‘That matters a very great deal to you, does it not?’ she asked softly.
‘Yes. Yes, it does. Anthony Lyndhurst is my closest friend. The thought that he no longer trusts me…’
‘But why did he not believe you? You say he is your friend. It makes no sense.’
‘We quarrelled.’
‘Over this?’
‘No,’ Marcus said harshly. ‘I do not wish to speak of it.’
Amy said nothing. She could feel the tension in Marcus’s fingers. Without thinking, she began to rub her thumbs gently across his palms.
His deep groan found an echo in the pit of her stomach, as if they were connected by a taut, singing wire.
‘Oh, God! Amy!’ He pulled her roughly into his arms and began to kiss her hungrily.
She did not try to resist. She knew that she had been waiting her whole life for this moment. She loved this man. And he loved her. She had saved him. And now she was to have her reward. He was hers! There was no need to hold back any longer. She gave herself up to the moment.
The kiss went on and on.
Marcus was aching to possess this wonderful, impossible woman. She was truly one in a million. And the more he kissed her, teasing and tasting her lips and her tongue, the more he was certain that she was a true lady, and innocent. She had never been kissed like this before, but she was responding to him, following his lead with astonishing passion. If he wanted to possess her completely, she would not try to stop him. It was for him to stop. And he must.
He tore his mouth from hers. ‘Amy, this is madness!’
‘Why?’
Her response surprised him into a gasp of astonished laughter. ‘Oh, Lord preserve me from unbiddable women! It is madness, my dearest girl, because you are a single lady, and I am a man, and because we are alone together, unchaperoned, in the middle of the night! How much worse could it be?’
With a satisfied smile, she wound her arms round his neck. ‘Since I am ruined merely by being here, I think perhaps I should enjoy my ruin to the full.’
He groaned. Here was yet more proof of her innocence. She could not know what she was suggesting, or what she was doing to him. He could not hold out much longer. He must stop her. Now.
He took her arms from his neck, first one, and then the other. ‘Amy, my dear girl, we must not do this. You are a lady. And I am still a fugitive.’ At the sight of the sudden hurt in her eyes, he touched her face briefly with a fingertip. ‘I want you very much and I—But I am not worthy of you. You must see that.’
It was as if he had struck her. She flung away from him, wrapping her arms around her upper body and hugging herself like an abandoned child. ‘Who are you, sir, to decide who is, or is not, worthy? You demean yourself. And me. You say you are a fugitive. But we both know that is no longer so. The proof I have brought may not be enough to satisfy the magistrate of your cousin’s guilt, but you may be sure that it will exonerate you.’ She shook her head vehemently. She was lashing herself into even greater fury. ‘Marcus Sinclair will fly free, as he has always done, to seduce the ladies and then abandon them. No doubt you enjoy the sight of women falling at your feet.’
‘Amy—’ He stretched out his hands and came towards her.
‘Enough, sir. Keep your distance. I am a fool, I admit. I have shamed myself. No doubt Amy Devereaux’s behaviour will soon be the talk of the London clubs. I wish you joy of it!’ She dashed away a furious tear, before turning abruptly and bolting for the cupola.
There was pain in every line of her body.
Marcus moved swiftly to put himself between Amy and her escape route. He would not let her go like this—burning with shame and self-hatred. She had done nothing wrong. Her only fault had been to trust a fugitive with herself.
Faced with the barrier of his large body, she did not scream or faint. Instead, she glared at him. ‘I will thank you to stand aside, sir. You have already humiliated me quite enough.’
‘No, Amy. I will not let you leave until I make you understand. It is not that I—I am not the hard-hearted seducer you think me. If I were, would I have turned you down? I do have…feelings for you. I beg you will believe that. But I am in no position to do anything about them. I only wish I could.’
‘Do you, indeed?’ Her tone dripped sarcasm. She was trying to appear strong. But her whole body looked defeated.
What had he done to her?
‘Amy, pray forgive me. It was not my intention to hurt you.’
‘No, of course not,’ she snapped. ‘I have helped you to prove your innocence. And now you choose to spurn me. You have not even told me what you have done with Ned.’
Marcus seized her by the shoulders. ‘Damn Ned! Your brother is perfectly safe. In the cellar of the North Lodge. By all accounts, he is enjoying his captivity, playing cards all day, and drinking himself under the table every night.’
Amy gasped and turned even paler.
‘Amy, I am not spurning you. I am trying to save you from becoming entangled with a man whose reputation is in tatters. And who may yet end up in gaol.’ He allowed his fingers to bite into her shoulders. ‘That is not a price that I would ask you to pay.’
She raised her head and gazed at him. For a moment, Marcus fancied he saw tears in her eyes. He dismissed it. It must be a trick of the light.
‘It is a price that I would pay,’ she said simply. ‘If you were to ask it of me.’
She stood there in front of him. Small, helpless, and unresisting. And yet she was as strong as steel. And as true!
Marcus could not fight it any more. He wrapped his arms round her and pulled her into the shelter of his body. ‘Amy. Oh, Amy. I have tried to drive you away, but you will not go. Stubborn wench! You know what I feel for you. I am certain that you do. I have tried to resist, for both our sakes, but against you, I am totally lost.’
She looked up at him with a very wobbly smile. He was not mistaken about the tears. Not this time.
‘You are an idiot, Marcus Sinclair.’
‘And you, Amy Devereaux, are quite the most wonderful woman I have ever met. I am madly—hopelessly—in love with you. What on earth are we to do?’
‘I have not the least idea.’ She snuggled into his warmth, dislodging her cap. It drifted to the ground, unheeded. ‘But you must become a free man again. Your innocence must be proved, beyond doubt. I am sure we can find a way of achieving that. Perhaps, if we work at it…’ She put her arms round his neck once more. It felt exactly right. ‘Perhaps if we work at it,’ she said again, ‘we shall find a solution.’
In that moment, Marcus made a decision. With the little they had, he could brazen it out. He must not accuse William, for that would risk alienating William’s brother, John. Marcus needed John’s support. With the powerful Earl of Mardon at his side, Marcus would be safe from arrest. Probably. There would be rumours, no doubt, about Marcus’s black past, but he could ignore them. Anthony had survived worse, by withdrawing to Lyndhurst Chase. Marcus could do the same, if need be. Was that enough to offer Amy?
She was nestling in his arms as if she had always belonged there. She did belong there.
‘I have the solution.’
‘Marcus, that is wonderful. Tell me!’
‘I shall have to marry you out of hand.’
‘What has marriage got to say to anything? It will not prove that you—Oh!’ Even by starlight, Marcus could see that she was blushing. And her eyes were ablaze.
‘Marriage will solve one—no, two—of my most pressing problems, my dear Miss Devereaux. First, it will require you to do as I say. You do recall, I hope, that part of the wedding vows is a promise by the bride to love, honour and obey?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And, second, I cannot live without you, my dearest love. I want you by my side, Amy. Now. Always. I want to be able to make love to you slowly—very slowly—without fear of interruption. This…er…balmy interlude under the stars has a certain magic, I grant you, but it lacks…permanence. I need you to
be mine.’ He raised her hand to his lips and, still holding her gaze, dropped a kiss on her fingers. ‘Will you?’
‘Certainly not!’
‘Amy!’
‘I have no intention of receiving a proposal of marriage in a gown that resembles a sack and a cap that would be better used for straining curds.’
He grinned at her. She was fully herself again—strong, quick-witted, outrageous, and absolutely adorable. ‘At the risk of interrupting your litany of complaint, ma’am, may I take this opportunity of reminding you that you are not actually wearing the offending item?’ He pushed his fingers into the heavy mass of her hair and shook it out over her shoulders.
‘Be serious, Marcus!’ She tried to bat his hand away, but he held her firmly and dropped a kiss on the corner of her mouth.
‘I am being serious,’ he said. ‘I was never more so. This is a proposal of marriage that I am making, you know.’
‘And I am refusing it,’ she said flatly.
Marcus began to nibble the lobe of her ear. ‘Are you?’ he said, rather indistinctly.
‘Mmm.’ She groaned a little. ‘Yes. I am. For the present.’
‘Ah. I see. And later?’ With a single fluid movement, he picked her up in his arms. When he carried her back to the cushions and laid her down, she made no move to resist him.
He was looming over her, blotting out the stars. She looked up into his face. Even in the half-light, she knew his eyes were full of love and laughter. She was sure that her own must be the same. ‘Later, sir, if you should chance to propose marriage to Miss Amy Devereaux, gentlewoman, instead of to Amelia Dent, common abigail, it is…just possible that the lady may entertain your suit.’
‘And if I prefer to marry the uncommon abigail?’
Amy ignored him. ‘It will all depend, of course, on—Oh, heavens! Marcus!’ A shudder ran through her body.
‘It will depend…?’ he repeated wickedly, his lips still wreaking havoc against her skin. His busy fingers began to unfasten her gown.
Amy’s voice seemed to have sunk by at least half an octave. ‘It will depend on how well Mr Marcus Sinclair makes his case.’
‘You mean…like this?’ he murmured, trailing his lips down her throat to the pouting nipple he had just freed from her chemise.
Her only response was a deep moan of pleasure.
He suckled so gently at first that, for a second or two, only the answering ripples in Amy’s belly confirmed that his mouth was still on her skin. But when the suckling grew stronger, Amy’s whole body began to quiver in response. His long fingers were touching her, opening her body to him like a butterfly spreading its wings to the sunshine. He was her sun. Without his warmth, without his love, she would shrivel to a husk. She needed him. Now. Always.
When she touched her hands to his face, he looked up at her, kissing her still. His dark eyes gleamed.
‘Marcus,’ she whispered. She could hear the longing in her own voice. Could he hear it, too?
He sat up and began to shrug out of his coat and shirt, his intent gaze travelling over her body as if he were trying to memorise every inch of her skin. ‘Ah, but you are beautiful, my darling abigail. So beautiful. And so very desirable.’ He was suddenly very still. Distant. ‘I want you so very much, Amy. But I must not do this. Not here. Not now.’
Amy allowed her swollen lips to curve slowly into a very knowing smile. She could see that every line of his powerful body was screaming with desire. Why could he not see those same signs in hers? They were meant to be together. They had both accepted that. And now was the allotted time for their joining.
She settled back more comfortably into the leather cushions, allowing that siren smile to broaden. When she saw the first response in his face, she lifted her bare arms invitingly. ‘Marcus, I want us to be together. Now. Here, under the stars. Please, Marcus.’ She saw his turmoil. And the moment when he yielded. The desire that had been so ruthlessly leashed now blazed in his eyes. He did not ask if she was sure.
He knew.
They tore off their remaining clothing, kissing, and touching, and tasting all the while. Their skin shone silver in the starlight as they gazed hungrily at each other, with wonder in their eyes. There was a long, long moment of utter stillness. Their love and longing sang between them.
Then they reached for each other, passion overcoming all else, as Amy drew Marcus down to her body, rejoicing in their joining. And together they soared to the stars.
Amy snuggled more comfortably into the crook of Marcus’s arm.
‘Are you cold, my love?’
‘No.’
Ignoring her, Marcus pulled his coat more snugly over them both. They must part soon, but he was loath to let her go, even for a few hours.
Amy’s hand started to wander over his body, under the enveloping coat. Marcus’s nerves began to tingle. Especially as her hand moved lower. When she cupped him, he clapped a hand over her fingers. ‘God! Amy!’ he groaned. ‘Do you have any idea what you are doing to me?’ His flesh had begun to stir again. He would not have thought it possible. Not so soon. Amy Devereaux must be a witch.
She squeezed him gently. His response was unmistakable.
‘Amy…!’
‘When I touch you…there,’ she began shyly, ‘you…Does that mean—?’
‘It is not simply when you touch me “there”, as you so delicately put it, my love. You can have that effect just by being in the same room as me. I love you. And I desire you. A man’s body is…not always under his control. Desire is an unpredictable mistress.’
‘Oh.’ Amy paused thoughtfully. Then she squeezed again. The reaction was even more marked than before. She ran her finger up his hard length. ‘Marcus, does this…er…evidence mean that you desire me? Now?’
He forcibly removed her hand and laid it on his chest, covering it with his own stronger one. However much he desired her, he would not make love to her again tonight. It had been her first time. Her body needed to recover. His own desires—no matter how urgent—would have to wait.
‘The evidence you mention,’ he began a little hoarsely, trying to ignore the demands of his body, ‘is…um…not overwhelming.’
She had begun to rub her fingertips in tiny circles on his chest. ‘I beg leave to differ, sir. I should have to be blind not to be overwhelmed by something so…er…’ She laughed, deep in her throat, and tried to extract her hand.
‘No, Amy. There is to be no more touching tonight. You may touch me as much as you wish after we are married.’
‘Oh.’ She sounded disappointed. But she did not continue to fight him. She relaxed even further into his arms, with a deep, contented sigh.
Marcus lay back and gazed up at the canopy of stars. He would have to find a way of recreating this idyll on his own estate. Making love under the stars, with Amy, was like a taste of paradise. He began to stroke her long hair. It looked ghostly in the starlight.
‘Mmm. That feels wonderful.’
‘By the way, my love…’
‘Mmm?’
‘I think I have found the solution.’
‘Yes, you told me that before.’ She sounded rather sleepy. ‘You have decided that I am to marry you.’
‘True, but that was not the solution I meant.’
She sat up so quickly that her hair was trapped in his fingers. She gave a tiny cry of pain.
‘Amy!’
‘Oh, don’t mind that. A few missing hairs are of no consequence. Not if you have found a way to prove your innocence. Tell me, Marcus!’
‘It will not prove William’s guilt, but I fancy it will save me. I shall need your help.’
‘Marcus! Tell me!’
‘Impatient wench!’ He trailed his fingers down her bare arm. ‘Very well, my love. This is what I think we should do.’
Chapter Eight
Marcus felt as if he had been pacing the floor for hours by the time the door opened. Timms was standing there with a very knowing look on his face. Marcus assumed a puzzled
frown. ‘What now, Timms?’ he snapped. ‘Has your master finally decided what he plans to do with me? Or am I to pace this confounded dressing room for the rest of my days?’
Anthony appeared at his valet’s shoulder. He was looking very serious indeed. ‘Would you have the goodness to join me out here, Marcus?’ he asked formally. ‘There is something I need to discuss with you.’
‘If I must,’ Marcus said crossly, trying to hide his inward glee. Amy had done it. Of course she had!
‘Marcus, there is a paper on my desk.’ Anthony pointed. ‘I think you should read it.’
Marcus nodded and crossed to pick it up.
‘Timms. My compliments to Lord Mardon, and I should be grateful if he would join us here. Immediately.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Marcus read the note through a second time. And a third. Then he threw it back on to the desk. ‘What is this supposed to be?’ he said harshly.
‘I should have thought that was obvious, Marcus. Though I can understand that you may be too angry to see it. You gave me your word that you had not attacked Frobisher. But I…Things were said that led me to begin to doubt you. There was no justification for my doing so. I can only beg your pardon.’
‘I do not understand.’ Marcus hoped he sounded suitably bewildered. ‘Where did you get this note? I see that it bears no direction. And no signature, either.’
‘Timms found it. Someone must have dropped it. It must have been directed to someone here at the Chase. We can pursue that later. The important thing now, Marcus, is that this note provides proof that you did not attack Frobisher.’
Marcus picked up the note and scanned it again. He waited.
‘Whoever wrote that letter carried out the attack. That much is clear. And his principal has failed to pay him. There are a great many servants here at the Chase,’ Anthony went on grimly, ‘but I had thought that all of them were trustworthy. It is bad enough that I had to dismiss Lady Margaret and that disgusting valet of William’s. But now this!’
Marcus shook his head, but said nothing. He would not be the first to suggest that the culprit could be a guest, rather than a servant. Anthony was grasping at straws. Understandably.
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