The Lord Meets His Lady

by Gina Conkle

  “My solemn vow,” he rasped, “is to protect you.”

  “And there’s absolutely no possessive I-have-what-he-wants male tit for tat going on here between you and Herr Wolf?”

  “Not at all.”

  Her brow arched higher.

  “A little. Very little,” he insisted, a boyish grin in place.

  Lord Bowles reached for her hand, pulling her closer. He rubbed her arms from shoulders to elbows, the friction sweet, their bodies bumping gently, even sweeter. Being with him called to her soul. They fit.

  A hot shiver slipped between her legs. She couldn’t help but recall what had happened the last time he’d pinned her to a wall.

  “There’s something else you ought to consider,” he said.

  “Such as?”

  “You scared me.”

  “How?”

  “When you charged off, I knew what you had in mind.”

  “I’ve taken care of myself for too long,” she said. “You don’t need my hardships.”

  Awareness teased her. His scent, his heat bounced off his body to hers. She wanted to escape, but her leaden limbs refused to move.

  “There is nothing so frightening as an independent woman,” he murmured between kisses on her forehead. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  She nestled in to him, the last threads of control snapping. She wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. This was victory and defeat. Her hands wandered over his wool waistcoat. Burgeoning whiskers scraped her nose. Scents of plain soap lingered on his skin from hasty ablutions at his washstand. Whiskey’s aroma clung to his neckcloth…the same one he wore last night.

  “Let me take care of you,” he whispered.

  Her eyes squeezed shut at his tender plea. They were in a race to care for each other.

  “I can’t help but blame myself for what’s happened.”

  “What use is blame? Life’s hard enough. Live each day as it comes.”

  With his arms around her, she could believe anything was possible.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Give me time to think,” he said, massaging her shoulders. “We must be vigilant. For your safety, you have to stay by my side.”

  A tiny line slanted between his brows. Her husband was quite serious about this.

  “Is that a ploy to get me into your bed?”

  He flashed his satyr’s grin. “Is it working?”

  She stood in the shelter he offered, her will to run lost. Her body had wedged its way between his thighs as though being there was her natural right.

  Wool scraped her palms. She caressed his waistcoat-covered chest, staring at the weave. “You’ve convinced me. My well-being rests entirely in your hands.”

  One hand coiled her braid. He tipped her head back and kissed her mouth. Slowly. Thoroughly. One scorching, toe-curling kiss. A promise for later. Warmth pooled between her legs. Lord Bowles gave her a wicked smile, taking his time to release her braid.

  “The first place I’m dragging you off to is the barn.”

  She blinked. “The barn?”

  “Yes. Big building. Lots of horses. Some need fresh bandages, ointments applied.” He smirked and led her to the kitchen. “You’re going to help me.”

  “But I need to finish the mural.”

  “Not today. I’m not letting you out of my sight.” He flung open the old green cabinet and crouched low.

  “Don’t you think that’s a bit much? My staying by your side all the time.”

  He braced a hand on a shelf and commenced his search. “You tell me. Large Prussian soldier puts off his duty to hunt for one runaway indentured servant.” He reached in deeper, bottles clanking. “He finds his maid cloaked in red in a northern cottage, but she’s married, thus, legally free of her contract.”

  “There’s your answer. I’m legally free of him.”

  “But did the Wolf tuck tail and leave?”

  “No.”

  Bottle in hand, Marcus stood. “The Wolf loiters, seeking weakness. With my gambling and whiskey, he did.” He shut the cabinet door with a decisive click. “A mistake I won’t let happen again.”

  “We don’t have much time to solve this.”

  “By my calculation, we have three days before the Prussian must leave in time to board his ship in Alnmouth. Good thing Herr Wolf’s ally showed up on our doorstep to kindly inform us when the enemy leaves. I know how much time I have to outsmart him.”

  Her heart fluttered like a silly girl. He said our doorstep. Forget the predator who wanted to steal her away; she was in danger of falling in love with her husband.

  He dusted off the bottle. “Now tell me I’m exercising too much caution.”

  She fretted with her gown’s front lacing. Three days to outwit the Wolf. Lord Bowles had taken the morning’s dreadful visit and turned it into a positive equation. He faced her like a chivalrous knight of long-ago tales with his arrow-straight nose and natural handsomeness.

  And he was all about helping her.

  “You’re right.”

  “What?” He chuckled. “No negotiations?”

  “This morning… It was enough to scare me.”

  “You will be safe.”

  Her gaze landed on the bottle. “It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s you.”

  Thirty-one

  “This?” He shook the bottle. “Purely for medicinal purposes.”

  “Like the brandy.” Genevieve laughed. “Do tell.”

  “For the horses.” He smiled, glad to have lifted the cloud that hovered after Lord Barnard’s visit.

  Whiskey sloshed in hand. He didn’t want it. Last night had been a mistake, and he’d have to forgive himself and move on. The drink had never enslaved him like some men, but he was never as free as others. Most days at Pallinsburn, the craving hung in the periphery, a specter waiting to devour him. There was truth in facing what hounded him, the same as he found truth with Genevieve.

  “Sometimes…the way you look at me…I believe I can conquer anything,” he confided. “I want to be the man you believe in.”

  “Thank you. You’re a grown man, milord. I shouldn’t have questioned you.”

  “I meant what I said. You, the horses, Samuel and his mad plan to make us king of northern horse trading…” He grinned. “Even Pallinsburn. I’m happy here. Happier than I’ve been in a long time.”

  Her lips parted as though she debated kissing him or saying something. The kiss against the front door was nearly his undoing—and hers, if he judged the carnal light in her eyes.

  He eyed her gown’s front lacing. “If we stand here much longer, I’ll devote my day to untying your gown, removing every layer. One. By. One.”

  “Oh.”

  His stare wandered upward, pausing on the pink flush above her bodice. “Protecting you is my solemn vow, but you and I have work to do. Certain four-legged beauties will be sorely neglected if we don’t get to the barn.”

  “Then we’d better tend them.”

  Heat bounced between them in the humble kitchen. Pure lust. Yet Genevieve’s eyes sparkled at the mention of working at his side. Women had always been a distraction, a pastime, never a partner in life’s daily motions.

  Folding his hand around hers, he led her out of the kitchen. “I want you to know, after I left London, I hadn’t had so much as a sip of whiskey until last night.”

  “That’s what I mean about me causing you trouble,” she said to his back.

  In the entry hall, he set down the bottle and handed over her cloak. “You think you drove me to drink last night?”

  “I didn’t help matters.”

  Marcus donned his redingote as Genevieve wrapped herself in red wool. His young wife surprised him with her uncanny insights, but here she’d missed the mark.

  “My mistakes are
my own,” he said, sliding on his gloves.

  “As are mine, milord.”

  “Stubborn woman,” he muttered and opened the door to a blast of cool, mind-cleansing air.

  Chickens scratched the ground. Horses ambled along the pasture’s stone fence.

  Genevieve lingered on the front step, scanning the roiling skies. “Another storm’s coming.”

  “You know, I’ve never had to work this hard to convince a woman to stay with me,” he said, putting on his hat.

  Dark eyes flirted from the red hood. “There is a first for everything.”

  They walked to the barn, the wind nipping Marcus’s cheeks. Alexander stopped his hammering and waved across the pasture. The new herd clustered on a knoll for warmth. Marcus flipped up his collar. This was his home, and Genevieve was part of it. He’d gladly married her to keep her here.

  He yanked open the barn door. “Remember. Keep close.”

  Genevieve nodded, brightening when Hester poked her nose over the stall. “There’s my girl,” she cooed, rushing to the young horse.

  Brisk air carried aromas of hay and earth. Marcus breathed in deep, listening to his wife. Her red-gloved hands petted the little brown horse. She deserved better than what life had served her.

  But how? They had three days. What more could he do to save her?

  He fetched Khan and tied him to a center post. The proud gray snickered at the sight of the brush. Khan sniffed at his coat pocket.

  “No apples today, my friend.”

  Genevieve approached with bandages. “Why don’t I brush Khan and you wrap these?”

  Her hand joined Marcus’s, taking over the task. He dropped a light kiss on her forehead, the act as natural as breathing. His mouth was on her skin when hooves clip-clopped outside the barn. Horse and rider trotted casually into the drive. Marcus pushed in front of Genevieve and reached for the pistol in his hip boot.

  It wasn’t there.

  He dropped the bandages and grabbed the pitchfork leaning against the stall. “If it’s the Prussian, run to the woods and get to the Beckworth cottage.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t argue.” Marcus hefted the tool, forked ends out.

  Horse and rider came closer, their shadow stretching long. A man in a black tricorne and frock coat stepped past the barn doorway, leading a horse.

  “Planning to spear me?” an amused voice called out.

  “Samuel.” Marcus relaxed the pitchfork, his friend’s name gusting from his mouth. “You could’ve announced yourself.”

  Eyeing the pitchfork, Samuel tethered his horse. “Didn’t think it was that bad between us.”

  “The stallion.” With Lord Barnard’s visit, loss of the stud slipped his mind.

  Samuel sauntered over, unbuttoning the top of his coat. “I’m the one who asked you to gamble despite your misgivings. It was my own fault.”

  Genevieve touched his sleeve. “I should let you two talk alone.”

  “No. It’s too dangerous. Stay here.”

  “What’s too dangerous?” Samuel asked.

  “We had a visitor. Lord Barnard. He threatened Genevieve.”

  “What’s the old man got to do with her?”

  “Barnard’s claims are purely political.” Marcus drove the pitchfork into soft soil and gave a cursory explanation of Lord Barnard’s visit.

  “He wants to trade Miss Turner for copper rights?”

  “Lady Bowles,” Marcus corrected. “And she’s not being traded for anything.”

  Samuel’s eyes flared at the correction.

  “Whatever name Mr. Beckworth uses doesn’t matter,” Genevieve said beside him.

  Samuel undid another button. “She’s safe for now—”

  “For as long as she bears my name.”

  Samuel’s eyes narrowed on Marcus. “—because the baron took his guests grouse hunting. Today and tomorrow. I passed them on their journey to his hunting lodge.”

  “All of his guests?”

  “If you’re wondering about the Prussian, yes, he was among them, riding our stallion,” Samuel said bitterly. “What do you want to do?”

  “I am capable of making my own decisions, you know,” Genevieve said.

  Marcus touched the small of her back. “And your decision was to trust me.”

  Cool winter sun lit strands of hair falling across her cheek. Her body relaxed under her cloak, the easing slight as an exhale on his hand. Lips parting and a gentle flush on her cheeks were private messages for him, the trust as sweet a gift as her body yielding to him. The earthy, sensual, rough-around-the-edges Genevieve sated his soul better than all the mannered misses of London.

  A calmer Genevieve turned to Samuel. “In all the uproar, we forgot to ask about Adam. Is he well?”

  “Fever broke this morning, but not before giving me a scare.” Samuel removed his hat and scraped a hand through his hair before jamming the hat back on. His normally tidy queue was in disarray, and dark circles marred the skin under his eyes.

  “You should go home and rest,” Marcus said.

  “Not yet. I’ve been thinking. We may have another way to get the stallion back and recoup our funds.”

  “How?”

  “A horse race. When Atal brings his guests back from hunting grouse. They hunger for new entertainment. They jumped at the idea when I suggested it on the road.”

  A gust skirled through the barn’s open door, stirring Marcus’s redingote. “You want me to race Khan.”

  The wind played with the frock layers on Samuel’s shoulders. The tip of his nose was red from his ride. “Against Atal’s new black. The one he bought at Tattersall’s.”

  “The horse has excellent bloodlines. She’s younger than Khan.”

  “But Khan’s a gelding with better bloodlines. The old boy has a good year or two left.”

  Marcus ground his molars. “I don’t like it.”

  “Khan runs like the wind for you.”

  “Even if I raced him, we still have the problem of no collateral.”

  Samuel kicked the dirt. “We have options. You could ask for a loan from any one of Atal’s guests.”

  “You want me to go hat in hand and beg a loan from the same men who spoke disparagingly of our venture?”

  “Pride is an expensive virtue we can’t afford,” Samuel ground out. “We can still come out ahead. There are options.”

  Tension crawled between Marcus’s shoulder blades. Khan stomped the dirt, the vain steed having heard his name. Genevieve petted his neck, cooing sweet words. With the barn door left open, winter air blew in. Cold numbed Marcus as foreboding settled in.

  “How, Samuel?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “Explain how we’ll come out ahead when we have no collateral to offer.”

  Samuel looked past him. “I don’t, but you do.”

  Thirty-two

  The closed door mocked her: Enter at your own peril. Genevieve stalled in the dark hallway, a box of cheroots in one hand, a book in the other. A well-traveled, salacious book. The kind she was certain her husband would read locked away with a female companion. Light flickered under the door. Liquid splattered its faint swish inside his chamber. This hesitation put a vise grip on her ribs. Or was that fear?

  Rolling her eyes, she tucked the book under her arm and knocked. “Marcus.”

  “Please leave.”

  His flat voice haunted her. Tipping her forehead against the door, she tried again. “Please…I…”

  I…what?

  She wasn’t equipped to understand a man like him. Perhaps silence was best. The day had passed with plenty of quiet after Mr. Beckworth had laid out his latest plan.

  “Offer Khan as collateral” had been Mr. Beckworth’s answer.

  She had cried out at the suggestion, but Marcus had promised to think it over. M
r. Beckworth went home, and her husband promptly cleaned every corner of the barn, tended every horse, and chopped wood outside the cottage. He’d attacked his work, soldiering on in silence. His labor had ended when the ax slipped, narrowly missing his foot because nightfall made outdoor tasks impossible.

  Now she stood, ear to the door, another splash sounding inside his chamber.

  Was he drinking?

  A peek. To check on his welfare. She pushed on the door. Light cracked through the opening.

  Firelight glimmered on watery beads clinging to a bare male torso. One determined drop slipped over his ribs, up and over the bones that knit his side until the droplet stopped above his breech’s waistband.

  The washstand’s pitcher clinked. “You’re lurking.”

  His stare speared her from the looking glass. Primitive. Forceful.

  Her shoes could have been nailed to the floor. The man across the room wouldn’t be managed. His reflection showed a jaw darker, rougher from another day without the razor. Dark, windswept hair framed his face. Damp curls plastered his nape. But his eyes. One could say her woodsman husband dared her to come in…all the better to devour her.

  “I brought these for you.” She hefted the cheroot box, and the door arced wide.

  “And a book.”

  Which she couldn’t hide fast enough.

  “It’s nothing.” She juggled to put the slender volume out of sight, but it slipped and landed with a thud.

  She dropped to her knees, her wool skirts hiding the book. Marcus strode across the room in stockinged feet and breeches to crouch before her. His nearness sucked the air. She sat back on her heels, her legs folded beneath her.

  There was no graceful way to recover the book pinched between her knees.

  She tried scooting back, but his knee pinned her skirt to the floor.

  “I shouldn’t have come. Forgive me.” She froze, riveted on his hand rooting under her hem.

  “Our nightly reading,” he intoned, grasping the book under her skirt. “How thoughtless of me to forget.”

  She pressed her legs together. “There are other things on your mind.”

  “You mean my latest downfall. Horses, money, and a woman.” The corner of his mouth tilted in the cool, lazy smile she equated with the man she’d first met, not the man she’d come to know.