by Candace Camp
They retired early, none of them having any desire to sit in the drawing room making small talk. However, Mary had few hopes of falling asleep quickly. She changed into her night rail and dressing gown, then sat down to read, but she could not concentrate on the words. Her mind kept skittering around, going first to Royce, then to the day awaiting her, then to the man who had shot at her sisters. Were they wrong not to tell the earl about their stepfather? What if it was him? What if they could not control him?
She thought about how Royce had spoken up for her and her sisters, and a smile curved her lips. What if Vivian was right in what she said, if Royce’s repeated offers of marriage meant that he was driven by something more than duty or honor? Could there be some knot of feeling for her inside him, perhaps not yet love, but something that, if nurtured, could grow into love? Was that enough to risk the rest of her life on?
Mary glanced up at the clock on the mantel. She wondered when Royce and Fitz were leaving for the mill. She had not said good-bye to Royce, had not even wished him well. Nothing would happen to him tomorrow, of course. Nor to her. But she could not stop the little crawl of anxiety through her stomach. Going to her door, she opened it and peered out into the corridor. There was no sound, no movement. She glanced the other way up the corridor. Light shone beneath Royce’s door.
She hesitated for an instant, then flew down the hall on her tiptoes. Stopping to glance around her again, she tapped softly at Royce’s door. When he responded with a call to enter, she slipped inside and closed the door behind her.
Royce was standing in front of the walnut dresser, shirtless, looking into a drawer. He turned at the sound and froze when he saw her. “Mary!” His eyes lit and he took a step toward her, then stopped. “Are you mad? What are you doing here?” His voice dropped almost to a whisper, and he crossed the room to her in a few quick strides.
“I-I came to tell you something.” Mary’s eyes dropped to his chest, taking in the broad expanse of skin, the light brown hairs curling across his chest in an inverted V, dwindling into a line that ran down his stomach and disappeared into the waistband of his trousers. Her breath caught, and she was aware of a strong urge to reach out and tangle her fingers through the curling hairs.
Letting out a curse, Royce turned away, grabbing his shirt and shrugging into it. “You shouldn’t be here,” he told her gruffly. “If anyone saw you, your reputation would be ruined.”
“Then you would win; I’d have to marry you, wouldn’t I?”
Royce scowled at her. “I’m not trying to win . Blast it, Mary!” He stopped and drew a breath, running his hand back through his hair. Stepping around her, he turned the key in the door and swiveled back to her. “All right. What did you want to tell me? I haven’t much time. I have to meet Fitz downstairs in a few minutes. And, for my sake if not your own, pray keep your voice down.”
She thought about the foolishly romantic notions that had been running through her head. Clearly, there was no need for any poignant farewell.
“I came to tell you about my stepfather,” she said in a cool voice.
“Your what?”
Quickly Mary told him about her mother’s second marriage and the unpleasant man she had had the misfortune to choose. Royce listened, frowning, as she went on to describe how he had been pushing Rose to marry one of his friends, Egerton Suttersby, despite the large difference in their ages and Rose’s dislike of the man.
“And you think he has something to do with this? Was he the man who tried to kidnap Rose?”
“No. No, that man was far younger and larger than Cosmo. The thing is, I saw—or thought I saw—Cosmo in London. That was where I went that day at the Tower when I left you and the others. I thought I had seen Cosmo and I tried to find him, but then you came along and …” She stopped, thinking of what had happened after Royce had found her.
The darkening of his eyes told her that he, too, remembered. Mary glanced away and quickly told him the other things that had made her wonder if her stepfather could be involved—the incident in the maze, and the size and shape of the man who had shot at her sisters recently.
Royce looked at her for a long moment. “Why haven’t you told Oliver this?”
“Because I don’t know anything for certain! There are many small men. Who’s to say that it is he? And … I was afraid.” Mary looked down.
“Afraid?” He reached out to tilt her chin up, smiling into her face. “You? How can that be?”
“I didn’t want Stewkesbury to know we were connected to someone like Cosmo. I didn’t want any of you to know.”
“You shouldn’t worry. Every family has a black sheep or two. And he’s not even related to you.”
“I know. But everyone already thinks we are unfashionable and improper. Having a stepfather like Cosmo would make us look even worse. We were afraid the earl would regret taking us in. I was afraid you—” She stopped and stepped back, turning her face away.
“You were afraid I would what?” He followed her, reaching out to brush a lock of hair back from her cheek. Her skin flamed to life beneath his fingers.
Mary swallowed. “Turn away from me.”
“I would never do that.” His voice was low and taut. “Look at me.” When she turned her face to him, he went on, “I will never turn away from you.”
His words made her tremble, and suddenly Mary’s throat was clogged with tears. “Royce …”
She could feel the now-familiar warmth spreading through her. It was absurd to react this way, she told herself even as her pulse began to thud in her throat. She swayed toward him slightly, her breath coming faster in her throat.
“Sweet Mary …” His fingers continued to caress her cheek. “Do you know what you do to me? How much I want you?”
Mary could not answer. Indeed, the way she felt when he looked into her eyes, she could scarcely breathe.
“You should not come into my room dressed like that,” he went on, his lips curving sensually. His hand slid down her throat and edged under the collar of her dressing gown. His fingers moved along the hard line of her collarbone, slipping under her nightgown. “You should run back to your room. Now, while there’s still time.”
“I don’t want to run,” Mary answered honestly.
Royce let out a breathy laugh and bent to kiss her. His kiss was slow and leisurely, as if they had all the time in the world, far different from the hard, almost desperate way he had kissed her before. He did not pull her into his arms, only kept tracing his finger along her shoulders and chest and neck as his lips tasted hers again and again.
Mary’s body flared to life. Her core was suddenly heated and soft, and a low, slow throb began deep in her center. She dug her hands into the edges of his shirt, pulling him to her, going up on tiptoes to kiss him. She wanted to feel him filling her again, to wrap her legs around him and ride the hard thrust of his masculinity. She anticipated the deep satisfaction, the stretch of her flesh as she drew him into her, the ache eased, the thirst slaked.
“Take me,” she murmured against his lips. “Take me.”
“Not just yet.” She could feel the curve of his lips as he smiled. “This time, I am going to be slow … and very, very thorough.”
He was true to his word. Untying the sash of her dressing gown, he pushed it back from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. He paused to kiss her, sinking his hands into her hair, before he resumed the task of undressing her. Sliding the thin cotton gown off over her head, he tossed it aside and picked her up, carrying her over to the bed. His eyes never left her as he shrugged out of his shirt and trousers.
Mary stretched beneath his gaze, a little embarrassed and at the same time aroused. Royce stretched out on the bed beside her, propping himself up on one elbow, and began to kiss her. He kissed first her mouth, then her face, then moved down her neck, tasting, it seemed, every square inch of her body. As he kissed her, his hand explored, lingering, teasing a response from her. Mary quivered beneath his touch, her legs movi
ng in restless desire. Yet still he glided over her with an agonizing slowness.
Gently he opened her legs, his fingers trailing up the inside of her thighs, first one and then the other, skimming close to but never touching the heated center of her desire. He took her breast in his mouth and tended to it with a single-minded devotion, using his lips and teeth and tongue to stoke her pleasure, arousing her to an ever higher peak until she thought she must surely explode.
Then he showed her how far still she was from reaching the heights of her passion. His hand slid in between her legs. She jerked at the intimate touch, gasping. Opening the slick, hot folds, he stroked her, pulling tiny whimpers of need from her, driving her desire ever higher. Mary moved her hips, aching and desperate, and dug her hands into his thick hair, her fingers clenching as desire knotted and coiled inside her.
“Take me, Royce,” she said again.
This time he could hold out no longer, and he moved between her legs, thrusting deep within her. Mary choked back a cry of satisfaction as he filled her. She clutched his back as he moved within her. His skin was hot and slick with sweat; his breath rasped in her ear. She was surrounded by the sound and scent and feel of him, melded to him in the ferocious fire of their mutual passion.
He cried out, burying his face in her neck, and Mary wrapped herself around him, clinging to him, as their climax took them both, flinging them into that shattering realm where they existed only in each other.
Royce collapsed upon her. Mary smiled to herself, luxuriating in the weight of him. She wanted to stay in this moment as long as she could, drifting in utter and complete satisfaction, her body and mind drained, connected to Royce in a deep and primitive way, able to believe that right here, right now, she loved and was loved in return.
There was a light tap at the door, and a voice called softly, “Sir? Sir? Master Fitz sent me up to see if you were ready.”
With a muttered curse, Royce rolled from her. “Yes,” he called, his voice coming out hoarse and low. He cleared his throat and said again, “Yes. Tell him I’ll be right there.”
The servant answered and went away. Royce turned to look down at Mary. He started to speak, and she raised her hand, laying it across his mouth.
“No. Please don’t. Don’t spoil it.”
“Bloody hell!” He swung out of bed and came around to pick up his clothes. Shoving them back on, he sat down and put on his stockings and boots, and finally covered his white shirt with a dark jacket.
Royce came back to the side of the bed, looming over her. He bent down, placing his hands on either side of her, and looked into her eyes.
“You will marry me,” he said flatly. “I promise you. You will marry me or no one at all.”
He bent and kissed her one last time, a hard, possessive kiss, then turned and strode out of the room.
“I know,” Mary whispered into the dark. “I know.”
* * *
Mary dressed and slipped down the hall to her room. Her sleep was troubled, and she sprang awake a few hours later when she heard Lily, Camellia, and Sam leaving their rooms. Mary went to her door and opened it a crack to peer out. Lily and Camellia had already passed by; she could hear their soft footsteps on the stairs. But Sam was still walking along the corridor. A door opened, and Rose stepped out. She was clad in her nightgown, her black hair tumbled around her shoulders, and she reached out to Sam. He took her in his arms and pulled her close, bending his head to hers.
Not wanting to intrude on their tender moment, Mary closed her door. If she had had any doubts that Rose would decide to marry Sam, they were gone now. Smiling, she returned to her bed.
Mary and Rose had breakfast that morning with Oliver, Miss Dalrymple, and Charlotte. Cousin Charlotte was notorious for rising late; indeed, Mary had not eaten breakfast with her since she had arrived at Willowmere. However, this morning she looked as bright-eyed as if it were the middle of the afternoon, and though she managed to keep quiet about the day’s events in front of the servants, it was obvious that she was ready to burst with excitement. Mary was not hungry in the slightest, but she forced herself to eat to keep up appearances. Rose, she noted, could only toy with her food.
There were circles beneath Rose’s eyes, and though they served only to make her appear even more lovely and fragile, Mary knew it was a sign of great worry. Her sister was an accomplished sleeper, and it took a great deal to disturb her rest. Mary wished she could have taken one of her other sisters with her—Lily, for instance, would have greatly enjoyed the drama of it all—but unfortunately, Rose was the one most essential to the project.
As they left the breakfast table, Mary linked her arm through Rose’s, pulling her close to her side. “It will be fine,” she whispered, and smiled. “I’ll be right there with you. And Sam will be watching out for us. Not to mention Camellia and Lily and Royce and Fitz.”
At the mention of Sam, Rose brightened, even allowing a small smile. Personally, Mary was more reassured by the presence of Camellia and Royce, but clearly it was Sam’s protection that meant the most to Rose.
“I know.” Rose nodded. “I am determined to be brave.”
The hardest part was waiting for another hour, as they had planned. They sat with Charlotte and Miss Dalrymple in the drawing room, but soon Miss Dalrymple began to fuss about the absence of the other girls. Charlotte, for her part, twisted her handkerchief and said little, glancing at Miss Dalrymple as if she wished her far away.
“Where are those two?” Miss Dalrymple asked for the fourth time, turning to look at the clock on the mantel. “It is considered a virtue to be punctual.”
“Perhaps they are not feeling well.” Mary had not considered dealing with Miss Dalrymple in her plans. “It might be best if we put off our lessons until this afternoon.”
Miss Dalrymple began to tsk-tsk, wagging her forefinger at Mary in the way that invariably aroused Mary’s resentment. “Now, do not let your sisters’ poor behavior influence yours, Miss Bascombe.”
“That will be enough, Miss Dalrymple.” Charlotte’s voice held that indefinable tone of aristocratic authority that Mary was sure she could never achieve no matter how long she studied. “I have plans to spend the day with the Misses Bascombe, so your class will have to be postponed until tomorrow. Perhaps you might spend the day devising something more entertaining for your activities tomorrow. I found their lessons yesterday dry as dust.”
Miss Dalrymple looked as if she’d swallowed a spider, but she only nodded and heaved herself to her feet. “Yes, of course, my lady.”
Rose turned to her cousin with awe after Miss Dalrymple had stalked out of the room. “How did you manage that?”
Charlotte shrugged. “One simply pretends to be Aunt Euphronia. However do you girls stand that woman? Viv is right; Oliver should replace her. We shall have to talk to him once all this is over.” She turned to look at the clock, just as Miss Dalrymple had earlier. “Is it time yet?”
“It’s approaching.” Mary stood up. She looked toward Charlotte, who nodded and rose to go out onto the terrace for the first part of their charade.
Mary and Rose went upstairs to get their bonnets and to hide their weapons about their persons. Fitz had lent Mary one of his collection of firearms, a LePage pocket pistol that was surprisingly small and light. Rose chose to carry a small knife with her, feeling that it would be more useful if and when the attacker grabbed her.
Bonnets in hand and weapons safely concealed in their pockets, they went back down the stairs and out to the terrace, where Charlotte and the earl sat looking over the gardens. Charlotte by now had worried her handkerchief into a rumpled ball. The earl looked completely at ease. Pirate, for once, was not at the earl’s feet, but stood at the top of the steps, apparently surveying the garden for possible foes.
Stewkesbury stood up at the girls’ entrance and bowed. “Are you ready?’
Mary nodded. “Perhaps we should begin by talking
a bit.”
“Of course
.” The earl gazed out across the gardens. “Lovely day, is it not? Though I fear it will not be long before autumn is upon us.”
“Oh, Oliver, how can you be so—so unruffled?” Charlotte asked.
“Well, I must be, mustn’t I?” Oliver smiled faintly. “Otherwise, how can he tell I have become agitated?”
“Do you?” Charlotte asked. “Ever become agitated?”
“One endeavors not to.” He shot his cuffs, then pulled out chairs for Mary and Rose. “I think it would be best to urge you to sit down, don’t you?”
Mary glanced toward the chairs, but did not sit down. “Yes, and I think we would explain that we should like to go farther afield today.” She gestured to the east. “We have heard that there is an old mill, and we would like to explore.”
The earl frowned. “I would disagree with that. There is, of course, the danger.”
“And I would explain that we would really like to get off the estate for a while. We feel cooped up here.” Mary turned toward Rose, who nodded.
“Yes, please.” Rose gazed at Oliver in appeal.
Charlotte, playing her part, watched the supposed conversation, turning from the girls to the earl.
Oliver shook his head. “No,” he said shortly. “It’s out of the question.”
“I don’t see why.” Mary’s face turned obstinate, and she set her hands on her hips. Her voice rose as she went on, “We’re stuck in here with Miss Dalrymple every day. And we can’t even go riding without guards. We’re sick and tired of being prisoners in our own home!”
Their volume increased as they found the words falling easily into place. The earl recounted at length each and every scrape the girls had gotten into, and Mary retorted by citing the many restrictions that had been unnecessarily applied to them. Charlotte stood up as the tension built, fluttering back and forth, appealing to them to sit down and talk, not to be angry, not to shout—at least not out here where everyone could hear.
Pirate, disturbed by the disagreeable new atmosphere, began to jump back and forth between the earl and the Bascombes, whirling in circles and adding his sharp high voice to the general clamor.
