking in deep gray eyes. Devastating. Disturbing. Desirable.
“Blast!” The unladylike exclamation fell from her lips and she looked around, relieved the hall was empty. He was turning her inside out with this new, softer side. If he’d shown her this side of himself two years ago, she might have married him and been none the wiser about his true nature.
The kitchen was barely controlled chaos. It was still early evening, but she recognized the signs. Sally, one of the girls who came in to work in the evenings, was hurriedly dishing up servings of stew and bread on the long worktable. Ma was ladling soup into bowls and passing them to Della, the other evening server, who was putting them onto trays.
“Did we get an unexpected rush?” she asked, putting the tray down on a side table. “Here, Sally, let me help.” She rushed to help the young woman lift a tray.
“Thank ’ee, Miss,” Sally declined, “but I gots it.”
“Jessie!”
She turned at the sound of Ma’s voice. “Come on over here and get his lordship’s pudding. You take it right back up. And stay there.”
Sarah frowned at the nearly panicked tone in Ma’s voice.
“What’s happened?”
“Nuthin’,” Ma answered as Della left the kitchen with a full tray. “That gang from over Tiverton way is here, an’ one o’ the stagecoach horses threw a shoe. So, don’t you go anywheres near the big room, ya hear?”
Sarah’s shoulders slumped. She was hoping for an excuse not to have to remain in Royden’s company for too long once she delivered the pudding. Despite having told Ma she recognized him, Ma had come to the conclusion that he was harmless and could be trusted with her company.
Ma handed her a tray with Royden’s pudding on it and turned her toward the door.
“Now, go. An’ don’t come back down fer at least a couple hours.”
“But, Ma, I can’t just stay in a man’s room alone for that long.”
Mrs. Merriweather wiped her hands on the apron covering her ample figure. “Well, I’d tell you to go into one o’ the other rooms an’ lock the door, ’cept there ain’t none. The folks on the stagecoach done took all the rest.”
She turned back, knowing her eyes were pleading. “Can’t I just come right back down? I can help out here in the kitchen.”
“We-e-l-l, I s’pose you could. But don’t do it if’n it don’t look safe.”
Relief rushed through her. And without replying she hurried from the kitchen. She would slip up to her own room instead of staying with Royden. The lock on her door wasn’t as sturdy as the locks on the patron’s rooms, but she’d put one of her trunks in front of the door just in case. At Da’s insistence again, she’d spent a good portion of the afternoon keeping Royden company. He didn’t need her around all the time.
The back hall was empty and she quickly headed up the stairs to the second floor. The Tiverton gang were a group of miners who all lived in Tiverton. There was a lead mine just outside of the town where they all worked. Even though there was a small pub there, occasionally a group of the men who were single and at loose ends would come to the Merriweather’s inn for a change of scenery. The problem was they couldn’t be trusted to leave the girls alone.
Ma and Da didn’t worry about Sally and Della. Between the two of them, the girls had four very large, older brothers and there were always at least two present when they were working. Everyone knew better than to bother one of them. Unfortunately, that protection didn’t extend to her, and one of the first times she’d encountered the group, it had not ended well. After that, whenever the men from Tiverton came, the Merriweathers kept her out of sight.
As she climbed the last few steps, she could hear footfalls on the steps above her, coming downstairs. Thankfully Royden’s room was just at the top of the flight she was on, and she quickened her pace.
“Well, well, lookee ’ere.”
The voice startled her and she looked up as she reached the top step. She didn’t know his name, but she’d never forget that scarred face. She glanced at the door to Royden’s room. It was only two steps away, but Scarface stood between her and the door.
“Excuse me, but I have to deliver this.” She hoped she said the words without revealing her revulsion.
He smiled, revealing a chipped front tooth.
“’Ow ’bout a kiss, lass?”
She shook her head. “Please step aside, sir.”
“Not without me kiss.”
She was trapped. She couldn’t move forward, and backward was down the stairs. Summoning her courage, she said, “Don’t make me scream.”
He took a step forward, a feral grin on his face. “I don’t think so, Miss ’igh-and-Mighty.” As he spoke his hand reached out and grabbed a handful of hair. The stench that reached her as he leaned toward her made her gag, and she was afraid her dinner was about to reappear. Just before he would have covered her mouth with his, she lifted the tray and pushed the pudding into his face. At the same time, he seemed to jerk back and fly into the wall opposite, where he hit with a sickening thud and slid to the floor in a heap.
She looked up to see Lord Royden standing over her assailant. The fury on his face would have been frightening had she been on the receiving end, but Scarface didn’t see it either. The force of Lord Royden’s attack had rendered the man unconsciou
s.
It all happened so fast, the tray and dish hitting the floor surprised her into action. Whirling, she prepared to flee back down to the kitchen, but she tripped on her skirts and would have fallen headlong down the stairs if a strong arm hadn’t wrapped itself around her waist and hauled her back against a hard, warm chest.
Max turned her shaking figure and wrapped both arms around her. Her breath was coming in short gasps and he could feel her galloping pulse. It matched his own. A split-second later and she would have taken a serious, possibly fatal, tumble.
He glanced over at the man lying in a crumpled heap. Who in the hell was he? And what was he doing wandering around the inn accosting young women? Did the Merriweathers know?
Now that he was calming down, he was aware he’d done too much on his injured leg. It was throbbing and he could feel something warm and sticky trickling down it. Steering Jessie into his room, he closed the door on the ruffian in the hall and leaned back against it. His hand sifted through spun silk the color of pale moonlight, and he buried his nose in her hair. The faint smell of smoke clung to her.
“Jessie.” He spoke softly so as not to startle her. “Are you hurt?”
She took a shuddering breath then shook her head. Raising her face to his, he was struck by the fear in her eyes. How often had something like this happened? That moment in the hall was forever etched in his memory, and his heart squeezed painfully at her distress.
His gaze dropped to her lips and emotion of another kind roared to life. He’d almost lost her. Before he knew what he was doing, he bent his head and touched his lips to hers. He knew they’d be soft, but not this soft. He’d never experienced anything as silky and pliable as the feel of her lips beneath his.
His mouth moved lightly over hers, teasing with the merest touch. His tongue slipped out to trace the seam and she opened to him. Moist warmth met him, invited him in, and allowed him to stay and explore.
It was a moment out of time. A moment of pleasure so exquisite his life would never be the same. Her hands gripped the lapels of his dressing gown, her body pressing closer. A low whimper escaped when he raised his head.
The Scarred Heir Page 4
