by Linda Jones
No wonder he'd objected to having her in the house, Maximillian thought as he suppressed a smile. He was sweet on her. The thought of Dalton Archer being sweet on anyone was difficult to imagine.
Max realized, as he watched, that Penelope followed Dalton's every move, watching and frowning, her dark eyes piercing and curious. Was she concerned about her cousin? Had she noticed the butler's odd behavior toward Mary? He didn't think so.
Beck entered the room bearing a silver tray that supported three china cups filled with steaming coffee, and Penelope's eyes followed him just as they had Dalton.
When they were alone, the three of them with their dessert and coffee, Penelope turned a falsely bland face to her husband.
"Maximillian,” she said as she played with her cake, “how long has Dalton been with you?"
"Whyever do you ask?"
She shrugged her shoulders in a way that was surely supposed to be casual to the extreme—but he didn't buy it. “I'm just curious about the household staff."
"The entire staff or just my butler?"
Now they had Mary's full attention. “Dalton is a fine butler,” she said defensively. “Unconventional, perhaps, but very reliable."
It seemed that both the Seton women were smitten with the handsome and unconventional butler. Max knew, reasonably, that he shouldn't be feeling these pangs of what could only be jealousy. Not after he'd done everything in his power to drive his wife away.
"Dalton has been with me for years, m'dear,” he said lightly. “In England, in India, Dalton was at my side."
"I had no idea."
Max gave her a bored smile. “Until now, you haven't expressed an interest."
Dalton, who would have gladly killed Penelope on her wedding night, had been defending her of late—questioning what they knew to be true of her involvement in Heath Lowry's death, questioning her allegiance to Chadwick. What had his lovely wife done to sway the unmerciful man?
"It's just that your entire staff is, as Mary said, unconventional. Has Beck been with you as long as Dalton?"
Beck? The man still carried an openly hostile grudge for Penelope's part in Lowry's death, as did Lewis and John. Surely she harbored no tender feelings for Beck. “No,” he said simply, following his answer with a wide yawn. “Faith, m'dear, this is by far the dullest conversation I've ever endured."
He watched as Penelope turned her attention to her dessert, destroying it bit by bit and eating very little. What was she up to?
Maximillian and Mary had both retired long ago, and the storm that had begun not long after Victor's departure that afternoon continued to rage. Another storm raged within Penelope, a storm she could not escape as easily as the one outside this mansion.
Inside her warm bedchamber she was safe and warm, but she couldn't help but wonder where Tyler was at this moment. Did the same storm roar around him? Was he somewhere warm and secure?
She was dressed for bed in her plain shift, but she hadn't so much as attempted to crawl beneath the coverlet and find sleep. A single candle burned low, lighting her path as she paced on bare feet before the window.
What was she to do? If Victor was right and the Indigo Blade lived in this house, he could be anyone. Dalton, who was no butler. Beck, who hated her openly. John, who mumbled incoherently when he passed her, Lewis with his false smile, black-eyed Garrick, that gruff stableman Fletcher...
She had to have something to tell Victor in three days—and her first day was almost gone.
Carrying the single candle, she slipped to the door and opened it soundlessly. The passageway was deserted and black, the house still. There was only the sound of the storm outside and her thudding heart.
Somewhere on the third floor, she knew, was evidence that the man Victor searched for was here. Weapons, the disguises the Indigo Blade was known for, incriminating notes and maps. All she had to do was find one piece of proof, and she could save her brother.
Garrick had kept her from the third floor once before. Was he the one who had something to hide? Exploring during the daytime hours was impossible. There was always someone about—watching her, following her—so her only chance was to explore while the household was abed, to sneak into the very rooms where they slept. A shiver worked its way through her body at the prospect.
And if she were caught? As she closed the door to her bedchamber and took the first steps toward the staircase at the end of the passageway, she found she didn't care. She would die for Tyler, if need be. She had nothing and no one else in this world to love.
The storm masked any sound she made, and she was very careful not to make any noise at all as she approached the stairway that led to the third floor. The candlelight flickered off the walls, gilt frames and oil paintings from around the world, polished tables and ancient vases, the trappings of her fine prison.
She had nothing to lose.
Her foot was on the first step, her face lifted to the unexplored floor above, when she hesitated. If she learned that one of her husband's servants was indeed the Indigo Blade, she had no choice but to report her findings to Victor. Still, it would destroy her to betray a man she'd come to admire. A hero who saved innocents and stood up for those who would see these colonies free from England. But if she found nothing, Victor would punish Tyler terribly, and that would destroy her as well.
"Dalton's room is the third on the left."
She spun around so fast that the candle flickered and almost went out, but it quickly flared to life to illuminate her husband's angry face.
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Chapter Sixteen
"But perhaps I don't need to tell you where his room is."
He should smile and inform his wife that her night-time activities didn't concern him at all, that any and all of the men living under this roof were ready and willing to serve her in every way, including visiting her bed if she wished it. But his blood was boiling and he couldn't fix the mask of the uncaring and flippant Maximillian Broderick that Penelope must know so well into place.
A crack of thunder shook the house; it sounded in Max's blood and reverberated through every throbbing vein. Standing on the bottom step of the narrow stairway that led to the third floor, Penelope jumped.
"Afraid of the storm, m'dear?"
She shook her head slowly.
"Afraid of me, m'dear?” he whispered.
Penelope hesitated before shaking her head this time. “I'm not looking for anyone's room. I was just restless. It's the storm, I suppose."
She seemed a horrible liar. Her dark eyes were wide, her soft lower lip trembled, and the hand that grasped the candlestick shook visibly. Ah, but he knew the opposite to be true.
He lifted his hand, offered it palm up, and waited for her to take it. “I would suggest that when you're restlessly wandering the house, you confine yourself to the first and second floors. Dalton sleeps with a knife, in case you haven't already discovered that fact in your restive night-time excursions, and Garrick always keeps a firearm close at hand. Wander into the wrong room and you'll likely make me a widower, m'dear."
After a moment's hesitation, she placed her hand in his and stepped down. Her trembling had lessened considerably, but her hand still quivered.
"I've never...” She stammered and blushed. “I wouldn't ... How can you believe...” She looked up at him, her face soft in the mellow candlelight, her lips parted to defend herself from his accusations. He watched the strength come back into her eyes, felt the return of steadiness to the hand he grasped so lightly. “If you can believe that I would lie with another man, you know me not at all."
She told the truth, he could see it, and the wave of relief that washed over him almost buckled his knees. Maybe he believed this declaration to be true because he needed and wanted so badly to accept it. In spite of everything that had happened, she was his wife. She was his.
"Forgive me,” he whispered.
She could have easily slipped her hand from his and made an escape, but d
id not. Her chilled fingers tightened. “What happened to us, Maximillian?"
There was no answer to her question, at least none he could voice. So he kissed her. A soft kiss, like the brushing of their lips in the parlor that afternoon, a tentative, uncertain caress. Her mouth warmed against his, her eyes fluttered closed, her body moved instinctively closer to his.
He could take her here and now, on the floor as the storm howled around the house. He could tell her how he loved her in spite of everything he'd done to prove otherwise, how he wanted her in his bed every night. Faith, she'd made a fool of him without even trying.... He took his lips from hers so suddenly and quickly she teetered on her feet and he had to reach out to brace her.
When Penelope was steady, he released her and turned away. “Good night, m'dear.” He had almost reached the door to his bedchamber when she spoke.
"Am I doing something wrong?” Her voice trembled slightly.
He stopped with his hand against the door. “No, of course not,” he said lightly.
If she would leave it at that he could make his escape. Penelope, of course, had no intentions of letting him off so lightly. “What must I do to make you love me again?"
She was coming closer. He could see the light dancing on the walls as she approached, hear the soft sound of her bare feet against the rug that lined the passageway, feel the tightening of every muscle in his body as she came near.
"Perhaps I never stopped loving you,” he whispered, certain she couldn't hear his soft words.
And then she placed a hand against his back. He savored the touch of her palm through his linen shirt, leaned back slightly to increase the pressure of her fingers against his spine.
"I could use a friend,” she said softly. “I could use two strong arms to lean on. Maybe the love has gone, but there must be something between us. I can feel it, can't you? You're my husband, and I'm your wife. If we want anything more than ... than what we have now, we have to try to make something of this marriage."
Maximillian turned and placed the two strong arms she needed around her. He tightened them as if she might change her mind and walk away.
"Let me stay with you tonight.” Her voice was hesitant, as if she expected him to say no. Of course she was hesitant, after the hurtful things he'd said and done in the name of justice. It took courage for Penelope to face him and voice the facts of their less-than-perfect marriage, to ask for more. It was a courage he himself did not possess.
Max lifted her easily, so that her feet dangled inches from the floor and her candle tilted dangerously, and he carried her down the short expanse of passageway that separated his bedchamber from hers.
As Maximillian set her on her feet and opened the door, another close flash of lightning split the sky and flashed brightly, illuminating her chamber and the untouched bed.
Penelope was not ashamed to admit that she needed her husband tonight, no matter that he didn't love or trust her, no matter that he'd just accused her of seeking out another man to take his place. She needed his arms around her, his warm body beside hers, and she needed him to make her forget, for a while, the impossible decisions she had to make.
She was tired of being alone.
Maximillian took the candle from her and blew out the flame, leaving them in complete darkness. She was about to remove her shift when he reached out to do that for her, to take the linen in his hands and lift it slowly over her head and then drop it on the floor. His hands touched her then, gentle hands that barely brushed against her flesh.
How could a man be so thoughtless one moment and so tender the next? She closed her eyes and allowed herself to enjoy the feel of his hands on her body, the exploring hands that brushed over her neck and her breasts, down her side and over her hip, as if he were memorizing every line, every curve.
The lightning flashed again, making the room bright as day for a heartbeat. For that flash of time she saw the man she married, a man who truly loved her.
"Maximillian.” She whispered his name as she reached out to lay her hands at his waist.
"Yes, m'dear,” he said hoarsely.
"Tell me there's no one else. That there are no other women. That when you leave me here alone at night you don't go to someone else for what I would gladly give you."
"Penelope..."
"Even if you don't mean it, even if it's a lie. I need to hear it."
He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. “I neither need nor want any other woman. When I'm away from here I think of you, whether I want to or not. You're with me wherever I go.” He led her to the bed and placed her upon it, dropping his arms from her aching body.
"I want to believe that's true,” she whispered.
He returned to the bed without the breeches and linen shirt and slipped beneath the satin coverlet to take her in his arms. Their legs entwined, moving instinctively and without hesitation. Their arms reached out to hold and be held, and Penelope lifted her mouth for a kiss that made her forget, for the moment, that this man had hurt her, that he'd made her love him and then grown distant, had promised her perfection and delivered heartache.
He was here for her now, holding her with steady arms, protecting her from the stormy world outside this house—at least for tonight.
When she thought she could stand to wait no more, he rolled her onto her back and spread her thighs wide to stroke her throbbing body with exploring fingers. His mouth devoured hers, with thrusting tongue and demanding lips, as he drove her past the point of rational thought.
When he, at last, sheathed himself inside her, she wrapped her legs around him possessively. There was nothing gentle in the way he loved her, nothing tame in the way he rocked above and inside her. He was as wild as the storm that roared around them.
There was no misunderstanding between them now, no accusations. There was simply his body and hers, his heart and hers, a wordless acceptance that they were wed not only by law, but by a bonding of the heart and soul.
She shattered in his arms, moaning against the mouth that was joined to hers, clutching desperately at Maximillian as he growled her name and drove deep and hard one last time. A distant flash of lightning illuminated her husband for her, ever so briefly—the unrestrained pale hair that fell across his face, hiding his expression from her, the hard, glistening body that was poised above hers.
How could she love a man who so often treated her with such disdain, with such cold distance? She didn't know how it was possible, but she did love him, still.
He fell gently across her spent body, covering her and protecting her with his body and his heart.
But for how long?
Mary lay beneath the covers, huddled against the storm. As she had twice before, as the long night passed, she reached beneath her pillow for the letters she'd tucked there. Letters from Victor, notes demanding that she meet him in the gazebo. To talk, he said, but she no longer believed him.
Tempted as she'd been, she'd ignored the last two letters from Victor, refusing to see him.
She'd been such a fool. Victor not only didn't love her, he loved no one and probably never would. She'd thought the joining of their bodies was proof of his love, but it had been much less for him.
He'd used her.
It hurt so badly, she assumed she must still love Victor in some way. Why? Why couldn't she choose to love someone else? Someone who wouldn't hurt her, someone who would love her in return.
She'd told Penelope often that a smart woman chose who she loved and rejected unacceptable prospects. So, why couldn't she chase memories of Victor from her mind?
Unbidden, she saw Dalton's face as he wiped away her tears and washed her hands, as he knelt before her and tended to her gently, with no idea of how much she was hurting inside.
He would surely think less of her if he knew.
Mary pulled a fat pillow over her head. The butler! Surely she wasn't lying in bed worrying about what the butler thought of her!
But he was a most handsome butler,
she conceded as she moved the pillow from her face.
Penelope was sleeping soundly, and morning was lighting the sky when Max gathered his clothes from the floor, dressed quickly, and left the room. During the early morning hours the storm had passed, and this promised to be a bright and beautiful day.
Still, it was a day in which he could not tell his wife that he loved her, a day in which he could not share the deception that was a most important part of his life. A day in which he would look at the woman he loved more than life itself and wonder how she could do something so dastardly as she'd done.
"What's this?"
Max lifted his head to find a smiling man looking down at him from the narrow stairway where he'd found his wife last night. Dalton leaned against the banister with a taut nonchalance.
"This is none of your business,” Max said coldly. He was certain there was nothing between Penelope and Dalton, but for some reason he felt the jealous rage from last night resurfacing.
He wished, not for the first time, that he cared for Penelope less—without the frenzy, without the passion, without the fierceness he was unaccustomed to. But he was learning there was no tempering his feelings where she was concerned.
Dalton came slowly down the stairs to meet Max in the passageway. “No one's likely to agree with me,” he said softly, “but I think your wife's innocent of the charge against her."
"Do you?” Max faced the man who'd been at his side for seven years. “And what convinced you, pray tell? Did Penelope swear her innocence to you?"
"No.” Dalton's smile was gone. “She's said nothing."
"Interesting. Then what changed your mind? You were ready to do away with her when you first heard of her betrayal, if I remember correctly."
Dalton was dressed for the day in the livery that marked him as a servant of the Broderick household, a conservative suit of clothes that could not restrain the fierce man he was. “Ask her,” he whispered. “Let her explain."
