Some devilish imp made him ask, “Suppose I refuse to countenance any of it?”
To his delight and no great surprise, her eyes narrowed, her chin took on that stubborn slant he knew too well and, snatching her hand from his arm, she said hotly, “You would not dare!”
He laughed and, pulling her into his arms, he swung her around. “Of course not. I intend to be a very meek and doting husband.”
She snorted. “What a rapper!” Her pugnacity faded and, just a flicker of concern in her eyes, she said, “I know it will be a huge undertaking and that the cost will not be light, but Marcus, it really is necessary if Sherbrook is to become a leading stud farm.”
“Is that what we intend to do?” he asked innocently.
Realizing that he was teasing her, she grinned at him and, flinging her arms around his neck, said happily, “Absolutely!”
They enjoyed a light luncheon eaten alfresco in the courtyard at one side of the sprawling house and, afterward, ambled companionably through the extensive grounds that spread out in all directions, their conversation skipping effortlessly from one topic to another. Having lived in the same area and having known each other all of their lives, there wasn’t the unfamiliarity that plagued most newlyweds; there was an easiness between them not given to many. That wasn’t to say that sexual awareness didn’t simmer in the air between them, or that their hands and eyes didn’t often meet, or that they didn’t linger a while in the shadows of shielding trees where passionate kisses and soft murmurs were exchanged.
Dinner passed in a dreamy haze and, by the time Isabel climbed into her bed, her body was one long ache of anticipation. Apparently Marcus was in the same state, because she had barely pulled the sheets up when the connecting door between their rooms opened and he strode into her bedroom.
At her bedside, he stripped off his black silk dressing robe and slipped naked under the covers with her. Half propped up on his elbow, he stared down at her, his gaze drifting to the delicate lace that trimmed the modest neckline of her nightgown.
“I think,” he said huskily, “that you are wearing far too many clothes.” And promptly removed her nightgown. Sliding down beside her now nude body, he sighed. “Ah, this is much better.” He turned his head to look at her. “Do you know this was all I could think of all through the day?”
Her body tingling from the nearness of his, she murmured, “What? Bed?”
He smiled and caught her to him. His mouth brushed hers, his big, warm hands beginning an intimate exploration. “No,” he muttered against her mouth. “I was thinking more of this... .” And his lips slid like fire down her breast, where they tasted and teased her nipple. “And this,” he added, his hand moving lower, across her flat belly, down to the curly hair at the junction of her thighs. He parted the tender flesh, stroking and exploring before slowly sinking a finger deep within her. Her hips rose to meet his caress, inviting more, and he complied; adding a second finger, he played with her, coaxing her into wild abandon.
Isabel moaned as he worked her, excitement and pleasure spiraling up through her body. She could not think, she could only feel and marvel at the sensations he aroused. Demandingly, she sought his mouth and, surprising and delighting both of them, kissed him as thoroughly and deeply as he did her.
With her hot little tongue thrusting into his mouth, her hips pumping against his hand, Marcus gave into the urgent hunger he had fought all day. His tongue found and mated with hers as he pushed apart her thighs and slid between them. With one heavy thrust he was buried tightly within her. Her fingers dug into his arms and she writhed wantonly beneath him, urging him on, driving him mad with her soft cries and seductive body. He was lost in ecstasy and the world blurred... .
Afterward, they lay locked in each other’s arms, their breathing gradually returning to normal. Reluctantly, Marcus slid from her body and lay beside her. With her head resting on his shoulder, her silky skin brushing against his, he savored the moment. The knowledge that she was his, that this was just one night in the many they would spend together, filling him with a joy, a happiness he had never thought would be his.
But as he lay there darkness crept into his vision of their future together and he tensed. Whitley.
Even though half asleep, Isabel felt his body tense. “What is it?” she asked, alarmed.
“I was merely thinking of our friend Whitley,” he admitted reluctantly.
“He’s no friend of ours,” she said sharply. “If you will remember, he shot at you just last night and it was only luck that he didn’t kill you.” She sat up, the sheet partially falling from her body, allowing Marcus an enticing glimpse of one rosy nipple. Shoving back her disheveled hair, she said, “In fact, I think it would be a good idea if we killed him.”
His hand behind his head, Marcus regarded her thoughtfully. Though neither one of them had mentioned Whitley’s name all day, he suspected that the major and the danger he represented had never been far from either of their minds. It was interesting that Isabel had just voiced the conclusion he had come to last night.
“Just murder him?” he asked carefully. “In cold blood?”
She looked taken aback, the reality of what she had just proposed sinking in. Biting her lip, she looked at him, troubled. “It would be in cold blood, wouldn’t it?” she asked in a small voice.
He nodded. “One could even say with malice aforethought.”
“I could kill him with my bare hands if he attacked someone I loved,” Isabel began then stopped. After a second she shook her head and said wearily, “But I don’t think I can sit here and calmly calculate a way to murder him.”
“My sentiments exactly,” Marcus confessed regretfully. “He wants killing, and in the right circumstances I could kill him without hesitation.” He sighed. “I have a problem murdering him based on what he might do.”
She cocked her head to the side, thinking hard. “He doesn’t have the locket. To our knowledge he has no one to collaborate his suspicions. How dangerous do you think he really is?”
“I don’t know. If he started telling anyone who would listen about the companion who accompanied you to India—even if he just breathed one word that there was something havey cavey about Edmund’s birth; that he’d heard the servants talking or whatever... . He could claim he’d talked to the physician who attended Roseanne—how could you disprove it? He doesn’t need proof. All he needs is to breathe one word about there being something smoky about Edmund’s birth and it will spread through the ton like wildfire. After the first titillating rounds, most of the ton will dismiss it for the scandal broth it is. But there will always be those who ...” He flashed her a somber look. “Gossip could be as devastating as proof, and once it begins, the rumors will follow Edmund for the rest of his days. The question is can we risk the gossip—if Whitley chooses that path?”
Her expression miserable, she said, “And if we wait until he starts the rumor, it will be too late to kill him.”
Marcus nodded. “Killing him then would only add fuel to the speculation. So the question is this: do we plan cold-blooded murder to try to stop something that might never happen, or do we take the chance that he will simply fade away and we will never hear from him again?”
“Oh, God! Such a terrible choice!” Her eyes flashed. “He’s a terrible man and I’d like to wring his neck for putting us in this position.”
“Don’t blame you there,” Marcus said. “But it doesn’t answer the question.”
“I know that,” she snapped. “I would do anything for Edmund and Lord Manning, but I can’t, tonight at least, bring myself to contemplate deliberate murder.”
“I suppose,” Marcus offered slowly, thinking back to Julian’s killing of Lord Tynedale a few years ago, “I could force a duel upon him and kill him.” The idea appealed. One could argue that the challenge was cold-blooded, but the actual duel would give Whitley a fighting chance. Thinking of his own prowess with the sword and the pistol, Marcus gave an icy smile. But not much of
one.
“You will do no such thing!” Isabel shouted, furious with him for even considering putting his own life at peril. She hurled herself across his chest and, staring deep into his eyes, she demanded, “Promise me! Promise me right now that you will not fight him in a duel.”
“I can’t do that,” Marcus answered levelly. “He may offer me provocation that I cannot ignore.”
For a tense moment they stared at each other. Isabel knew from the implacable expression on his face that there was no swaying him and, miserably settling for what she could, she said thickly, “Then promise me you will not deliberately provoke him.”
Marcus hesitated. Then reluctantly, he agreed. “I will not deliberately provoke him.”
It was the best she could hope for and she fell into an uneasy sleep bedeviled by nightmares of Whitley, pistol in hand, standing over Marcus’s dead body.
Whitley would have been delighted to know that he was disturbing Isabel’s sleep and, perhaps to a lesser extent, pleased that he had placed both Marcus and Isabel on the horns of a dilemma. Of course, he would have had no such compunction. If he’d had his way, Marcus would be dead at this very moment.
It had been a stroke of luck that the opportunity to kill Marcus had come his way. He had been skulking about Sherbrook Hall considering another assault on the big, sprawling house when he had heard the sounds of people approaching. He’d barely crouched down behind some bushes when Marcus and Isabel strolled by. He had already assumed that it was Marcus and Isabel walking in the garden and the moonlight allowed him to confirm their identity. Stealthily, he had followed the oblivious pair and, thinking of all that he had suffered at their hands, the ugly taste of revenge rose up so strongly in his throat that, consumed by rage, he had dragged his pistol free and fired.
He regretted taking that risky shot at Marcus last night. But not for the reasons one might suppose. His only regret was that he had missed Marcus and by doing so had put him on his guard.
While Marcus and Isabel had spent an enjoyable day together, Whitley had spent the day sitting in a corner of the inn, imbibing tankard after tankard of ale, brooding over the unfairness of fate. When darkness fell, he changed from ale to brandy and, as the hour grew late, his thoughts grew blacker.
Things were not going well for him. Even that bloody Collard, back from a run to Cherbourg two days ago, had not brought him the news that he wanted. Which was probably as well, he thought bitterly, because at the moment, he was in a rather awkward position. He scowled. Blast it all! If it weren’t for Isabel and Sherbrook . . .
They were going to pay, he promised himself viciously. Isabel had upset his plans, beyond that first paltry amount, by refusing to be cowed into giving him money to keep his mouth shut about what he suspected. Then that damn Sherbrook had nearly drowned him and taken from him the only thing he had to give his threats any credence. Sherbrook had humiliated him. Had not only stripped him of his clothes, but his pride and something far more valuable than a piece of trumpery jewelry. It was Sherbrook who stood between him and all his dreams of a tidy future.
In the time since the engagement of Sherbrook and the widow Manning, Whitley had convinced himself that he really had wanted to marry Isabel. Never mind that she wasn’t to his liking; for her fortune, he would have made himself endure her scrawny body and hot temper. But not for long, he mused, no, not for long. Wives died all the time. His marriage to Isabel would have been of short duration and he would have played the grieving widower for all it was worth and taken great solace in her fortune. He smirked. Not hers any longer, but his.
He cast a bleary eye around the taproom of the Stag Horn and his lips thinned. Instead of having to put up with these country bumpkins he could be comfortably ensconced at Manning Court—he glared at his snifter of brandy—and enjoying excellent brandy, instead of this swill that he suspected the innkeeper watered down. His money worries would be over. He would live in a fine home, servants at his beck and call, and it would be his wife’s fortune that kept him in a style that had always eluded him.
While the thought of killing Sherbrook brought him pleasure, Whitley did not want to hang for it, and he knew, unless fate presented him with a foolproof opportunity, that killing Sherbrook was unlikely. It was probably just as well, he admitted morosely, that his shot had missed last night. For the moment, killing Sherbrook wasn’t possible, but there must be a way that he could cause trouble... .
A way presented itself, and a cruel smile crossed his face. He no longer had the locket, and approaching Isabel was out of the question, but what if ... what if he called on Lord Manning? He liked that idea. The old man was just as vulnerable as Isabel had been and would, now that he considered it, probably be an easier mark. Yes, he should have thought of that approach first. Manning had the most to lose. Yes, he would call at Manning Court tomorrow. It would be just a polite visit wherein he mentioned that he was an old friend of Hugh’s passing through the neighborhood and had thought to call upon his old friend’s widow ...
He chuckled to himself, imagining Isabel’s consternation when she learned of his visit. She’d pay. She’d pay him anything to keep him away from the old man. Happy with his plans for the morning, and thinking he would enjoy some female companionship, he stood up unsteadily and staggered outside, calling for the stable boy to bring him his horse. An accommodating widow who enjoyed his patronage during his stay lived just a mile out of the village.
Whitley had been too engrossed in his drunken misery and vengeful thoughts to note any strangers in the taproom or the pair of intelligent eyes that idly watched his every move. If he had not been quite so drunk, he might have noticed the gentleman who had sat half-hidden at a table in the shadows by the stairs and have realized instantly that Collard had not told quite the truth about his trip to Cherbourg... .
The stranger paid his bill and slowly wandered out of the inn, timing his progress so that Whitley had already mounted his horse and was riding down the road. He quickly reached his own horse tied out of sight at the side of the inn and, swinging into the saddle, discreetly followed Whitley.
He waited until they had left the village behind before he struck. Kicking his horse into a gallop, he bore down on his prey.
His brain befuddled by drink and lost in his thoughts, Whitley had no warning of danger until it was too late. He heard the approach of a horseman behind him, had only a moment to realize that the racing horse behind him was coming too fast and was likely going to collide with his own on the narrow track before his head exploded in a blaze of pain and blinding light.
Chapter 15
Whitley woke with a ferociously aching head and the scent of the sea in his nostrils. Groaning from pain, he glanced around, astonished to discover that he was in one of the many caves carved out along the shoreline by the powerful Channel waves. What the devil? He struggled to rise from the pebble-strewn floor of the cave and the first faint quiver of fear shot through him when he realized that he was bound hand and foot. And, as his gaze fell upon the gentleman leaning casually against the wall of the cave, that he was not alone.
“Bon!” said the stranger. “You are awake at last.”
“Where am I?” croaked Whitley.
“It does not matter, mon ami,” replied the other man.
“What matters are the answers you shall give me to the questions I shall ask, oui?”
Thinking feverishly, Whitley tried to get his bearings, tried to make sense of what had happened. He remembered drinking at the Stag Horn last night, vaguely remembered riding on his horse ...
Whitley twisted around, squinting at the faint light that filled the front half of the cave. It was daylight, so some period of time had passed. God! He wished he could think clearly. If only the incessant pounding in his head would cease!
He glanced over at the stranger, taking his measure. The stranger, who regarded him with a cool smile, was tall, his build lean and muscular, and his clothes—from the nankeen breeches to the superbly fitted d
ark blue coat—were those of a gentleman. His features were even and not unattractive and his hair was dark, as was his complexion. From his speech, Whitley assumed he was French.
Excitement coursed through him. Dragging himself up into a sitting position, Whitley rested his back against the wall of the cave and muttered, “Collard did deliver my message, after all.”
The stranger nodded. “Oui.”
Uneasy with his position, but feeling a little braver by the moment, Whitley demanded, “But why did he lie to me? And who are you? Why am I being treated like this? Charbonneau shall certainly hear of your high-handed actions, I can tell you that—and he won’t be pleased. We are good friends.”
“Monsieur Whitley,” said the stranger, “we will deal much better with each other if you allow moi to ask the questions.”
“I’m not answering any of your damn questions until you tell me what this is about,” Whitley blustered. “You’ve had the audacity to tie me up like a common criminal, and I don’t appreciate it one bit.” Frowning, Whitley demanded again, “Who the bloody hell are you?” The stranger’s brow quirked at Whitley’s tone, but he did not answer. More confident and angry, Whitley declared angrily, “This is an outrage! I am a British subject and this is British soil and you have no right to treat me this way. I insist that you untie me this instant!”
The stranger straightened from his languid position against the wall and walked to Whitley and calmly kicked him in the face. Whitley screamed from the pain, blood gushing from his nose and lips.
“First of all, I’m afraid that you are in no position to insist upon anything, and I did tell you, did I not,” said the gentleman in perfect King’s English, “that I ask the questions.”
Blinking from the pain, Whitley stared up at him in horror. “You’re English!”
The man smiled. “I am,” said the stranger, “whatever I wish to be. English. French. Spanish.” He shrugged. “Whatever the situation calls for.”
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