The Marsh Hawk

by Dawn MacTavish

  All at once, he rolled on his back, taking her with him, and he slipped her nightgown down to bare her breasts. He cupped those in his hands, his thumbs stroking her nipples erect, his sex plunging deeper as he moved inside her, rolling her on her back again, grinding his powerful body against her.

  There was no pain this time, only delicious waves of scorching sensation riddling her belly and thighs. There was no need for wine. Foxed by his passion alone, her head reeled dizzily. There was almost a desperation in their joining—a sexual feeding frenzy, as though he’d been condemned to die and was partaking of his last meal. Though she didn’t understand it, Jenna responded, calling his name again and again until his hungry lips made an end to the litany. His silken tongue plunged deeper inside, coaxing hers into his mouth. She tasted him deeply, as she never had before.

  His passion was palpable, then; his need overwhelming. There was no restraint in his crushing embrace, in the bruising power of his kiss. Like his kisses in the garden at Moorhaven had bruised her lips, so would these kisses leave their mark—on her mouth, her throat, her swelling breasts, and on her very soul.

  He didn’t speak as he loved her. Only his pleasured moans and rapid breathing broke the strained silence. His hooded eyes staring into her own held some message she couldn’t decipher, but she knew what hers said to him: Simon, I don’t want to end our marriage. I couldn’t bear to lose you now, after . . .

  Her rapture disengaged the thoughts hammering at her brain. He must have felt it, for he seized her closer and dropped his head down to her shoulder, shuddering as he clenched, erupting inside her . . . filling her, making her whole.

  His brow was running with sweat. Slowly, he took command of his rapid breathing, though his heart still hammered against her like that of a horse in full gallop. After a moment he withdrew himself and pulled her nightgown over her breasts with painstaking control, just as he had done with her riding habit the day he proposed in the conservatory. All that seemed like a lifetime ago to Jenna now. She could scarcely believe it was only a few short weeks since he’d held her there, promising her a happy future as his wife. Instead, he had lied to her. He had broken her heart.

  Climbing out of the bed, he struggled into his dressing gown and cinched the sash around his waist ruthlessly, but not before Jenna glimpsed his lean, naked silhouette against the shaft of light the moon laid at his feet. He took a ragged breath and raked his hair back. It was a mechanical motion. For a long moment he stood staring down at her in the moonlight, the blank expression on his handsome face maddening. Was he just going to leave her, just like that? A breathless gasp escaped her at the thought.

  “As God is my judge . . . I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, and strained. “Forgive me. I promise you, it shan’t . . . ever again.”

  Then, without waiting for an answer, he spun on his heel and stalked off through his dressing room door, melting into the shadows beyond like a phantom in the night.

  “Simon, wait!” Jenna cried. Surging to her feet, she started after him.

  The echo of a key turning in the dressing room door lock replied to that, and stopped her in her tracks. There was a deathlike finality in the sound, and it riddled her with chills from head to toe. Shivering, alone in the darkness, she dissolved into tears. There was no way to prevent them this time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The last person Simon wanted to face in that moment was Phelps, but the faithful valet was waiting as he always did until his master was settled for the night. Just how the man knew that Simon wouldn’t settle when he’d entered the master bedchamber barefoot in his dressing gown earlier escaped him. Damn it all. It wasn’t natural that anyone should know him so well, though deep down he loved the man for it.

  “Don’t give me that ‘I told you so’ look!” he responded to the valet’s arched brow and pursed lips. “I’m in no humor for it, Phelps, I warn you.”

  “I haven’t said a word, my lord,” the valet replied.

  “Mmm,” Simon growled. “You don’t have to. I know that look all too well. What made you so sure I’d be back?”

  “It seemed likely, my lord.”

  “Well, you can gloat over it after you make up the lounge.”

  “It’s done, my lord.”

  “The devil you say! You really were sure of yourself, weren’t you?”

  “I didn’t imagine your invasion of the sanctum sanctorum would sit all that well, my lord, considering.”

  “No, it did not. I botched it, if you must know. Damn it all, man, you know how I get when I’m overtired. You know my . . . urges intensify with exhaustion.”

  “I take it she wasn’t receptive.”

  “That’s just the trouble—she was! I was well out of it . . . until my passions betrayed me. It’s going to be difficult to walk away now.”

  “You’re sure you want to do that, my lord?”

  “I haven’t a choice.”

  “There’s always a choice, my lord.”

  “Not in this, old boy.”

  “Forgive me the observance, my lord, but you aren’t exactly an expert when it comes to matters of the heart.”

  “And you are, I suppose?”

  “Hardly, my lord. I’m well beyond all that, thank providence, but I do have more of a perspective on things than you do at the moment . . . due to the wisdom that age has bestowed upon me, my lord.”

  “And I shan’t have peace until I hear that wisdom out, is that it, Phelps?”

  “You might say so, my lord.”

  “All right, my wise and learned sage,” said Simon, with a sweeping bow that he was well aware looked ridiculous executed in a gaping brocade dressing gown. “Since I do need some semblance of sleep tonight, by all means speak your piece.”

  “This isn’t your usual . . . liaison, my lord, as I have pointed out on numerous occasions. You’ve never needed instruction regarding your affairs of the heart, because in the past, heart and loins have always been disjoined, as it were. Here now, they are conjoined, and in such cases one can only expect . . . difficulties, since the gauze of love clouds the mind and defeats reason. Simply put, aside from the physical attraction that feeds carnal lust, you and my lady are hopelessly in love with each other. To make an end to such a union would be a grave mistake, my lord. Few men ever find such a love in their lifetime.”

  “You seem to think I have a choice. It is my lady who seeks to make an end to this union, Phelps.”

  “You’ve lost me, my lord. How can that be? Didn’t you just say that she was receptive? She said she wanted to end the marriage did she, then?”

  “Not in so many words, no, but Phelps, there is no trust. She didn’t trust me enough to turn to me; she went to Rob.”

  “Mr. Nast is a man of the cloth, my lord. That is his function.”

  “Yes, yes, I know, but she should have come to me. I am her husband.”

  “She is very young, my lord, and it’s plain that she has no family example to follow or seek counsel from in such matters. I think you ought to take that into account.”

  “Hear, hear. On that fine point, I do agree. That mother of hers!”

  “A harridan to be sure, my lord. If you would spend your energy, I should think you’d best invest it thanking God that my lady’s fallen far enough from that tree not to be blighted by it, if you take my meaning, sir, rather than chastising her for making bad judgments heeding her own inexperienced counsel.”

  “I have my pride, damn you, man!”

  “‘Pride goeth before destruction.’ So says the Bible, my lord.”

  “Then we’re right on schedule, old friend, and it’s too damn, bloody late!”

  Jenna poured all her energy into the come-out ball preparations over the next few days. She kept to herself, avoiding Evelyn and Simon altogether. That, however, was no great feat. Except for meals, the two were seldom seen. Simon made no more attempts to visit the master bedchamber, as Jenna knew he would not, and there were no mor
e lights in the tower. Though, on more than one occasion, she saw a sliver of candlelight seep under his dressing room door well into the wee hours, and heard the hollow echo of his ragged footsteps pacing to and fro over the creaking floorboards.

  Adding to the tension that reigned supreme as Saturday drew nearer, Jenna and her mother did not share the same vision for the ball. The dowager’s elaborate concept called for months of preparation to bring to fruition, not the few short days at their disposal, and it was no small matter for Jenna to convince her that realistically, a simpler plan was needed.

  The staff was summoned, and each servant was given particular tasks to perform in preparation for the event, and specific duties for the ball itself. Since there wasn’t time to engage a florist, the groundskeeper Tobias Heath and his wife were put in charge of the decorations for the Grand Ballroom. There were to be countless bouquets of fresh flowers from the Kevernwood gardens set about in tall porcelain jars. Graceful garlands and festoons would be draped about the vaulted ceiling and mantels, as well as the food tables in the dining hall, where an endless array of hot and cold viands would be set out for the guests. The dowager took charge of the food, and spent much of the time in the kitchen instructing Cook in its preparation. She insisted upon French cuisine. Exclusively. And more feathers than partridge and squab were ruffled in the larder over her strict attention to detail.

  On Thursday, Evelyn’s ball gown arrived from London. It was a lovely frock of white silk gauze over satin, with fetching puffed sleeves and a low décolleté edged with porcelain pink silk ribbon rosettes. But there were fitting problems. Evelyn had all but stopped eating since her last fitting in town. Olive Reynolds was summoned from Newquay village, and literally held hostage by the dowager, who assured her she would remain in residence until the alterations were completed to her satisfaction.

  When Robert Nast arrived that afternoon to find Evelyn closeted with the dressmaker, and Simon gone to the village to arrange for the musicians, Jenna found herself alone with the vicar for the first time since her confession. She decided that a stroll in the garden would be the wisest choice for the interview. That way, if the conversation soured, she could easily excuse herself and retreat inside. Receiving him in the Hall would give him an advantage she wasn’t about to tender. Besides, there were just too many ears that might overhear them indoors.

  White and purple-red foxgloves, delphinium, and blue speedwell genuflected in a salt-laced breeze that would soon turn to a gale force, driving mountains of diaphanous spindrift over the head of Kevernwood cliff. A telltale, jaundiced sky was bearing down upon the afternoon. Soon the servants would be skittering every which way, fastening shutters and battening down for the flaw. But now, the storm brewing between herself and Robert Nast was paramount, and it was the vicar who broke the awful silence that hovered like a storm cloud between them as they traveled the garden path.

  “We dare not go far,” he said, gesturing seaward. “That’s an ugly flaw on the make.”

  “Believe me, we shan’t,” Jenna returned. Though if he were looking for an invitation to repair to the Hall, he could forget it.

  “Jenna,” the vicar said, stopping her beside the yellow vignette that featured sunny shades of cinquefoil, cowslips, and butter-and-egg plant under a bower of sculptured privet. “May we have a truce? Things cannot go on as they are between us.”

  “Truce, truce! All I hear is truce—first Simon, now you. Well, there it is! We’re definitely at war here.”

  “Jenna—”

  “Don’t ‘Jenna’ me, Robert Nast. How cruel you are. How dare you pretend to be my friend all these weeks when all the while you were involved in Simon’s madness? How did you expect me to react to that? You lied to me!”

  “I didn’t lie to you, Jenna. I kept a confidence for a friend.”

  “Aided and abetted a . . . a thief!” Jenna hurled at him.

  “Simon is my friend, Jenna. I’d hoped you were my friend as well. I told you all along that you needed to speak with him. That was the only counsel I could give without betraying his confidence. You had no compunction about betraying mine, did you?”

  “I didn’t really betray it as a retaliation—not consciously, in the way you imply.”

  The vicar gave a bitter laugh, and continued along the lane.

  “No, I didn’t,” Jenna defended, answering. “Simon and I were having a dustup, and he asked me why I insisted upon holding Evelyn’s come-out ball here at Kevernwood Hall instead of in Town, where practically everything was already arranged, and I said because of you. I was angry, and it just came out. I didn’t premeditate it, Robert. I’m not my mother.”

  “Heaven forefend,” the vicar muttered in an undervoice, then said, “No harm’s done. At least only Simon is aware, and he isn’t going to betray me.”

  “N-no . . .” Jenna stammered.

  A surge of adrenaline set prickly gooseflesh loose upon her, and made her miss her footing; she was scarcely aware that the vicar’s quick hand steadied her. Guilt shot hot blood to her cheeks, and parched her lips. Not even the sting of the wind bending the hollyhocks’ backs could cool the fire in her face. For a moment she toyed with the idea of making another confession, telling him that her betrayal went deeper than he knew. What made her hesitate was that knowing Evelyn was aware of his feelings might keep him away. Still, her hesitation was counter to her purpose; her silence condemned her.

  “Jenna . . .” He stopped in his tracks, and turned her toward him. “You didn’t.”

  “Robert, you may as well know that when Evelyn’s come-out ball is over, Simon and I mean to . . . part,” she said, her speech halting. “I haven’t done anything maliciously; you have to believe that. Oh, I know you think I’ve vengefully betrayed your confidence, but the truth is . . . I wanted something positive to come out of all this. Believe what you will, but that was my only intent.”

  “Good God!” the vicar moaned. His hands fell away from her arms, and he seemed to sway in the wind like the hollyhocks.

  “Do you still want that truce?” Jenna said dourly.

  “I don’t matter anymore,” he murmured, “but not so you and Simon. Don’t leave him, Jenna. It will destroy him if you do.”

  “He will never forgive me for seeking your counsel instead of his—of not trusting him enough to take him into my confidence concerning something so grave. A marriage can survive almost anything but lack of trust. Besides, it’s a point of pride with him. It would always be there, like a wedge between us. It’s too late for us, but not for you and Evelyn, Robert. Come Saturday, that Hall behind us will be overflowing with potential suitors for that girl. You cannot just hand her over to some . . . toady, some pink-of-the-ton!”

  “And if she laughs at me?”

  “Bowl her over! Don’t give her the chance.”

  “What was her reaction when you told her, Jenna? Tell me the truth.”

  “Surprise,” she answered.

  “She didn’t laugh?”

  “Actually, she cried,” said Jenna.

  The vicar took his neckcloth back from the wind, and raked his hair with a harsh hand. “I wish you hadn’t done this, Jenna,” he said.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she replied. “It could very well be the most singularly productive thing I’ve done since this farcical odyssey began—for all of us.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Rupert chose a table near the door of the taproom at the Heatherwood Arms to wait for the Bow Street Runner. Nursing the inn’s dubious black ale, his face was a study of smug satisfaction. He hadn’t been waiting long, but he fidgeted nervously, drumming his fingers on the scarred oak table and twirling his quizzing glass, his eyes darkened to smalt, hooded against the thick fog of smoke drifting in his direction from the patrons’ clay pipes.

  He knew the man the moment he entered. He was dressed in typical Runner attire: a plain black frock coat, stuff breeches with dark stockings, buckled shoes. The man knew him as well, though they’d never
met other than through correspondence. They had arranged a signal. The Runner, one Matthew Biggins, was to wear a red flower boutonniere. When he entered, Rupert was to order two pints of ale and repair to one of the salons, which he had paid for in advance. After a discreet interval the Runner would join him there, where they could speak as privately as one could at the Heatherwood Arms.

  “Your letter wasn’t too clear, sir,” Biggins said, working bulbous fingers around his tankard. “As murky as this ale here, it was, to be sure. We’d best get to it.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Rupert cautioned. “These walls are sheer as gauze, and we can ill afford to be overheard.”

  “Aye, sir,” the Runner whispered. “You say you know the identity of the Marsh Hawk. Just who might that be, then? There’s many a Runner would like that feather in his cap.”

  “You’ll see soon enough,” Rupert returned. “I’ve a plan that will put an end to his escapades for good and all.”

  “So you’ve said, but I’m going to need a bit more before I commit to it, sir. You’re going to have to tell me who you suspect, and why.”

  “I’d rather not say just yet,” Rupert hedged.

  “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you, sir,” the Runner said. Squeezing his paunch past the table, he lumbered to his feet.

  “Wait!” Rupert barked, caught between a shout and a whisper. “Since you insist . . . Simon Rutherford, the Earl of Kevernwood, is the Marsh Hawk, and I don’t just suspect the man, I know. He held up my coach and assaulted me not a sennight ago on my way to the Highlands.”

  “What?” the Runner cried. He erupted in boisterous laughter despite Rupert’s pleas to keep his voice down. “Are you addled in the bean box? Kevernwood is a war hero. The ton idolizes the man. Why, he’s built two hospitals for veterans since he left the service. You don’t want to let any one of them hear you speak against his lordship, or they’ll likely plant you a leveler, viscount or no. No wonder the land guards laughed you out of Headquarters.”