by Rose Gordon
Marcus stood and lumbered over to the door. He may have been fool enough to agree to sleep in the bed, but that was as far as it would go. She'd sleep under the counterpane; he'd sleep on top. She'd have his robe on; he'd have all his clothes. Nothing would happen between them.
When he entered the room and saw her beautiful face lying with her cheek on the pillows, he briefly entertained the idea of stuffing a wall of pillows between them to help him keep his distance but dismissed it as going too far—childish even.
Sitting on a plush ottoman, he took off his boots and pushed them off to the side before removing his coat, cravat, and waistcoat. He hung the unneeded clothes over the side of his dressing screen and walked to the edge of the bed. With a hard swallow, he climbed into the one place he'd only dreamed about every night for the past ten years: his warm bed with Emma at his side.
She stirred next to him, and he tried to be as still as possible so as not to wake her completely. A second later, she moved closer to him and threw her left arm across his chest. His heart picked up speed, and he swallowed as his blood fired at her touch. It had been years since he'd been touched in such a way, and never by anyone he cared for so greatly.
Marcus brought his hand up and used his fingertips to trace the outline of her arm from her elbow to her wrist and back again. Her skin was soft and smooth beneath his rough hands.
“Marcus,” she sighed, pushing her face to rest closer to his.
He turned his head slightly and stared at her beautiful face. She wore the same smile as she had the other night when he'd walked in the drawing room and caught her dreaming. He nudged her with his shoulder, hoping she'd accidentally mumble something so he’d know what she was dreaming about that could bring such a beautiful smile to her delicate lips.
Her fingers crept up his chest to wrap around his shoulder, and she sighed his name again.
“What is it?” he whispered softly.
“Kiss me again,” she murmured.
He blinked at her. Was she talking to him or the man in her dream? “Hmm?”
She sighed again, and her fingers dropped from his shoulders to the buttons of his shirt.
Marcus brought his hand up and wrapped his fingers around her wrist before she could undo a button. “Emma?” he whispered loud enough to wake her, but not completely startle her.
Her sleepy eyes opened and she blinked at him, then looked to where his hand was holding hers on top of his chest. “Forgive me,” she said, trying to pull her hand from his.
He tightened his grip. “You don't have to move your hand away.” Before he could think better of what he was about to do, he took his fingers from her wrist and pushed her hand palm-down on the center of his chest, keeping his hand on top of hers.
Emma didn't pull her hand away or fight him when he curled the ends of his fingers around her palm. Her face rested right next to his and ever so lightly, her lips brushed his cheek before she whispered, “Goodnight, Marcus.”
Chapter 8
Emma struggled to fall back asleep after Marcus woke her up. Though she'd been exhausted before, his mere presence now kept her wide awake.
She had no idea how her hand had ended up on his chest. She'd been dreaming of kissing him again when suddenly the real him said her name, and she discovered the top half of her body was draped over him with her hand on his chest and his fingers wrapped around her wrist.
Beneath her fingers, his heart beat fast and strong. The warmth of his skin radiated through his clothes. If she moved her fingers, she'd probably feel the grooves of the scars she was certain he hid under his shirt.
A sudden itch on her right shin caught her attention. Carefully, she moved her left foot up to rub the side against the itch and froze. Bending her knee to scratch her itch must have disturbed the bandage, and now the knot was slipping free.
Panic seized her. When Marcus had left earlier, she had assumed it was so she could have time to attend her personal business. She'd taken the time to change the gauze on her leg and reapply some of the salve. She hated to admit Marcus had been right earlier. It was not the minor scrape she had claimed it to be. Not only had the blood soaked through the gauze and the strip of cloth, it had also started bleeding again while she was changing the gauze. Fortunately she'd been able to contain the mess and had found another, smaller piece of cloth to tie around it.
And now that cloth seemed to be loosening and slipping off her leg. She abruptly pulled her hand from Marcus’. He wouldn’t be pleased about this if he found out. He'd likely claim she'd reopened it when she'd stubbornly been trying to leave. Which was probably an accurate claim, she conceded in her mind. But it did nothing to solve the problem she had right now.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing,” she lied, edging to the side of the bed. “I need to go use the necessary, that's all.”
He frowned. “I was gone more than an hour. You didn't do it then?”
She shook her head. “I'll be right back.”
“No,” he grumbled. “I'll go wait in the hall. Just use the chamber pot that's in there.” He pointed to what she presumed was his dressing room.
“No, no. I'm already nearly up. I'll just go down the hall.”
“What's going on, Emma?” He sat straight up in the bed.
“I've a female problem,” she rushed to say. “I require a bit more privacy, please.”
He snorted. “The only female problem you're suffering from is stubbornness. Is something wrong with your leg?”
She bit her lip. “I'm sorry. While you were gone I changed the gauze, and I don't think I got the linen secured right, and now...”
Marcus turned to light a few candles and fetch another towel. “Here, lie on this and I'll look at it again.” He turned around and left for a minute, coming back with several clean cravats.
Emma got onto the bed and positioned herself on the towel. She looked down and nearly screamed in frustration. Her leg was bleeding just as badly now as it had when she'd first come into the house.
Marcus glanced over and muttered an unsavory expression under his breath. “I'll be back. Don't move.” A few minutes later, he came back with the suture she'd seen him with earlier in the day. “I didn't think it looked bad enough for this earlier,” he explained, bringing his chair up close to the bed. “But perhaps that's why I'm not a physician.”
She smiled weakly at his jest and relaxed her thighs as he once again spread them enough to attend to that dratted cut. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, willing herself not to be embarrassed that Marcus was once again seeing more of her than she'd ever planned to show anyone.
“I'm not looking,” he whispered, giving her hand a light squeeze.
She nodded uncomfortably.
Marcus continued to wipe off the blood and use the rag with liquid fire on it to clean the cut. “Emma, this is going to hurt. Badly, I'm afraid. If I had something to give you to numb the pain, I would. But I've just used the last of the alcohol to clean it and as you know, I don't drink, so there isn't any more in the house.”
She nodded again, fisted her hands in the sheets, and made her mind focus on why Marcus had no alcohol in his house rather than on the pain of what he was doing. She frowned. She didn't know why Marcus didn't drink alcohol. She only knew he took lemonade with most of his meals and drank tea at various times throughout the day. “Marcus?”
“Hmm?”
“Why don't you drink?”
He weakly smiled. “Would you like the boring reason I usually give or the real one?”
She flinched when he pressed the sharp tip of the needle through the tender skin on one side of her cut, then the other. “Both.”
He pulled the suture through and tied a knot in the end before clipping it. “Well, I usually tell people it's because my father was a real Holy Willie who preached about temperance and over indulgence so much I heeded his teachings and stayed away.” He made another painful pass through her skin with his needle and tied another kno
t before clipping the suture again. “But the real reason is alcohol gives a man courage to do or say the things he otherwise wouldn't and gives him the stupidity to do the things he knows he shouldn't.”
She knit her brows. “What did you do that you shouldn't?”
He pushed the end of the needle through her skin again and didn't pause in his work to answer her. “That's not so important anymore,” he said dismissively.
She blushed and glanced away briefly. He had to be talking about the night he’d proposed to Louise. They’d been at a local assembly hall and he’d been indulging in some champagne.
She watched his face as he continued to sew. The muscles tightened and ticked every time he pressed the point of the needle through her skin. It was almost as if he was hurting just as much as she was. Her heart squeezed at the simple gesture. “Marcus, I think the real reason you don't drink is a bit of both,” she said, trying to strike up some sort of conversation to take her mind off the severe pain she was feeling.
One of his shoulders went up. “You're probably right. But it really doesn't matter. I'm one-and-thirty and haven't developed a taste for it yet. I doubt I will, and I really don't give a hang.”
She smiled at him. He was certainly not your typical titled gentleman; that much was obvious.
“Either way,” he continued after he clipped another tag, “I'll have to send out for some tomorrow in case this comes open again.”
“Let's just hope that doesn't happen,” she said dryly. “Although, I must admit I'm surprised you're out of brandy.”
He looked at her and blinked.
She waved him off. “I meant for your sister. She used to injure herself at regular intervals. I thought perhaps you'd keep an extra bottle on hand for her.”
He laughed. “Actually, I did. For a while, anyway.” He stopped and frowned.
“Where is she?” Emma had heard rumors Olivia had gone off to America, but the details had been very hushed up—even Caroline didn't know why.
Marcus swallowed. “She's in America.”
“What is she doing there?”
He shrugged. “Living, I’d wager.”
She rolled her eyes and poked him in the shoulder with her toes. “You're being awful cheeky, Marcus. What happened? Why did she go to the ‘Land of the Savages,’ as she always called it?”
He grinned. “She did always call it that, I quite forgot. All right, I'll tell you why she went, but please do not repeat the story. I wouldn't wish to give anyone digestive troubles.”
She giggled and watched him as he picked up the little jar of salve.
He uncorked the lid and dipped his finger inside. “Just remember, I warned you,” he said, looking into her eyes, his full of laughter. “She's going to be a mother.”
“What?” Emma squealed before she could stop herself. “When? How? With whom?” She clamped her hand over her mouth. “Forgive me,” she said against her fingers. “That was most rude of me to burst out that way.”
He chuckled. “Don't worry, those were all the same questions I blurted, too.” He grinned at her and rubbed the salve on her leg. “Do you remember old Mr. Saxon in the village?”
“The smithy?” Images of missing or black teeth, a purple nose, and hands the size of hams floated through her mind.
“That's the one.” Marcus nodded his head. “Say, didn't his son fancy you when you were younger?”
Emma grimaced. “Unfortunately.”
He frowned. “Why unfortunate? If you'd accepted his offer, Olivia could have been your mother-in-law.”
“How can you even think such a thing?” she asked with a groan.
Marcus flashed her a smile. “Actually, if you’re interested in the truth, the baby isn't his, or at least that’s the story she tells. She claims my former valet, Robinson, is the father. I would have doubted her claim if he'd stuck around and told me otherwise. But, since he ironically disappeared earlier that day, I couldn't ask him.”
Emma thought her eyes were about to pop from their sockets. She remembered Robinson. The man had to have at least sixty years in his dish. Not to mention he was what she always thought of when someone described a whale. She had no doubt Olivia and Robinson suited each other just right. “Then why did she marry the smithy?”
Marcus shrugged. “Because he asked.”
“You mean he knew she was carrying someone else's child, and he wanted to marry her anyway?”
He nodded again. “Don't worry; it wasn't for any great love he had for Olivia. It was her dowry he was after.”
“And you gave it to him?” Emma asked, shocked.
“Yes. I didn't want Olivia to be completely without funds. I gave Saxon a bank note for five thousand pounds and put the rest into a trust for Olivia in the event he should desert her.”
Emma stared at him. So many thoughts—several rather unkind, but nonetheless true—were running through her head just now. It wasn't an if the man deserted her; it was a matter of when. Olivia took pleasure in treating people poorly, and sooner or later that smithy was not going to be able to tolerate her any longer. If Emma had to guess, that time had come before the boat docked in America. But she wouldn’t be so unkind as to voice such a thought to Marcus. He was her brother after all.
“When was this?” she asked, partly out of politeness, but mostly out of the shock of all this new information.
“Two months ago. The day after she told me she was expecting. Saxon approached and requested her hand. I told him no and showed him the door. The next day Olivia was gone. Two weeks later, she showed up and presented me proof she was Mrs. Byron Saxon, married by special license.” He put the cork in the jar and put the salve on the table. “I wasn't overly pleased, but I couldn't do anything else about it, so I gave them part of her money. A day or two later, she came by to inform me they were going to America. I didn't argue with her about leaving. By going to America, she could save herself a lot of embarrassment, and that’s something I could understand.”
Emma nodded, her brain still too muddled to think.
“Over there, nobody would know how long she'd been married before she had her child. And over here, nobody will know the daughter of an earl slipped from grace and married a smithy old enough to be her grandfather.”
She grinned. “You're a good brother, Marcus.”
“I tried,” he said, twisting his lips. “She was actually betrothed to Alex at one time, but as you know, I played a large role in his courtship of Caroline.”
“I know,” Emma said softly. “Don't blame yourself for Olivia's fall. She made her own decisions. Your helping Alex and Caroline had nothing to do with what she did. She didn't want to marry Alex in the first place, and Caroline did. Nor did Alex wish to marry Olivia; he wanted Caroline. It all worked out like it should.”
“Thank you,” he said softly. “I've partially blamed myself for her exile because of my meddling.”
Emma shook her head. “You can't.” She'd learned long ago everyone makes their own decisions. That's why Louise hadn’t listened to Emma and had run off with the duke instead of seeing things through with Marcus.
“I think we'll leave the gauze and wrap off it this time,” Marcus said, looking at her leg. “Those stitches should hold. I'm sorry I hurt you.”
“It's all right,” she assured him. “It wasn't so bad. The talk of your drinking habits and the shock of Olivia's whereabouts kept my mind off the pain until the salve soothed it.”
“Well, I'm glad Olivia could finally be of some use to someone,” Marcus said dryly. He stood up and walked into his dressing room before coming back in with what appeared to be a very old nightshirt. He threw it down next to her. “It's all I have that will fit you. Tomorrow the seamstress is coming; I'll have her make you a couple nightrails in addition to the chemise and two gowns I owe you.”
“I couldn't.”
He grinned. “That was the weakest protest I've ever heard pass your lips. You'll accept those nightrails, or you'll have to sleep wi
thout them,” he said with a wink.
A shiver skated down her spine and she nodded dumbly. Well, if those were the terms, she’d better accept.
He turned around to face the wall so she could take the now stained robe off and put his nightshirt on. “I'm dressed,” she said, rolling the robe and towel up and putting them behind the dressing screen.
Marcus turned around and frowned at her. “Quit cleaning and get in that bed. If you're not careful, you'll burst one of those stitches, and I'll tell you right now, that hurts far worse than having them put in.”
She climbed back into bed and returned to her previous spot, waiting for Marcus to join her. He walked over and blew out the candle before climbing in.
“Do you plan to fall asleep in all those clothes?” she asked, settling in beside him.
“Yes. Because if I don't, there won't be any sleeping going on in this bed tonight.”
Chapter 9
The night was pure torture for Marcus. As soon as the first rays of light came in the window, he moved to get out of bed and realized he couldn't. He was stuck. Emma's head was in the middle of his chest, with her soft breasts pressed against his side. Her left arm was slung across his chest at a diagonal with her fingers curling over his shoulder.
As much as he wanted to get up and end this torture, he couldn't. He didn't know if or when he'd have her in his arms again. He sighed and brought his arms up around her again. The feel of her so close made his heart ache. He wanted her, and here she was in his arms, but only because he'd forced her to stay and not because she wanted to be here.
He closed his eyes. “Emma,” he whispered against her hair. “I need to get up.”
She wiggled against him in a way that would have hardened him instantly if he hadn’t been already. “So soon?”
He nodded. “Yes. I have things to do before the seamstress gets here.”
“What am I to do while we wait? I cannot walk around in your nightshirt.”
Marcus groaned. He hadn't thought of that. “I'll send someone up to the attic to see if a suitable gown can be located. In the meantime you can have breakfast in here and read your book.”
