Mary and the Marquis

by Janice Preston

‘Hmmph!’

  Mary’s huff of disbelief was barely audible, but she caught the twitch of Rothley’s lips, so it had been loud enough. Without approaching any nearer, she reached across and placed her hand on his forehead.

  ‘Aaahh, so soothing, so comforting,’ he murmured as his eyes opened and he captured her gaze again.

  He grinned as she snatched her hand away, her insides melting anew. His masculine aura tugged at her senses, her body responding with a readiness she had never before experienced, even in the early days of her marriage.

  He is a rake, she reminded herself. Attracted merely because I am female and, seemingly, willing and available.

  ‘It feels quite normal to me, my lord,’ she said, as she crossed the room to the washstand, which held a bowl and a pitcher of water, ‘but I will bathe it for you, nevertheless. If—’ she glanced over her shoulder at Rothley as she wrung out a cloth in the water ‘—you promise to keep yourself covered up.’

  His lips twitched as she approached the bed. ‘Does the sight of my manly chest bother you so?’

  Mary tensed. She was a grown woman, not some silly innocent to be beguiled and misled by a silver-tongued rake, no matter how attractive. If she didn’t take care, nursing the marquis would prove impossible. She must—for her own sanity—maintain her distance for, if she was honest, his flirtatious ways were proving hard to resist.

  ‘It bothers me not one iota,’ she said brusquely. ‘I am simply concerned you do not catch a fever, for that would mean I am honour bound to remain here that much longer. The sooner you are recovered, the sooner I may leave.’

  The amusement drained from his face. ‘You are under no obligation to me, madam. You are not bound to remain here against your inclination.’

  Mary felt a momentary qualm. Had she overreacted?

  ‘My obligation is to my own conscience, my lord. I have experience of nursing and your staff, as far as I can ascertain, have very little. Besides, they are hardly under-employed in this household. An extra pair of hands will not come amiss, I am sure.’

  ‘Indeed. My household, as you rightly point out, is staffed at a totally inadequate level. No doubt you are used to better.’

  His voice was tight, his brows lowered, but Mary felt certain it was not anger that generated his response. Rather, she thought, it was worry creasing his forehead. She recalled Mrs Lindley’s comments about the debts facing the estate.

  ‘Once upon a time, maybe,’ she said, as she applied the cool, damp cloth to his brow, ‘but not in the past few years, I can assure you.’

  His eyes sparked with interest. ‘How so?’

  ‘My childhood was carefree for the most part, but adulthood brings its own challenges,’ she said. ‘Hard work is not unknown to me.’

  She sought to divert him. ‘Do you remember what happened, my lord?’

  His eyes glinted wickedly as he grinned up at her.

  ‘I remember a beautiful angel coming to my rescue. I remember her ripping open my shirt—’

  ‘I meant, what happened before,’ Mary interrupted. The teasing, flirtatious Lord Rothley was back. Her diversion had worked only too well. ‘Have you remembered how...why...you were shot?’

  ‘Killjoy,’ he murmured. ‘I had much rather discuss the softness of your lap.’

  Mary’s face flamed. She had hoped he wouldn’t remember the laborious journey home from the woods in the back of a cart—his head, heavy in her lap and her legs extended either side of his body in an effort to cushion him from the worst of the jolts. His eyes locked with hers and she felt again the slow, nervous trickle of anticipation deep inside. Her breath seized, her nerves all on edge, her legs suddenly weak.

  ‘Your lack of denial leads me to assume my memories are not a wishful fantasy after all,’ he said, with a lift of his brows.

  Mary stepped back and sat in the chair by the bed, staring towards the fire.

  ‘The doctor said you were very lucky,’ she said, seeking to cover her confusion.

  He snorted, but weakly. ‘How so? I do not feel lucky right now.’

  ‘The bullet went straight through your shoulder without hitting anything vital. He believes you will make a full recovery, in time.’ Mary risked a glance at him. ‘It could have been a great deal worse, my lord.’

  ‘Time is what I don’t have,’ he muttered, as if to himself.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  His expression grew sombre. ‘You asked me a question,’ he said. ‘The answer is yes. I remember every detail. Thieves...reivers...’

  Mary’s gaze flew to his face. Reivers was the old name for raiders along the border between England and Scotland. His use of the term revived memories of the dispute between their fathers.

  ‘Surely,’ she said, ‘that practice died out long ago?’

  ‘It’s an old term, certainly,’ he said. ‘But where there is money to be made, some men will always take what is not theirs. Speaking of which...’ He frowned, his eyes distant. Mary wondered what memory had nudged at him. Did he remember her taking his horse? Had he seen—or heard—the children?

  ‘How did these reivers come to shoot you?’ she asked, keen to distract him.

  ‘I was checking my sheep, grazing up on the hills, when I came upon three men driving them away to the north. I tried to stop them. They objected. I was hit in the shoulder and lost control of my horse...’ His gaze settled again on Mary, his eyes widening. Mary felt sure he now recalled her riding away on Sultan. He made no mention of it, however, continuing, ‘Perhaps, with hindsight, it was fortunate. If we hadn’t been moving when they fired the second shot, I fear I might not be here at all.

  ‘And that reminds me,’ he said, pushing himself up in the bed before collapsing back against the pillows with a moan, sweat breaking on his brow. Mary jumped to her feet and leant over him, fingers curving around the solid muscle of his uninjured shoulder.

  ‘Please, my lord. You must remain still. Your wounds...’

  ‘I must speak to Shorey—or Hooper. Immediately!’

  Shorey and Hooper were the grooms who had driven the cart into the woods with Mary to rescue Lord Rothley.

  ‘Can you not give me a message for them? It is late and I am certain they will be abed at this hour. I promise to relay any message to them in the morning.’

  ‘I suppose there is nothing they can do tonight.’

  He groped until he found her wrist. His touch set her skin aflame but he appeared oblivious to the effect he had on her.

  ‘Tell Shorey and Hooper to go to the top pastures and bring the sheep nearer to home. They must go at first light.’

  ‘The top pastures?’ she queried. ‘Not the hills? But what about the sheep the men were taking? Did they succeed? Are they all gone?’

  ‘The men panicked and fled after they shot me. I managed to drive the sheep down...’

  ‘After you were shot? What were you thinking? You should have ridden straight away for help.’

  His expression was grave. ‘Those animals will mean all the difference to the Hall this year. But they’re not safe, all the way up there. You must tell the men. Promise me.’

  ‘I promise. Please don’t worry.’

  Rothley released Mary’s wrist, heaving a sigh as his lids closed. Mary rose and crossed the room to put the washcloth back in the basin.

  ‘Who are you?’ The soft query returned her attention to the man in the bed. His dark eyes glittered in the candlelight.

  ‘Mary Vale, my lord.’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course. I do remember. Sensible Mary.’

  Mary turned away. How did that name still have the power to hurt? ‘Sensible Mary.’ What they really meant was Dull Mary. The name felt like an insult. Once upon a time she had been young and carefree, full of laughter. But now...

  Rothley’s eyes had closed once more and he appeared to be drifting off to sleep, to her relief. She settled back into her chair, raking through the happenings of the day. How did he elicit such a ready response from her, desp
ite him being everything she feared and despised in a man? Was it lust over an arresting face and a tantalising body? She pictured his strong arms and shoulders, the hard, muscled planes of his chest, the long, lean legs and the taut buttocks, glimpsed as the doctor extracted the bullet from his thigh. He was a man any woman might desire, but she could not risk yielding to temptation again.

  Experience had taught her the physical act of love was a mere fleeting pleasure if there was no emotional connection—no love—between a man and a woman. The marital act had left her feeling hollow and empty and used, and Michael had become increasingly disillusioned: resentful and angry at both her and the children. Mary had vowed never again to put herself in the position of being viewed as a burden, or to allow Toby and Emily to be resented as encumbrances. She had only to recall Rothley’s strange antipathy towards children to know nothing could come of their apparent mutual attraction.

  When she looked up, Rothley had roused—if he had indeed been asleep—and now watched her with that amused glint back in his eyes, as if he knew exactly what she had been thinking.

  ‘Where did you come from, Sensible Mary?’ he asked, when he saw he had her attention. ‘And what were you doing in my woods?’ He held her gaze for what seemed an eternity and then added, in a soft voice, ‘And why were you stealing my horse?’

  She felt herself grow pink. ‘I thought it was a short cut,’ she said, ignoring his other questions.

  ‘To where, may I ask?’

  ‘The north.’

  ‘This is the north.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Where did you say you had come from?’

  She eyed him warily. Her instinct was to give as little information as possible. ‘The south,’ she replied, ‘and I think it is time you rested. You look exhausted. You should sleep.’

  ‘Mayhap you’re right.’

  As he settled down into the bed he grimaced.

  ‘Are you in pain?’ Mary asked. ‘The doctor left some laudanum for you.’

  A flash of alarm crossed his face.

  ‘What is it? What is wrong?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong. In answer to your first question: yes, I am in pain, but, no, I don’t want laudanum. I found myself in thrall to the poppy’s lure once before, in my youth. I shall never risk losing control in such a way again. Not unless I am desperate, do you hear?’

  ‘I hear.’ She pulled the covers up beneath his chin.

  His lips twitched even as his eyelids drooped. ‘Do not imagine I shall forget, Sensible Mary. My questions will wait until tomorrow, when I am stronger. And then, I shall insist on some satisfactory answers.’

  * * *

  ‘Mrs Vale! Mrs Vale!’

  ‘What is it?’ Groggy with sleep, Mary pushed herself up on one elbow. ‘Susan?’

  ‘Yes’m; Mrs Lindley sent me. It’s the master, ma’am. She said can you please come?’

  Fully awake now, Mary threw back the covers and jumped from her bed. Susan handed her a shawl.

  ‘It’s one her ladyship left behind, ma’am,’ she said, in answer to Mary’s lifted brow. ‘Mrs Lindley said as how you didn’t have much in the way of clothes with you. Sorry, ma’am.’

  Mary threw her a smile. ‘Don’t apologise, Susan,’ she said. ‘I am grateful for the attention. Is his lordship fevered?’

  ‘Oooh, yes’m. Tossin’ and turnin’ something awful, Mrs Lindley says.’

  ‘Has someone been sent for the doctor?’

  ‘Yes’m, Hooper rode out ten minutes since.’

  They arrived at Rothley’s bedchamber. Mary entered to see Mrs Lindley leaning over the marquis, trying to restrain him whilst he thrashed from side to side, muttering. The tangled bedclothes had slipped to the floor.

  Mrs Lindley looked up, sweat dripping down her face, as she gasped, ‘Thank goodness you’ve come.’

  Chapter Four

  Lucas opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. His head hurt, his shoulder ached, his leg throbbed, his mouth tasted foul and his throat was as dry and rough as the bark of a tree. With an effort, he moved his head on the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain that speared through his temple.

  When he opened his eyes again, she was there.

  In the chair, by the bed. His bed.

  She was familiar, but a stranger. How could that be? Where had she come from?

  The south. But how did he know that?

  He studied her, allowing her restful presence, her alluring features, to distract him from his aches and pains. She might not be a classic beauty, but she was enchanting. Her skin was smooth and creamy, with a smattering of freckles across her small, tip-tilted nose. The colour of her eyes was hidden, but he knew they were the deep blue of cornflowers. Her long, pale lashes rested on cheeks as lush and inviting as sun-ripened peaches. Her lips—soft pink, full and tempting—were parted and, as rotten as he felt, still his loins stirred at the thought of tasting them. He frowned, a memory floating a fraction beyond his reach.

  Her lips. He could feel them, he knew their taste—silky as rose petals, sweet as honey. But how? He licked his own lips, paper-dry and sour. The answer eluded him as he continued his perusal of the woman by his bed.

  Her hair. He paused, feeling his forehead pucker. Why had he thought her hair to be guinea-gold? It was not. It was more beautiful by far—the soft golden colour of corn ripening in the August sunshine. Not brassy, not a mass of curls, but soft waves where it escaped from its pins. He wanted to see it loose, flowing down her back.

  He frowned again as he watched her sleep, striving to remember, fragments of memories teasing at his mind: the woods, a child’s cry, Sultan, with a woman—this woman—astride, leaving him, deserting him. And something else. What else?

  A pistol shot! Reivers! Stealing his sheep, his livelihood, his future!

  Galvanised, he threw back the covers and made to rise. His torso barely cleared the mattress before he collapsed back in exhaustion, panting with the effort, as the pains racking his body intensified tenfold. He heard himself groan and stifled it, but it was enough to rouse the woman.

  ‘Shh,’ she whispered as she rose to her feet and leant over him, a smile on her lips. ‘Lie still. You’re still very weak.’ She placed a cool hand on his brow; it was familiar, comforting. He looked up into her eyes—cornflower-blue, as he had known they would be—compassion shining from their tranquil depths.

  ‘How...how long...?’ His voice was croaky, as though it hadn’t been used for a long time.

  ‘It is five days now, since you were shot,’ she said, pulling up the bedclothes, smoothing them. ‘Do you remember?’ He nodded. The faint scent of lavender assailed his senses. ‘You have been in a fever. You have been very ill, my lord. You will need to rest, to recoup your strength.’ She went to a table set up at the foot of the bed and returned with a glass. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘You must be thirsty. Let me help. Drink this.’

  She slipped her hand behind his head and supported him as she placed the glass against his dry lips.

  He gulped the cool liquid, but she removed the glass before he had drunk his fill, saying, ‘You shouldn’t have too much all at once. Give your stomach time to settle. You may have some more in a while.’

  He watched her, drinking in every detail of her as she replaced the glass. She wore a blue dress that matched her eyes and showed her figure to perfection, as it clung to the roundness of her breasts and her hips. Her manner and her movements spoke of neatness and restraint, calmness and competence. But her face and her body! He studied her with appreciation: her satiny skin, her eyes, her soft, lush lips, the thrust of her breasts, the sway of her hips. They proclaimed the exact opposite: wild abandon, passion, excitement.

  He turned his head on the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut against the unexpected hurt that surfaced. He had known another such a woman. Her beauty had promised so much, yet it had been an illusion. Julia! How weak he must be, to allow that witch to affect him after all this time.

  Had he really been so befuddled by his v
ice-ridden lifestyle? Had his senses been so dulled by the opium he had once blithely consumed, not to see through her looks to the reality? Not to see her for what she was—a greedy, grasping widow on the prowl, targeting naïve young bucks to fleece? He had fallen in love with an illusion of his own making.

  Why think of her now, after so many years? He had thought all memory of her long buried. He conjured up the image of her face: her white skin, guinea-gold hair and large cornflower-blue eyes. Of course! No wonder she had been on his mind—Mary’s eyes were the exact same shade of blue as Julia’s...

  Mary!

  Sensible Mary! He remembered. He frowned again. At least, I remember some of it.

  He kept his eyes closed, struggling to recall. The quiet sound of her moving around the room brought him back to the present from time to time, even as, bit by bit, pieces of the puzzle fit into place. The sheep! The men and the dogs, driving them up the hill; the wild gallop after them; the shouts; the shots; the searing pain. His gut twisted and the fear that had plagued him for months reasserted itself as he realised the implications of losing those sheep. The estate simply could not afford...

  ‘Shorey.’ His voice, still weak, sounded no louder than a whisper. ‘I remember...you promised...’

  She returned to his side and lifted his hand, murmuring, ‘Hush. Do not worry. I gave him your message and he and Hooper rounded up the sheep. They also brought the cattle closer to the Hall, in case the thieves try again. There are none missing and they are keeping a close watch on them until it’s time to take them to market.’

  He relaxed. The fear subsided but it did not disappear. It would not leave him, he knew, until he was free of his father’s legacy of debt. He curled his fingers around Mary’s hand, relishing the touch of her skin. He frowned. The skin on her palm and fingertips was roughened. She acted, and spoke, as a lady. But her hands—they spoke of work. He studied her face as she stood by the side of the bed, gazing down at him, her expression serious.

  ‘All is well, my lord,’ she said, releasing his hand and smoothing his brow. ‘There is no need to fret. I am sure you will be up and about in no time.’