A Scoundrel by Moonlight

by Anna Campbell

  “Miss Trim!”

  Blearily she looked up from the last letter, written after her father’s death but before her mother learned of his fate. Nell had been the first to break the seal. The love and trust in her mother’s words had split her heart. Like the other letters that her father had clearly read and re-read, it was full of daily details of Mearsall life, including fond descriptions of young Nell. It was like having her mother whispering in her ear.

  “My lord…” She struggled to rise, clutching the poignant letter. “I’m sorry I’ve taken so long.”

  “For God’s sake, there’s no need to apologize,” he said gruffly.

  “I should have waited.” She set the letter on the desk with the others, and wiped her eyes. She’d told herself not to cry, and she’d been crying like a drain for the last hour.

  “No,” he said.

  “I’m ready to work now,” she said faintly, fumbling in her pocket for a handkerchief. “After you did this wonderful thing, I mustn’t inconvenience you.”

  “Damn it—” He bit off whatever he’d meant to say and seized her in his arms. “I hate to see you cry.”

  “I’ll stop,” she said, eyes overflowing.

  “Miss Trim…” His grip tightened and he drew her against his chest. Immediate warmth and security surrounded her.

  “I shouldn’t give in to my feelings,” she mumbled into the white front of his shirt.

  He settled her more firmly. “Don’t be a goose.”

  His rough affection was her undoing and she started to sob in earnest. She’d always recognized the tragedy that her parents had loved each other so deeply and had lost each other too soon. But those brave letters revived her sorrow with the added sharpness that now, as a woman, she knew the pain of loss in a way that her childhood self hadn’t.

  She had no idea how long she cried, but eventually the edge of her reaction blunted. She realized that she rested against Leath on the couch near the fire. She sucked in a shuddering breath and sat up, or at least tried to.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered, too embarrassed to look at him.

  “Dear Lord, Eleanor, you break my heart,” he growled and drew her close once more.

  Hearing him call her Eleanor devastated what little composure she’d gathered. But this time as she wept, he was more than a purely comforting presence. This time, she was aware of his clean masculine smell, the broad, powerful chest beneath her cheek, and the strong arms holding her.

  When she realized that her hands ran up and down his back in a way that had little to do with solace, she stiffened and drew away. This time he released her. She slid back to establish some space between them.

  He watched her with an unreadable expression before his mouth quirked with characteristic humor. “Should I risk telling you that the War Office is sending his belongings? They should be here within the week.”

  Nell wiped her eyes again and gave a choked laugh. “You’d be a brave man to chance that, my lord.” And caught a flash of disappointment at her use of the formal address.

  Shock shuddered through her. She’d been so wrong. So very, very wrong. Leath’s desire hadn’t died. He hadn’t forgotten kissing her or asking her to be his mistress.

  Thrilled, uncertain, she met the hunger blazing in his eyes.

  “Don’t think it,” he said flatly.

  “I don’t—”

  “Yes, you do.” His expression hardened. “You owe me nothing. I started the process of finding your father’s medals long before I asked you to become my lover.”

  Before she could remind herself that touching him was dangerous, she took his hand. “I’m sorry. And so grateful.”

  He frowned and she waited for him to retreat, but he turned his hand over and laced their fingers together. This contact of skin on skin grounded her in a way that nothing else had in these last weeks. “I don’t want your gratitude.”

  She bit her lip, wanting to tell him that she’d be his mistress, seeing only ruin and heartbreak ahead if she did.

  With a muttered expletive, he released her. “Don’t look at me like that, my girl, as if you’ve no idea what I’m talking about.” He stood and stalked toward the window, keeping his back to her. “You know exactly what I want from you, and bloody gratitude has absolutely nothing to do with it.”

  Tonbridge, Kent, November

  Greengrass slammed into his room at the King’s Head and in disgust flung the day’s pitiful pickings onto the deal table beneath the window. The coins’ clatter was nowhere near as satisfying as it had been in Taunton.

  He was running out of fresh territories. No matter how desperate they were, the women he’d threatened six months ago lacked ready money for a second round of blackmail. The buzz of recent sexual satisfaction warmed his blood—they still had something to offer—but cash proved harder to get.

  He tugged the diary from his coat—he wasn’t fool enough to leave it lying around—and tossed it on top of his takings. Perhaps the time had come to catch the fat pigeon he’d been holding in store. The proud and noble Marquess of Leath would surely pay good brass to keep this family scandal under wraps.

  Greengrass had waited to pluck this particular bird because it would only come to his hand once. Now the prospect of this final haul off the diary, and a rich one at that, made his fleshy lips spread in a gloating smile.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Leath rode toward the river with Miss Trim trailing behind on her chestnut. They were on their way to one of the most isolated farms on his domain. The afternoon was gray and stormy, befitting his cantankerous humor. It was sheer hell wanting a woman who didn’t want you.

  Except he’d lay money that Eleanor did want him. He’d glimpsed enough longing looks when she thought he didn’t notice to realize that he wasn’t the only one suffering a bad case of frustration.

  He understood why she’d said no. She wasn’t a woman to give herself lightly. He’d been a cad to ask her. Her refusal, while a blow, had been expected. Eleanor Trim deserved better than to become some rich man’s toy. Even if this particular rich man felt like his yen for his mother’s companion was the most serious issue in a life dedicated to serious issues.

  Long hours near Miss Trim without touching her counted as torture. But despite the excruciating deprivation, he wasn’t looking forward to Crane’s return.

  Poor Crane. At this rate, Leath would push him off another horse just to enjoy Miss Trim’s company for an extra month or two.

  So low had the Marquess of Leath fallen.

  He hadn’t fallen quite as low as he might. Every night, he lay restless in his huge bed and imagined slamming into the library the next morning and sweeping Eleanor into his arms and kissing her until she couldn’t spell the word “no.”

  Then the sun would rise and he’d remember that while he wanted Miss Trim, he also liked and respected her. Once, the threat of scandal would have deterred him. Now inconvenient fondness held him back from testing his rusty seductive wiles. So instead of snatching what he wanted, he would set out on another headlong gallop across the moors, hoping against hope that fresh air and speed would make him feel better.

  An utterly futile endeavor.

  The depth of empathy he felt for Miss Trim was more terrifying than his rapacious desire. After all, he was a man and she was a beautiful girl. He’d be unnatural not to want her. But he only had to recall his reaction when she’d sobbed over her father’s war records to know that more happened here than a physical itch. That day, he’d wanted to hold her forever and give her everything she wanted. The overwhelming drive to protect her had left him reeling.

  That overwhelming drive was more dangerous than desire. Even when desire flung him to the brink of madness.

  At the riverbank, he reined in his horse and turned back to Miss Trim. She looked tired and downcast. The troublesome sexual awareness between them played on her nerves too.

  “Be careful. The bank is chancy and the river is swollen after the rain.”


  “Yes, sir,” she responded in a subdued voice.

  She’d been quiet since she’d cried in his arms. Perhaps his confession that he wanted more than gratitude had frightened her. He really should send her away. Neither of them could find peace while they were together.

  But the thought of losing Nell made him want to howl denial. Seeing her was agonizing. Not seeing her would be worse. His London cronies always said Lord Leath reserved his passion for politics. How they’d laugh to see him now.

  A shout from beyond the river bend pierced his brooding. This part of the moors was miles from the nearest habitation, usually home to only birds and the wind.

  Despite the mucky ground, he spurred his horse into a gallop. Behind him, he heard Nell urge her mare to follow.

  Two boys stood on the bank calling to another boy who was flailing in the river. Leath immediately recognized them. The Murray children, at that troublesome age where they were convinced of their immortality. The lad in the water was Will Murray, ten years old and as full of mischief as a monkey.

  “Hold my horse.” Leath leaped from the saddle and rushed forward, flinging away his constricting coat. He didn’t bother to check whether Miss Trim obeyed. He trusted that she would.

  Will went under as he was swept downstream. “Help!” he shouted, surfacing. “Help me!”

  “Don’t you dare set foot in this river,” Leath snapped to Will’s brothers.

  When he dived into the flood, the cold turned every muscle rigid. Leath was a strong swimmer, but the water’s power appalled him. Ahead, Will sank again. It felt like hours before the boy bobbed up.

  Leath fought the current to stay in place. He couldn’t make headway against it, but as luck had it, the flow pushed the boy toward him.

  He grabbed for the lad, but missed. Next time, he caught the young ruffian. His hand curled hard around the linen collar and he wrenched the boy into his body. Will was so terrified that he fought Leath’s hold.

  “Stop it.” Leath struggled for a tone of effortless command. Icy water splashed his face and he found himself propelled along, helpless as a twig.

  Will’s glazed eyes met his and Leath saw that the boy was so panicked, he didn’t realize that help had arrived. Leath’s grip tightened as he struggled to stay afloat. “Listen to me, Will Murray. Neither of us is going to drown today so you’d better damn well do what I say.”

  This time, despite the roar of the water, Leath’s authority registered. Reason seeped into the boy’s gaze. “My lord!”

  “Lie still and let me take you in to shore.”

  “Yes, my lord,” he gasped.

  Leath caught Will under the chin and swam crosswise toward the bank. When in London, he regularly rode out to Hampstead Heath to swim and now he was grateful that he had. Even with Will’s cooperation, progress was tough. The river’s force was lethal. Using the current to power his sidestroke, he struggled to keep their heads above water.

  Eventually the flood washed them into a quieter loop. Leath stumbled to his feet to receive a joyful welcome from Will’s brothers and Miss Trim, who waded in and slid her shoulder under his arm. With her support, he staggered toward the bank. Behind him, the boys lugged Will to dry land.

  The whole incident was over in minutes, but Leath felt as if he’d gone ten rounds in the boxing ring. The water was littered with debris and he could swear that a forest of logs had slammed him. He sucked in painful gusts of air and tightened his hold around Nell’s shoulders.

  “I’m too heavy,” he grunted. Talking tested his strength.

  “Nonsense. Can you get up the bank?”

  “Yes,” he said, not sure he could. But with her help, he managed to crawl onto the grass. Gasping, he collapsed.

  “Are you all right?” She rested her hand on his heaving shoulder as he battled to fill his lungs. Even in his extremity, that touch seared through the wet shirt.

  “Yes,” he said, wanting to say more but unable to summon breath.

  “Stay there.”

  “You’re so… high-handed,” he managed to force out.

  Her grip on his shoulder firmed in encouragement. “If you can be rude, you’ll live, my lord.”

  Choking on a broken laugh, he lay like a stranded fish while she approached the boys. Will seemed in better case than his rescuer. At least he had the strength to sit up, although he was pale and shivering.

  Miss Trim spoke to the brothers before she helped Will toward Adela. She’d had the sense to lead the horses to where he and Will had washed ashore.

  Leath struggled to his knees. He wasn’t sure if he could stand, confound it. He was bruised from the pummeling, but at least breathing no longer hurt. The problem was that as pain faded, chill struck deeper. On dry land, it might be late autumn. In the Alloway River, it was Arctic winter.

  “Give him my coat.” He was appalled at how hoarse he sounded.

  “You’ll be cold,” she said.

  Every second, strength returned. “I’ll get by.”

  She looked dubious, then when she saw how Will shivered, she nodded. Most people jumped at Leath’s slightest word, but not Eleanor Trim. “Once Will’s safely home, my lord, I’ll return for you.”

  He’d recovered enough to notice the way she regarded him. His hard-won breath jammed in his lungs. He’d never seen that expression before. Her large eyes glowed and a flush brightened her cheeks. Perhaps the biting wind whipped up her color. But the smile flirting with her lips made his heart, only just settling, kick up and race as it had raced when he’d fought the river.

  Eleanor turned away before he identified what lay in her eyes. She helped Will into Leath’s coat which she’d tied to his saddle. The boy looked so woebegone in the voluminous black folds that Leath hid a smile. Hopefully today’s fright taught young Master Will a lesson about recklessness, although given what he knew of the lad, he had his doubts.

  Using a fallen branch as a mounting block, Nell scrambled into her saddle. She reached down to help Will up behind her.

  Battling to hide how much effort it took to move, Leath crossed to the heavily laden mount and caught the bridle. “I’ll meet you at the Murray farm.”

  “Shouldn’t you go home and find some dry clothes?”

  Presumptuous wench. His lips twitched. “I want to make sure Will suffers no ill effects from his dip.”

  He passed the reins to her and inadvertently or deliberately her hand brushed his as she took them. Bizarre that he was freezing, yet that subtle touch blasted him with heat.

  She stared hard at him, her eyes conveying some message that he couldn’t read. “My lord?”

  “What is it?”

  The smile flirting with her lips broadened into something glorious. “The answer is yes.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Surely Will, plastered to her back as she galloped toward the Murray farm, must hear her heart pounding. Despite the marquess’s coat, the boy was wet and cold, yet Nell felt like a huge fire burned inside her. A fire bright enough to light her whole life.

  Watching Leath unhesitatingly risk his life in a raging river to save a lad with more spirit than sense, she’d recognized all her havering as the victory of fear over desire.

  Nobody would ever compare to James Fairbrother. Despite Dorothy’s example, despite her stepfather’s moral strictures, despite her own sense of self-preservation, she couldn’t relinquish the chance to know this extraordinary man in every way possible. Eleanor Trim was about to become a marquess’s mistress. And she couldn’t summon a shred of regret. Instead, that fluttery, new sensation under her ribs felt like happiness.

  She’d meant to wait, to tell Leath her decision when they were alone, but she’d looked into his exhausted, austere, beautiful face and found herself unable to hold back. As she’d expected from a man so perceptive, one word was enough. She’d seen the flare of joy in his eyes and her heart had leaped like a salmon up a river.

  Somewhere she’d fallen in love with his lordship. Perhaps when he’d bee
n so kind to his mother. Perhaps with his kisses. Even if Nell hadn’t already loved him, she’d be halfway there after he found her father’s effects.

  So much had made no sense, until she’d watched Leath dive into the flood and realized that if he died, she didn’t want to live.

  If Leath were a simple, ordinary man, she’d marry him, bear his children, build a long and fulfilled life together. But he was no simple, ordinary man. If she surrendered to this complex, gifted creature, she couldn’t expect a conventional happy ending.

  Even if Leath loved her—and while she knew he liked her and wanted her, she had no idea if he felt more—the world would frown upon any marriage between a marquess and a sergeant major’s daughter. A mésalliance would destroy Leath’s lifelong political ambitions. Even if he was willing to make such a sacrifice, now that she’d seen his flashing brilliance in full flight when Sir Garth visited, she couldn’t accept it. She couldn’t make him less than he was. That would degrade her love to mere selfishness. If lowly Eleanor Trim wanted the Marquess of Leath in her bed, it must be without the church’s blessing.

  A thunder of hooves signaled Leath’s approach. In his soggy clothes, he must be turning to ice, but the fiery look he sent her blazed right through her.

  Mrs. Murray reacted to her son’s ordeal with the calm common sense that Nell expected, although her thanks to Leath were sincere and extensive. While Nell appreciated that the woman needed to express her gratitude, staying for tea was almost unbearable. Nell had spent weeks hankering to kiss his lordship. Now, any postponement irked. Leath appeared his usual unflappable self, until Nell caught a sizzling glance aimed in her direction and realized that he too chafed at the delay.

  Still, Nell couldn’t gripe at Leath drying out before the roaring fire in the Murrays’ front room. She didn’t want him perishing of pneumonia before she’d had her wicked way.