The Marker

by Connors, Meggan

  The woman raised her hand to strike the boy again, but before she landed her blow, Lexie descended the steps to the street and caught the woman’s hand in hers. “Enough,” Lexie hissed.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  “You don’t need to hit him.” Out of the corner of her eye, Lexie noticed the boy’s gaze shift from the woman to Lexie and back. Deciding to put his lot in with Lexie, he started to inch toward her, and before long, he stood beside her as if he belonged with her and not the other woman. It made her sad for him.

  “Did you see what he had?” the woman demanded, her shrill voice cutting through Lexie’s head like a knife.

  She shrugged, and closed her eyes against the throbbing of her head. “It was just a frog. Surely that doesn’t warrant a public flogging. After all, he’s just a little boy.”

  The woman sneered at her. “He’s a hateful, dirty little thing! I caught him in the mud down by the river! Why I thought to take this job is beyond me! They are as bad as their savage mother!”

  Lexie was aghast. “You mean he’s not even yours?”

  “As if I would ever have such dirty, disrespectful, rambunctious children!” she exclaimed with a derisive snort. She glared at something behind Lexie’s shoulder and shrieked, “I quit!”

  Lexie turned, and the boy standing beside her shouted, “Mama!” and raced up the steps to a tall, beautiful, well-dressed woman with dark hair and smooth, dark features, her golden skin speaking of the native blood surely running in her veins.

  “Daniel Michael O’Connor, what have you done this time?” she asked in a cultured voice. Her head whipped around, desperately searching for something, and she demanded, “Where is your brother?”

  The boy shrugged. “I don’t know, Mama. He was with me down by the river’s edge—”

  “Is he still there?” his mother shrieked.

  “I don’t know!”

  Lexie didn’t think; she simply acted. Down the road, she spotted a crying, dark-haired little boy, smaller than his brother, in the center of the road. Her heart leapt to her throat. A cart was barreling down upon him. Both the child and the driver of the cart seemed oblivious to the presence of the other. The boy would be trampled if she didn’t do something.

  Racing down the dusty street, she snatched the boy up in her arms. She registered little about her environment: the warm, small body in her arms, the whinnying of horses, and pain as some part of the cart struck her hard on the shoulder. Reeling, she stumbled, lost her balance, and went down.

  Careful to keep her body wrapped around the little boy as she fell, she cradled him against the impact with her body. Her head struck something hard and for a moment she saw stars, followed by blissful darkness. When next she opened her eyes, the driver and the boys’ mother were beside her, all three leaning over her, their faces anxious.

  Kneeling beside Lexie, the boys’ mother looked them over for injuries, and then turned to Lexie. The woman touched her with gentle hands. “Are you all right?”

  Lexie shook her head to clear it. Her fall had done nothing but make a bad headache that much worse, only now she was distinctly nauseous as well. “I think it’s nothing a good nap and some tea won’t fix,” she said, trying to keep her tone light for the boys’ sake.

  “Do you think you can walk?” the driver asked, his cap in his hand.

  Lexie nodded, and they helped her up and to a bench back up on the boardwalk. The cart driver anxiously twisted his cap in his hands, and, despite her pain, she took pity on him. “I’m fine, really. You should be on your way.” And, eager to be dismissed so easily, he turned and left.

  The boys’ mother sat down next to her on the bench, and Lexie noticed how tall the woman was, as tall as many men. Lexie not only felt small, but plain next to such a beautiful woman dressed in such fine clothes.

  “I’m Claire O’Connor,” she said, extending her hand. “And these are my sons, Daniel and Thomas. You saved my boy today.” She paused, and, even groggy from hitting her head and too much wine the night before, Lexie noted how Claire’s eyes misted with tears. “I’m in your debt.”

  Lexie closed her eyes and waved her hand. “I’m Lexie, Lexie Markland, and it was nothing. Anyone would have done what I did. It’s hardly heroic, Mrs. O’Connor.”

  Claire smiled weakly. “Please, call me Claire. As for heroic, well...it is to me,” she said, and Lexie was touched at such sentiment.

  “And Mama,” Daniel interrupted. “She made Miss Carolyn stop hitting me, too, when I brought a frog up from the river!”

  Claire closed her eyes and drew a long breath. “So that’s why she quit. I told you no more animals after the last incident. That’s the third nanny this year,” she said with a sigh, trying to be firm, and ultimately failing. She hugged both boys to her shoulder. “Miss Markland, it appears I am doubly in your debt.”

  Lexie shook her head and glanced over at the younger boy, Thomas. “Are you okay?”

  The little boy nodded and stuck his thumb in his mouth. His mother gently removed it, and, with a smile, said, “He’s two, and not very talkative when he thinks he’s in trouble.” Giving him a stern look, she said, “Which he is.”

  To Daniel, Lexie said, “And how old are you?”

  “I’ll be six.”

  Claire laughed. “Next summer! He’s five.” Looking around, she asked, “Is there somewhere I can take you?”

  Lexie saw Mrs. Ferguson making her way down the street. “No, ma’am,” she said, and Claire blinked with astonishment, though Lexie couldn’t imagine why.

  Mrs. Ferguson was by Lexie’s side in a matter of seconds. “Och, child, what’s happened to ye?” The housekeeper touched the knot forming on Lexie’s head, and she flinched from the pain. “You’ll have quite the goose egg tomorrow. Let’s get ye back to the house.” Clucking over Lexie’s wounds, Mrs. Ferguson assisted Lexie to her feet.

  Her head spun and Lexie swayed.

  Claire took her other arm and said, “Are you sure there’s nowhere I can take you?” As they made their way up the boardwalk, Claire and Daniel took turns telling Mrs. Ferguson what had happened to Lexie on the street.

  A little hand grabbed at Lexie’s skirt, and when she looked down, Thomas stared up at her with big blue eyes. “I help her, Mama,” he said.

  Claire smiled at her younger son. “I know it, little man.” Lexie reached out and stroked the little head, and the boy beamed up at her. Briefly, the image of Nicholas, holding a dark-haired child in his arms, flashed in her head. The idea of a powerful man holding an innocent, vulnerable child in his arms did something funny to her heart. Unexpected tears formed in her eyes as she pushed the thought away. She would never be his. She would never call him husband or bear his children. But she had last night, and she consoled herself that the memory would have to be enough.

  “Our carriage is just up ahead,” Mrs. Ferguson replied to Claire, motioning up the street. She touched Lexie’s forehead again and clucked her disapproval. “What is Mr. Wetherby going to say when he sees you?”

  Lexie closed her eyes against the thought. “He won’t say anything. I just work for him.” Lie, lie, lie. She wouldn’t make it two steps in the door before Nicholas demanded answers from her.

  Sometimes, it seemed like all she ever did was lie. To her fiancé and her father, to Nicholas and herself.

  Claire opened the door to the carriage Mrs. Ferguson indicated. Assisting Lexie into the carriage, Claire regarded her with intelligent dark eyes and asked, “You work for Nicholas Wetherby?”

  “Yes.”

  Claire paused. Something flashed behind her eyes, as if she knew something she wasn’t sharing. A heartbeat passed, then another. “Well, if you ever want other employment, I’m thinking I’m going to need a new nanny after today. If I could lure you away...”

  Mrs. Ferguson fixed Claire with a steely-eyed glare, but Lexie waved away the suggestion. “A lovely thought, Mrs. O’Connor, and I appreciate the offer, but I’m afra
id Mr. Wetherby has procured my employment for the next eleven months. I’m sure you’ll have a nanny before then.”

  Claire gave her a faint smile. “Or be between nannies again,” she said ruefully. Addressing Mrs. Ferguson, she asked, “You’ll make sure she’s all right? I would be happy to send round a doctor if you need.” Lexie found she was touched by the other woman’s generosity.

  “I’m sure we can manage,” Mrs. Ferguson replied coolly. Claire closed the door and sent Lexie home.

  Thoughts of Lexie had been plaguing Nicholas all morning.

  He had been both disappointed and relieved when he learned she’d already gone to market with Mrs. Ferguson by the time he came down this morning. It had not escaped his notice she had not spoken to him the night before, but he hadn’t imagined that she had been a willing participant in their interchange. If she hadn’t been, he would have given up the pursuit of Alexandra Markland. He almost had. That kiss had been as much a farewell as anything. Then she had welcomed him, and what happened next had been stunning in its intensity. He had woken hard and aching and had thought of little else all morning.

  He couldn’t figure her out. What game was she playing? She wouldn’t speak to him, and yet when he touched her, there was fire in the way she responded to his touch. Passionately. Heedlessly. Greedily. She responded to him as if she were his woman.

  His woman. The thought confounded him. He knew Lexie to be an innocent, but there was nothing innocent in the way he had touched her last night, or in the way she had responded. What bothered him more was his response to her: passion meeting and surpassing hers, his heart reckless. He didn’t just want Alexandra Markland in his bed, he wanted her heart. Wanted her to be his woman, and wanted to be her man. That thought disturbed him the most. He didn’t need the complication of a woman, wasn’t the type of man who wanted a family of his own. Before Lexie had been thrust into his life, he had been content in the hedonistic pleasures his lifestyle afforded, though even he had to admit he hadn’t been truly happy. Not for the last year now, not since his brother had died. Since then, he had been searching out short-lived diversions to distract him from those things missing from his life. Now, instead of seeking the next amusement, all he could think about was this beautiful, stubborn woman who refused to talk to him but who kissed him with such passion it brought him to his knees.

  The sound of doors crashing open jolted him out of his thoughts. “Mr. Wetherby!” Mrs. Ferguson cried.

  The worry in her voice alarmed him, and he was instantly on his feet. Rushing into the foyer, he saw Mrs. Ferguson supporting Lexie as they made their way into the house. Lexie leaned heavily on the older woman, her eyes closed. A hand came up and weakly brushed hair out of her face, and that was when Nicholas spotted the bump on her forehead, and the large bruise blossoming around it.

  “What happened?” he demanded. Someone had hurt his Lexie and that someone would pay for it.

  “She saved a little boy, got hit by a cart, and struck her head,” Mrs. Ferguson replied, seeming relieved to be relinquishing her burden.

  Nicholas took Lexie into his arms, brushing her soft, dark hair away from her face so he could get a better look at her bruise. He thought she would push him away, but instead, she gazed up at him with unfocused, glassy black eyes and awarded him a long, slow blink. He smiled tenderly. This was one more thing he could add to her list of qualities: smart, stubborn, beautiful, and the rescuer of little boys.

  “Mrs. Ferguson, send one of the boys to fetch a doctor.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lexie sank into him, her hands twisting in his shirt as she clutched at him. Her breathing quickened, and he caught her under the arms to stabilize her. He touched her face, and it was then he noted she burned. Christ, the woman was on fire with fever.

  “Nick...I don’t feel...very well,” she said softly.

  She had spoken to him, used his given name even, trust in her words and in her eyes as she looked at him. His heart leapt at the sound of her voice, this one small concession on her part. “Shh, love, you don’t need to talk right now. Let’s get you to a room.” He swept her into his strong arms, and carried her to one of the guest rooms.

  Chapter 9

  Lexie opened her eyes to the sound of men arguing. Brushing her hair from her eyes, she found she was in a soft, wide bed, in one of Nicholas’s large guest rooms, dressed only in a simple linen shift. She had the vague recollection of the passage of time. Images of Nicholas sitting in a large, cushioned chair draped in red and gold brocade swam in her head, and turning, she found just the chair. Nicholas insisting she eat and drink. Nicholas sprawled in that same chair, sleeping, his long arms and legs jutting out awkwardly. She glanced around the room, and judging by the light streaming through the heavy, velvet curtains, figured it to be late afternoon, and yet she felt groggy, her limbs heavy and hot, unnaturally stiff.

  She threw off the covers, followed the sound of voices and, pulling a sheet from the bed over her shoulders to wrap around her body, she padded out into the hallway, down several steps of Nicholas’s curved staircase until she faced the men who argued in the foyer.

  And saw her father confronting Nicholas, who had his back to her and his arms folded across his chest.

  “Where’s my daughter?”

  His voice angry, Nicholas said, “I’ve told you, she’s not up for visitors. She’s been sick.”

  “You’re a liar! Where is my daughter?”

  “Father,” Lexie called out in a voice little more then a croak, and she was unsure if either man would notice her.

  But they did. Her father looked up the staircase and caught her eye. The sight of him caused her to catch her breath, for her father had been beaten.

  One eye was swollen shut, his cheeks bruised, and his upper lip puffy. Alarmed, she asked, “Father! What happened to you?” Her voice sounded tight, as if it belonged to someone else.

  Her father sucked in his breath angrily, his gaze raking over her, taking in the bare feet, the sheet pulled around her shoulders. “Oh God, Lexie, he was right,” he said, his voice dripping with disgust.

  Lexie tightened her hold on the sheet covering her. She didn’t need to ask who. Her father had few acquaintances and no friends. “What happened?” she asked again.

  “What happened? Really?” he demanded. “For God’s sake, Lexie, I was beaten. To think I defended you!”

  Lexie sucked in her breath. “This isn’t what it looks like,” she began.

  Her father glared at her, his mouth curled into a sneer. Pointing his finger at her, he said, “Whore.”

  “Get out of my house,” Nicholas growled.

  His word stole the breath from her lungs. At the Governor’s Ball, she had been labeled a harlot; today she was branded a whore—by her father, of all people, the one person who should protect her above all others. His word had been laced with fury, and the way he looked at her—like he would kill her, if he got the chance—made her blood run cold. She couldn’t believe what she had done for him to atone for her folly, out of a sense of loyalty he hadn’t deserved for a long time. She had given her word, and she would keep it, but her father would never hurt her again. Not ever. She might be a whore, but he was the one who put her in this position, who’d sold her off for his own gain. Her father was dead—had been for five years, now.

  Her mouth curling into a sneer identical to her father’s, she said, “After all I’ve done for you, how dare you?” And turning her eyes to Nicholas, she said, “I’ve seen enough.” With those parting words, she stalked back up the stairs and into the guest room.

  She fumed, humiliated, tears stinging her eyes. She hated her father almost as much as she hated Buchanan in that moment. She knew who had hurt her father. Her father had a right to be angry, since he’d been beaten on her account. If she hadn’t gone to the ball, Buchanan never would have seen her, never would have confronted her on the balcony, and she never would have had cause to bite him. Her father never would have been b
eaten as a result.

  If she hadn’t gone, she wouldn’t have discovered his true nature until after she’d married him. Then she, rather than her father, would have been on the receiving end of his fury, whose face knew the power of Buchanan’s fists.

  And finally, if she hadn’t gone, she never would have known the passion of Nicholas’s kisses. Those kisses had taken away the sting of careless words, the pain of her encounter with Buchanan. Nicholas’s kisses, juxtaposed with Buchanan’s actions, had been a balm to her heart, so tender and passionate and hot her head swam at the mere memory. She would never regret succumbing to his touch. Never.

  A soft knock at the door startled her out of her thoughts. “Lexie?”

  “Come in,” she muttered, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

  As always, Nicholas stepping through her doorway gave her pause. He seemed tired, his face covered in a reddish shadow beard, indicative of a few days’ growth. He stood in the doorway and leaned against the doorjamb.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that. He’s gone now, if it’s any consolation.”

  Lexie glanced his way and shrugged, silent. She couldn’t change the words that had been spoken, so she shook her head and said nothing. He crossed his arms over his chest, and he huffed an angry breath, the muscle in his jaw working as he ground out,

  “Goddammit, Lexie, why can’t you just talk to me?”

  She closed her eyes and shook her head. “What do you want me to say, Mr. Wetherby?” Her voice hung in the air between them. He stared at her, and she continued on, her voice shaking. “What would you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you about my feelings? Do you want me to tell you how it feels to be branded a harlot and then a whore? By my own father, no less? Do you want to hear what it’s like to be gambled away, accosted, accused of being a whore, seduced? Is that what you want? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s pretty damn awful, if you must know!”