Deceiver

Deceiver Page 22

by Nicola Cornick

  "I am sorry," he said. "I misjudged you. When I saw you again I thought only of revenge for what you had done to me and to—" He hesitated.

  "To India," Isabella said flatly.

  The name seemed to hover uncomfortably in the air between them.

  "I understand," Isabella said. "She was your wife."

  Once again she turned her face away and Marcus had the frus­trating feeling that he had not made himself understood at all.

  "I cannot explain the difference in the accounts that you and she gave," he said, struggling a little. "But I do believe that you would never deliberately seek to take her inheritance from her. You are. . .too generous a person to do such a thing."

  He thought that there was a tiny shade of warmth in Isa­bella's voice when she replied but it could merely have been his own wishful thinking.

  "Too generous a person," she said. "This seems rather a sudden conversion, Marcus, after all that has happened between us."

  He could not deny it. He knew that from the first he had been struggling against his own intuition as well as against her. He had wanted to believe her false and treacherous. At every turn he had blocked the evidence of his own eyes and the instincts of his heart and had tried to believe the worst of her. Yet that image had never really fitted and now the world had spun and shifted again and he saw the truth.

  "I am sorry," he said again.

  "Do you believe what I told you the night before last?" Isabella asked. "The reasons for my marriage to Ernest?"

  Marcus hesitated. He believed implicitly what she had told him, yet he was not certain that he could forgive her for making the choice she had done, and for putting her family ahead of him.

  "I understand what you told me," he said, choosing his words carefully. "I am sorry that you did not choose to come to me for help but I understand your reasons."

  Isabella caught her lip between her teeth. "So you do not forgive me."

  Marcus felt torn between the truth and sparing Isabella further hurt. "I have not said that, Bella. It is not really a matter for my forgiveness. I wish you had come to me but I understand why you did not."

  "We all have hard choices to make," Isabella said, so softly Marcus had to lean closer to hear her. "I put the future of my family ahead of our happiness." She looked at him suddenly and his heart contracted at the anguish in her eyes. "This is very painful, Marcus."

  "It is." Marcus knew that there was no way in which such matters could be ignored or swept aside. On that confessional night he had thought that they could be, but now he knew better. There was a painful lack of trust between them and it would take much to repair it. And there was no guarantee that she would give them that chance. He wanted to touch her, to offer physical reassurance, but he knew that it was too soon.

  "I still want you to have Salterton," he said suddenly. "It is yours by rights and I know how much it means to you. I will give it to you—and the means to keep it."

  The tight leaped in Isabella's face. "Truly? You will keep your word?"

  "I swear it." Marcus smiled ruefully. "On that matter I will keep my word."

  The tight went out of her face. "But the legal separation?"

  He shook his head. "No, Bella. I cannot grant that."

  Isabella's head was bent. She smoothed the seams of her gloves. Marcus watched her struggle with her temper. He un­derstood her doubts and misgivings. He knew that he had given her much to doubt with his accusations and suspicions of her. But trust could be rebuilt, given the will to do so. He had never been able to make Isabella fit his desired image of the fortune-hunting adventuress. Now he had no wish to do so anymore, not merely because of any child she might bear him, but because he wanted to know the real Isabella once again, the wild spirit that he had known as a girl; the woman who could match him passion for passion.

  Yet it seemed that Isabella did not want the same thing. She was resisting the affinity between them and he needed to un­derstand why. It was not simply because he had hurt her. He sensed that she was afraid of something. He reminded himself that he must court her—as gently as possible.

  It was difficult, however, when he wanted to ravish her as ungently as possible.

  "A marriage between us will never work." She looked so adorably obstinate that he wanted to kiss her. Inconveniently, his erection stirred. He knew that this was likely to be the most difficult part of the courtship for him. He was not a patient man and having once made love to her it would be the devil's own job not to touch her again.

  He tried to ignore his bodily discomfort and concentrate on her words.

  "Our marriage will not work because you will not allow it to?" he asked softly.

  "It will not work because the past will always come between us." Isabella made a slight gesture. "There is India, and Ernest. . ."

  And her nameless lovers whom Marcus always tried very hard and very unsuccessfully to forget. Jealousy ripped at him so violently that he caught his breath. The obstacles were indeed great but so was his determination. He was not going to let her go.

  Isabella had knotted her gloved fingers together tightly. She looked up from her clasped hands and met his gaze.

  "Do you love me, Marcus?"

  Her words caught him on the edge, still feeling raw. So he had not spoken aloud the night they had made love. That was a relief. He did not wish to reveal so much to her so soon. He was not certain of his deepest feelings. He knew without a doubt that he had loved her once. Now, he was not so sure. He wanted her. He needed her. That had to be enough.

  Her voice had held a tone of sorrow, as though she already knew the answer. And when he did not reply, she shook her head gently.

  "Having once had your love, Marcus, how do you think I could ever settle for less? It would be a second-best marriage."

  Marcus took a deep breath and tried to speak calmly. He felt more vulnerable than he had in a very long time. Isabel­la's honesty was devastating and it made him feel as though what he was offering her simply was not good enough.

  He cleared his throat. "Bella, we are married. There can be no annulment. Love is for. . ."

  "Fools?" There was a note of bitterness in her voice.

  "I was going to say that love is for the young," Marcus said. "As one grows older, matters grow more complicated."

  "How very pompous you sound," Isabella said, "not to mention as old as Methuselah." She turned her shoulder to him.

  "I have already lost one wife," Marcus said, a little bitterly. "I do not intend to lose a second."

  He felt the intense blue of Isabella's gaze on him and thought for a moment that she was going to ask him about India. He wanted her to do so—he knew it was a barrier between them. He had neglected India and had always felt damnably guilty. He was convinced that she would not have had the carriage accident and died if only he had not been apart from her at the time. It was the guilt that held him silent He carried it with him always.

  But Isabella did not ask and he sensed the slight with­drawal in her.

  "I cannot force an annulment or a legal separation, of course," she said. "I accept that. But I cannot see the point of us remaining wed when you do not love me."

  Marcus leaned forward urgently. "Bella, give me a chance. I want us to stay married."

  "Because there may be a child?" It sounded as though the words pained her. "We shall know that soon enough."

  Marcus took her gloved hand in his. "And if there is we shall raise him or her together."

  "And if there is not—" her eyes were defiant but full of fear as well "—we may go our separate ways."

  Marcus shook his head. "What is it that you are afraid of, Bella?"

  Isabella's face clouded. He thought for a moment that she would not reply but then she said quietly, "I am afraid of being hurt all over again."

  Marcus's grip tightened on her hand. He drew her resist­ing body closer to his along the velvet seat of the coach. "I swear," he said, his voice rough with emotion, "that I will never hu
rt you deliberately, Bella. Never again."

  Her face was tilted up to his, close enough to kiss. There was sweetness in her eyes but a deep sorrow as well.

  "Give me a chance," Marcus said again. "A chance to court you-"

  He saw her mistrust and hesitation. His hand tightened on hers. "I will protect you and care for you, Bella. We may rekindle the trust between us. Let me prove it to you." He did not understand why it was so blindingly important to him but he knew that it was.

  Isabella gave a tiny nod. "For the sake of the child—should there be one—I will wait a little before I make a final decision. That is all I can promise."

  Marcus's heart leaped. He did not argue. Now was not the moment to insist that he would never let her go. He had gained himself some time and the chance he craved. Now he had to convince her of his steadfastness.

  "Then as you are prepared to trust me," he said, "and as I trust you, there is something that I must tell you."

  "You may remember," Marcus said, "that when we first met at the Duchess of Fordyce's ball, you asked me why I had been in the Fleet. I never told you the reason."

  Isabella waited. She had not been expecting this. Her mind was still spinning with the implications of their previous con­versation. When Marcus had told her that he believed her account of why she had jilted him, her sore heart had eased a little. It was a small concession, smaller than she might have wanted, but it was something. And he had apologized for his behavior to her. She knew that must have been difficult for him. He was not a man who could admit his fault easily.

  It meant that when they came to part she would know there was no longer any animosity between them. If they did part. . . She shivered. How long would it be before she knew if she was with child? When Emma had been conceived she had been very slow to realize. Too slow. She might read the signs more quickly now, but the dilemma would be no easier. To stay or to go. Marcus had promised to care for and protect her, but he had not promised her his love. And without that she would always feel she was living a hollow reflection of what might have been.

  She put the thought of the child from her mind. Soon enough to think of that when she had some peace and time alone. And there was the shadow of India, hovering at her shoulder as always.

  I have already lost one wife. . .

  Isabella needed no reminder of that.

  But for now Marcus wanted to tell her about the Fleet. She remembered demanding to know why he had been there and the way he had deflected her questions. She had been so in­furiated by his presence that she had soon forgotten all about the reasons.

  "I was investigating a crime," Marcus said.

  Isabella looked up sharply. "By pretending to be a criminal yourself?"

  "Exactly so." Marcus sighed. "It is sometimes the easiest way to get close to those you are hunting."

  Isabella let out a long breath. "I see. Did you succeed?"

  "No," Marcus said. "I am hunting a man named Warwick. Edward Warwick." He looked at her. "Does the name mean anything to you?"

  Isabella shook her head. "I do not think so. Should it?"

  "You have a wide acquaintance. He might be a family con­nection." Marcus's gaze dwelled thoughtfully on her face. "Warwick is the man whom I am convinced was responsible for both a robbery and fire at my house in Salterton and the death of your aunt. He is a criminal who has connections in the Fleet."

  Isabella stared at him, deeply shocked. She had not imagined that Marcus's business in the Fleet, whatever it had been, might have any link to her or to Salterton.

  "Mr. Churchward told me of the fire at your house but he intimated that it was an accident," she said slowly. "And I un­derstood that Aunt Jane's death was from natural causes." Her eyes searched his face. "Wasn't it?"

  "That is the story we put about," Marcus said. He shifted slightly. "In fact, the fire was arson, albeit unintentional. A local lad set the house ablaze accidentally when he was searching for something on behalf of Warwick."

  Isabella frowned. "What was he searching for?"

  Marcus shook his head. "That I do not know. I am trying to find out. When I entered my house that night I sensed that something was wrong. I found the intruder upstairs in the chamber that had been India's. It was clear that he was search­ing for something." Isabella saw him wince, as though the memory was in some way painful.

  "The place was in the most confounded mess, clothes and papers scattered across the room," Marcus continued. "The lad was so startled to see me that he overturned the candle and set the bed hangings alight. He jumped from the window. He was injured but before he lost consciousness he told me that Warwick had sent him. That was why I was searching for the man himself."

  Isabella's thoughts were for her aunt.

  "But Aunt Jane?" she said. "I did not think that there were any suspicious circumstances surrounding her death. Mr. Churchward told me that she was struck by a seizure in the evening. The servants found her. She had been quite alone—" Her voice was rising. She realized with a jolt that she was both nervous and upset. Marcus had also heard the note of distress in her voice, and he caught her hands in his. When he answered her, his tone was deliberately calm. It soothed her a little.

  "I am sorry, Bella," he said. "A man called upon Lady Jane that night. According to the servants, he gave his name as Warwick. He spent some time in the library with your aunt, though no one knows precisely when he left. The servants were alerted by the violent ringing of the bell and when they arrived they found that your aunt had collapsed. They carried her to bed. She died a short while later."

  Isabella shuddered, thinking of Jane alone and friendless at the end. "I do not understand. Are you suggesting that this man—this Warwick—murdered her?"

  Marcus shook his head slightly. "No. There was no sug­gestion of murder. I called the physician myself. I think whatever it was that they discussed so shocked or disturbed her that she had a seizure and died," Marcus said. "It is in that sense that he was responsible for her death."

  Isabella wrinkled her brow. "Was there a quarrel? Did the servants hear raised voices?"

  "They heard nothing." Marcus sighed. There was a rueful note in his voice. "They could not even describe the man with any exactitude."

  "And yet you think that this man Warwick holds the key to the arson and to Lady Jane's death?"

  "I do."

  Marcus had relaxed his grip and Isabella let her hands fall to her lap. She stared blindly out the window of the carriage.

  "Poor Aunt Jane," she said softly. "I am so very sorry."

  "It is a nasty business. And that is why I must go back to Salterton."

  Isabella felt cold. So for all Marcus's avowals, he had quite a different motive for going to Salterton. "I see," she said bleakly.

  There was a glimmer of amusement in Marcus's eyes. "No, I don't think that you do, Bella. I was going to say that I had planned for a little while to return to Salterton in the hope of picking up Warwick's trail there. The fact that you set off for Salterton so precipitately only made it more urgent that I should go there at once."

  Isabella looked at him. "I see," she said again.

  Marcus took her hand again, rubbing his thumb gently over the back of her glove. She could feel the warmth of his touch through the material.

  "Bella," he said. "Please believe me. We will never trust one another again if we doubt every word and every action."

  Isabella nodded. "So why are you telling me this now?" she asked.

  Marcus smiled. "Because I did not wish there to be any more secrets between us," he said, "and because I thought that you might be able to help me."

  "If I knew of this. . . Warwick?"

  "Yes."

  Isabella shook her head. "I am sorry, Marcus. I do not recall ever hearing the name in connection with either Salter­ton or the family. I would help if I could."

  "No matter," Marcus said.

  A sudden thought struck Isabella. "This man. . . I assume he is dangerous?"

 
Marcus looked at her. "Very. I do not wish you to be afraid, though, Bella. I am sure he has no quarrel with you."

  "No," Isabella said, "but—" She stopped, but Marcus was too quick for her. He leaned closer.

  "Bella, is it that you are afraid for me?"

  Isabella avoided his gaze. "Well, I. . . If he is danger-ous. . ."

  "You are afraid for me!" Marcus said. He started to smile.

  "There is no need to be so pleased with yourself," Isabella grumbled. "I am a compassionate person. It is nothing to do with you."

  Marcus's smile broadened. He touched her cheek. "Of course not, sweetheart."

  He drew her to him and gradually Isabella felt herself leaning closer until her head rested against his shoulder and the movement of the carriage lulled her into a doze. But her dreams were not pleasant ones. She dreamed of Jane Southern, calling for help and no one hearing her, and she dreamed of Marcus saying / did not wish there to be any more secrets between us. And she awoke to the thought that she was still keeping the biggest secret of all.

  It was as they were approaching Salterton, in the fresh summer evening, that a problem arose. Isabella had slept for much of the journey and Marcus had found himself deriving a remarkable degree of contentment just from watching her. As they drew nearer to their destination, Isabella awoke and Marcus noted the tiny abstracted frown between her brows and the slight tension in her manner.

  "I have been thinking," Isabella said, smoothing the skirts of her elegant traveling dress and avoiding his eyes, "that it would be better to put a little distance between ourselves until we can be sure what is to be done." She looked at him, then swiftly away. "I mean, until we know—" She broke off. Marcus understood all too well what she meant.

  Until I know if I am expecting a child. . . Until I decide if I can leave you. . .

  Every possessive instinct in his body rose up in protest. There was precious little distance between us last night, he thought. Nor on the previous occasion when I held you naked in my arms.

  He knew it would avail him little to point this out. He could sense Isabella slipping out of reach once again. It was frustrating but he found that he was prepared for it. Gener­ally he was not a patient man; this time he had to learn patience in order to gain what he wanted, which was Isabella permanently in his life and in his bed.

 

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