She whirled, and her hair, bound only by a jeweled ribbon around her forehead, flowed in a chocolate cascade behind her. When he put his arms around her waist and drew her close to nuzzle her neck, she giggled. Stepping back, she placed her palms to her forehead and bowed.
“I am Fatima, princess of the desert, here to delight you, my sheikh.”
He lifted off the veil obscuring the lower portion of her face. Caressing her soft cheek, his hand dropped to her shoulder to bring her back into his arms. “I beg to differ with you. You are not Fatima, princess of the desert. You are my beloved Mariel.”
“Mariel Beckwith-Carter,” she said as her eyes twinkled merrily. “How lovely that sounds!”
“How lovely you look, my love.” He silenced her teasing with a heated kiss. As she softened against him, he released the band holding her hair back. It drifted over his arm.
She followed his lips as he stepped backward toward the bed she would use alone no longer. Compliantly, she climbed the step stool by the side of the high, old-fashioned tester. The mattress welcomed her as she held her arms out to him. When she embraced only empty air, she sat and asked in a confused voice, “Ian?”
“One moment.”
Her head swiveled as she realized he stood behind her. Lost in the bemusement of his kisses, she had not known he had crossed to the other side of the room. Impatiently, she sat on the covers. Each movement she made brought the slick sound of silk to her ears.
Hands on her shoulders pressed her back into the mound of pillows. She gasped in unfettered longing as his tongue delved the shadows in the valley between her breasts. Her fingers curled around his head to hold him closer as she breathed in his musky scent. She smiled when her hands swept along his bare back.
The filmy trousers clung to her as he touched the firm length of her legs. Her breath accelerated when he found the sensitive skin along the embroidered girdle. With a laugh, he undid her slippers and tossed them to the floor. He reached for the hooks on the short jacket.
An involuntary gasp escaped his lips as he slid the sleeveless vest from her to see the beaded band outlining her breasts. She stroked his warm chest as he traced the pattern of the strange garment. Her eyes closed, and she clutched his arms as he caressed the curved surface of her skin. When he teased her with rapid kisses, she was sure her bones had melted in the fire of her yearning.
Suddenly, he gave a deep groan of impatience. His eager fingers rapidly drew the bits of material from her. As perfectly as she had brought his fantasy to life, he wanted to love the real woman beneath the harem costume. When he heard her sigh of satisfaction as he leaned her back into the bed once more, he felt a rocket bright flash spiraling through him.
Giving herself over to the passions ruling her, she swayed with their glory. Soon she was touching the many textures of his body. Then she became the heated moistness of her lips as he worshipped them with his mouth. Each bit of her he touched glowed to life with the power of a summer storm. The thunder of her rapid heartbeat in her ears accented the bursts of heat deep within her.
She closed her arms around him as they sought their pleasure together. Into her mouth came the sharp pulse of his breath, urging her to share this uncontainable rapture. It took her as its willing captive and imprisoned her in its unimaginable delights. Only when the power of the ecstasy became unbearably sweet did the walls collapse to cascade around them in the perfect harmony of love.
Chapter Twenty
Mariel’s smile widened as Ian stepped into the bedroom of their hotel suite. She had been listening for the sound of his footsteps since he had left to check the departure time of their cross-Channel ship in the morning. Going to him, she put her arms around the trim body she had come to know so well. “Is everything all set, darling?”
Ian did not return her embrace. Instead, he said quietly, “The manager gave me this wire when I came through the lobby. It was addressed to Mariel Beckwith-Carter.”
“I like the sound of that name.” When he did not reply, she asked, “What is wrong, Ian? Is it bad news?” His silence forced her to think the telegram might contain more than wedding congratulations.
He held her fingers as he opened the page with his other hand. “‘Lady Mariel,’” he read. “‘Lord Foxbridge has had a carriage accident. Dr. Sawyer wants you to return immediately. Wire arrival time.’” It was signed with Miss Phipps’s name.
“Oh, no, Ian!” she cried as her fingers clenched on his arm. “Can we get a train to Foxbridge from here today?”
He hesitated before he spoke. After rereading the wire, he asked, “Are you sure you want to take the train? We could rent a carriage.”
“Whatever! Just get us home as soon as possible, Ian.”
He pressed her to his chest. Her tears spotted his lawn shirt. As he comforted her, he cursed inwardly. Each time Mariel grasped for happiness, it was snatched away from her. She should not have to endure anything more.
“Let’s go home, Mariel,” he said in a subdued voice. “Pack for us while I go get tickets for the next train. If it is not until tomorrow, I will go to the livery and see about a carriage. Otherwise, the train will get us there more rapidly. I will let Miss Phipps know we are coming.”
When he kissed her and went downstairs to make arrangements, Mariel opened the doors of the armoire to take out their clothes. Her fingers ran along the hangers as she visualized her uncle’s loving face. To think of him suffering even a bit of the horror she had known during her accident made her blood freeze in her veins.
Mariel sat on the bed, holding her empty bag. Tears coursed along her face, and she longed to be with Uncle Wilford at that very moment. As long as she could remember, he had told her she would be his heir if anything happened to Georgie. While it was only a loving joke between them, she enjoyed it. Then her cousin had died, and now she feared the last of the Wythes would. She had no desire to accept the ownership of Foxbridge Cloister. Being Mrs. Beckwith-Carter was enough for her, especially when the alternative meant the death of her beloved uncle.
What awaited them at the Cloister? She hoped Uncle Wilford would survive the latest tragedy to befall their family.
“He must!” she whispered as she reached to take her clothes from the rack. Forcing her fears from her mind, she packed their things, so she would be ready when it was time to go to face the result of the disaster at Foxbridge Cloister.
Whatever it might be.
As Mariel stepped from the train to the platform, she took Ian’s arm. Everything was wonderfully familiar. The station, the sound of the porters’ voices, the odors of the locomotive. Everything was the same as when she left on her honeymoon, except for the deep fear in her stomach. The closer they had come to Foxbridge, the more she had dreaded the reality she tried to push from her mind. Uncle Wilford could not be dead.
Silently, she went with her husband down the steps. They found the carriage from Foxbridge Cloister. The carriage driver stepped forward as he saw them approaching.
“Hello, Lady Mariel, Reverend. Welcome back.”
“Walter!” The welcome sound of someone from the Cloister increased her fright and comforted her at the same time. “How is my uncle?”
He glanced at the man by her side as he replied, “Lord Foxbridge is alive. He is hurt, but at least he is alive.”
Ian caught Mariel as she swayed against him. He ordered the carriage door opened, then lifted her onto the green velvet cushion. Easily, he climbed in to sit next to her. Closing the door, he leaned out to say, “As quickly as possible, Walter.”
“I understand.” The gray-haired man regarded the weeping woman for a long moment before swinging himself up into the driver’s seat. He slapped the reins on the back of the horses. A sad smile brightened his face. Lady Mariel was home where she belonged. Her presence would help the lord heal more quickly. Having Lady Mariel at the Cloister made Walter happy, too.
In the carriage, Ian tried to comfort her. He realized his words sounded foolish, but he rep
eated them over and over again. “Sweetheart, he is alive. You Wythes are not willing to give yourselves over to death. He will fight.”
She did not reply as she fought to control the mixture of thanksgiving and rage within her. The miles did not pass quickly enough as she waited for the slow right-hand turn that would mean they were entering the gates of the Cloister.
As the carriage slowed, Ian opened the door. He could see Mariel’s impatience displayed on her face. Lifting her to the ground, he took her hand to walk with her to the front door. Dodsley opened it to greet them quietly.
Mariel shook off her husband’s hand as she raced up the stairs. Her gown threatened to trip her, but she ignored it, bunching it in her right hand as her left followed the wide surface of the banister.
At the doorway of the master suite, hands reached out to halt her pain-spurred flight. She recognized the touch instantly. “Phipps?”
“He is awake, Lady Mariel. He wants to see you, but you must be quiet. Do not upset him.”
She nodded, willing to promise anything to gain entrance to her uncle’s bedroom. The fear that he would die before she could arrive home did not lessen with Phipps’s words. She no longer trusted her own intuition to know if people were speaking the truth or simply being kind.
The sitting chamber seemed a mile across as she walked to his door. When she heard someone walking toward her, she gasped, “Dr. Sawyer?”
“Lady Mariel, please come in.”
“How is he?”
His smile permeated his tired voice. “I will let him tell you himself.”
At his words, she forgot all promises to herself and others. She ran to her uncle’s bed. Her fingers slid along the satin coverlet until she reached the turned down blanket. When a hand settled on hers, she smiled through the tears dripping along her face.
“Uncle Wilford?”
“My lamb, to think I ruined your honeymoon with my foolishness.” His thready voice did not resemble his normal, boisterous tones. “Can you forgive a silly old man?”
Dr. Sawyer cleared his throat before saying, “Lady Mariel, before you ask I will tell you what I can about your uncle’s condition and expected recovery. He has just roused from being senseless for almost a day. If he takes care of himself, he should be fine. The concussion he suffered will keep him in bed for a few days, but other than a sprained ankle, he is fine. You Wythes must have a guardian angel to protect you from your own inclination for self-destruction.”
“Now, doctor,” argued the obviously impatient lord, “I told you already, I was not driving that damn carriage too fast for the road. I am not sure what happened, but one of the wheels started wobbling. Then …”
“Hush, Uncle.” She patted his hand. “It does not matter. All that matters is that you are going to be fine. I want you to rest while I tell Ian to come in and talk to you. He is as anxious as I am to see how you are doing. We are going to keep you company until you are up and about again.”
“It will be soon.”
“It will be when Dr. Sawyer says you are well, Uncle.” She grinned impishly. “I had to listen to his orders. Now it will be your turn.”
Dr. Sawyer added, “And if you are half as good a patient as Lady Mariel, my lord, you should be out of that bed by week’s end.”
“Then you can have your honeymoon, my dear.” He patted her slim fingers and touched the plain band which announced her marriage.
“Don’t worry about that. Just get well.” She smiled. “Let me get Ian before he has to fret any longer.”
The two men watched as she went confidently toward the antechamber. Low enough so she would not hear him, Wilford murmured, “What a good child she is! Thank God for her.”
Ian straightened. Brushing his dusty hands on his tan trousers, he sighed. Wilford was correct. A wheel had loosened. That it had not come off had probably saved his life. Despite what Lord Foxbridge asserted to everyone, no one believed he had been driving at a sedate speed. If he had, it would have been the first time in anyone’s memory.
A shadow moved in one corner of the barn. He smiled as it revealed itself as Walter Collins. The handyman was carrying a box of tools and seemed surprised to see the parson in the stable.
“Good day, Reverend,” he said in his guttural voice. “I hear the lord is doing much better.”
“Much.”
“Having Lady Mariel home is helping?”
Ian nodded. “I think so. She refuses to be browbeaten by him. No one else could make him follow the doctor’s orders as she has.”
“Damn shame this had to happen to the lord.” He dropped his toolbox to the floor. It clattered loudly on the uneven boards, but the noise did not seem to bother him. Turning his back on the other man, he knelt to inspect the wheel.
Watching Collins’s competent hands for a moment, Ian concurred silently. He wandered out of the dusky stable into the bright autumn sunshine. The metal clang of tools faded as he crossed the courtyard to the Cloister. His eyes moved along the facade of the grand house before he turned to look at the empty shell of the ruined section.
It stood as it had the first day he came here. Empty windows revealed the blue sky beyond. It saddened him to see it destroyed. He could understand a bit of the love Mariel had for her home. The labor needed to dismantle the scorched stones would be too costly. So it would stand as a silent monument to the past until it fell into itself completely.
The Wythe family name had come to an end the day Mariel married him. Centuries of lords and ladies had paraded across these lawns and had lived out their days in the shadows of the gray walls. Unless the present Lord Foxbridge remarried and had another child, which he showed no inclination of doing, the proud name would be only a memory submerged beneath the name Mariel shared with him.
Mariel woke in the night with the feeling something was wrong. It was not Uncle Wilford. He had been out of bed for several days now and was back to terrorizing the household with his decision to write the memoirs of his travels. Something was wrong, but with someone else.
Careful not to disturb Ian, she flung her robe over her shoulders. A wry grin tilted her lips as she walked across the bedroom to the door. Once, she had stumbled through her room in the night. Now, the lack of candlelight made no difference to her.
Following her unease, she went to the next room where Rosie slept. She opened the door quietly. If she was wrong, she did not want to wake the child. She prayed she had made a mistake.
When she heard the strained breathing, she knew her nebulous fears were true. She placed her fingers on Rosie’s forehead. Her groping touch did not bother the child lost in a delirium. Mariel gasped in horror as she felt the swell of heat there.
No longer caring who she woke, she reached for the bellpull. Tugging on it frantically, she ran to the door and back into her own room. She stubbed her toe as she flew to the bed, but she simply hopped in an uneven step on one foot.
“Ian! Ian, wake up!” she cried as she shook his shoulder.
He turned from her to reach toward where she should have been on the bed. She grasped his arm when she realized he could see little more than she could. “Here I am. I need your help.”
Taking her by the shoulders, he swung his legs awkwardly over the edge of the bed. In the dim light, he could see her fear, so vivid on her face. “Mariel, what is it?”
“Rosie! She is ill!”
“Go to her, honey. I will wake Phipps and get whatever you need.”
She spun to return to the sick child. Over her shoulder, she called, “Thank you.”
He pulled his trousers on and reached for his dressing robe. He knew that if Mariel had heard the rumor circulating through Foxbridge, she would be even more upset. He had not told her, for he did not want her to fear needlessly. Now it seemed his worst expectations would be given life.
Dr. Sawyer had confirmed that the sickness on one of the outlying farms was smallpox. Few in the shire had been vaccinated, resisting the modern idea, which was accepted els
ewhere as a common practice. If this was what Rosie suffered, it must have been spread through the school. More would take ill.
The sound of retching greeted him when he entered the child’s room after knocking on Phipps’s door to waken her. He paused to turn up the gaslight. As slight as the noise of the switch was, Mariel turned from where she was holding the child’s head over a basin.
“Turn that off! Too much light is dangerous. Hurry!”
Instantly he complied, berating himself for such foolishness. Everyone knew a patient with smallpox should be kept in a cool, unlit room. Mariel’s words told him that she had heard the same rumors he had. He felt his way through the molasses-thick darkness.
“Ian,” Mariel murmured as she placed the spent child back on her pillows, “I think we should send for the doctor.”
“I told Phipps to do that. My love, have you been vaccinated?”
Fighting back her fear, she nodded. “Yes, two years ago. Uncle Wilford brought back some sort of sweating sickness from his visit to Africa. The doctor insisted everyone in the Cloister be vaccinated in case it was a variation of smallpox. And you?”
“Before I went to school, and again when I entered the seminary. I assume Rosie was not.”
Her voice broke as she said, “I have been battling with the orphanage board to designate money for vaccinations. They have dragged their feet, citing other needs for the funds. I should have had Rosie vaccinated as soon as she came here. I did not think of it. Ian, if—”
“Enough!” he said sharply as her voice rose in panic. “Recriminations will not help Rosie now. Send for cool water to bathe her. That will keep the fever down. We will need some boric acid solution to protect her eyes. Also eucalyptol and petroleum jelly to keep the scars to a minimum.”
He left the nursing in her hands as he dealt with the fear surging through the household. All of the staff loved the little girl and feared for her life. He allowed only Phipps and the doctor into the room. When Wilford appeared in his nightshirt, Ian asked the lord to deal with the servants. He did not want Lord Foxbridge to overexert himself before he was fully recovered.
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