by Julie Kenner
“Freezin’ their arses off,” Mercy muttered, crowding in for a look.
Jack bolted down the steps the moment the coach stopped at the unadorned entrance to the house. It took prolonged and vehement banging before the knockerless door finally opened to reveal an aged houseman in the shadowy interior, blinking at the brightness surrounding Jack.
“John St. Lawrence to see Mr. Clapford. Please tell him I am here on royal business.”
The old man sighed heavily and then pushed past Jack to trudge out across the gravel carriage turn, headed for the pond. Scowling, Jack looked back at Mariah and Mercy, who had just exited the coach with the driver’s help. They caught his puzzlement and hurried over to stand with him.
“Sarr’s got a visitor!” the old boy shouted hoarsely. He gave an arthritic wave and tried again. “Says ‘roy-al business!’”
The man in the pond stopped shouting and stomping long enough to cup his ear toward the old houseman. “Loyal what?”
So the man in the pond was Clapford? Mariah thought.
“Royal…business!”
“Heeey, I got one!” One of the boys held up a large orange-and-black spotted fish that flopped sluggishly in the cold. “Make a fine supper!”
Clapford thunked him sharply on the top of the head.
“That’s my fish, you git!” He pointed to a wooden barrel on the bank. “Put it in the barrel!” As Clapford stalked toward the bank he fumed, “This damned well better be important. You lot—” he motioned for the boys to stay when they started to follow him out of the water “—I didn’t say you could quit. I want every fish out of this pond by the time I come back. I know exactly how many there are, and they’d better all be there!”
“But, it’s freezin’—” The smallest boy’s complaint was silenced by Clapford’s glare.
The baron-to-be waded out and stalked toward them with his aged woolen frock coat and his battered boots flapping. He was tall, lean and graying, with an aesthetic mien and features pinched into a perpetual frown.
“Yes?” He stopped in front of Jack, propped his fists on his waist, and assessed Jack’s fashionable appearance with suspicion. “What’s this about a royal matter?” Before Jack could respond, he demanded, “Who are you? Am I supposed to know you?”
“I don’t believe we’ve met. John St. Lawrence, at your service.” Jack tipped his hat. “A friend of the Prince of Wales. And Baron Marchant.”
“Marchant? That gadfly?” Clapford snorted. “The prince?” He apparently reconsidered his rudeness, for he offered a grudging nod. “What does the young reprobate want with me?”
“May I present Mrs. Mariah Eller,” Jack said with a strained smile.
Clapford gave an impatient nod in her general direction.
“Bertie is very fond of gardens, you know,” she inserted, striving for a pleasant tone while studying the stony, unyielding man being offered up as her husband and master.
Hardly an auspicious start, she thought as she suffered a prescient glimpse of the life that awaited the woman who became the wretch’s wife. Forty years of mind-numbing misery flashed before her eyes.
Her heart sank, revealing the hope growing like a weed among her carefully cultivated defenses. Partnership. Desire. Passion. She wouldn’t be having such pointless thoughts if it weren’t for Bickering’s sentimental ramblings on marriage.
And Jack’s revelation of his own marital ambitions.
“Bertie is putting in a new pond at Sandringham,” she said, glancing at Jack to demand support for another of her spontaneous fictions. “And he asked us to stop by and see your fish. He’s heard so much about them.”
“The idiots damn near let the lot die while I was gone.” Clapford scowled over his shoulder at the boys shivering in the thigh-deep water. “Good thing I left London early. They’d done nothing to prepare for winter. Could lose half of my beauties before it’s over.”
“Not to mention a few servant boys,” she added archly.
Her comment didn’t earn her so much as a look, but Clapford’s long nose curled on one side as if he smelled something disagreeable.
“Deserve what they get, leaving my fish to freeze.” He raised his chin, addressing Jack alone. “So the prince wants some of my golden koi, does he? Well, he’ll have to pay for them. This isn’t the bloody middle ages, you know, when forest, fish and fowl all belonged to the crown.”
“I am certain the prince would wish you to get all that is coming to you,” Mariah said sweetly. “I must have a look at these ‘beauties’ you prize so.” She pulled Mercy along with her to the pond.
Clapford didn’t notice the sparks in her eyes or the force of her stride as she walked away. Jack, however, made note of both…as well as the tension in her spine and the set of her jaw. He groaned privately as he endured Clapford’s ramblings about fish pedigrees and the outrage of a royal making demands on a member of parliament.
This was not going to end in matrimony. He could just tell.
Not that he could blame her. Clapford was an oaf. Pompous and irascible…had about as much humanity as a slab of granite. And what kind of lout refused even to look at a beautiful woman, much less respond to her?
Gazing past the self-absorbed near-peer, he watched Mariah examine the fish in the barrels and smile warmly as she talked to the boys. The little wretches responded eagerly to her, gazing up at her as if she were made of pure sunshine. He felt a curious tug in his chest. When she sent Mercy bustling back to the coach and the maid returned with a dented pink pasteboard box, he couldn’t help a wry smile.
Clapford finally realized Jack was staring past him to the pond and hitched about to see what was taking place.
“What in infernal blazes—”
The baron-to-be went charging back down to the water to send the boys back to work. He was intercepted by Mariah, who offered him a piece of chocolate and then matched him move for move, blocking his way.
Jack could see veins popping out in Clapford’s neck as Mariah refused to step aside. He winced as she turned back to the boys and insisted that each take another piece of chocolate before going back to their bone-chilling work.
Typical of her. Taking charge. Sticking her nose where it wasn’t wanted. Wry pleasure washed through him. She was indeed a handful.
“A man’s servants are a man’s own business,” Clapford declared.
“And a man’s treatment of his servants is a measure of a man’s character,” she responded, stepping forward with her chin up, forcing him back into the water. “By which standard, sir, you are sorely lacking.”
In the space of a heartbeat, Clapford brandished a fist to punctuate his response, and she—thinking she would be struck—countered with a defensive shove. Caught off guard and off balance, the future baron fell back into the cold water with a huge splash.
By the time Jack reached them, there was nothing to be done but pull Mariah away from the water and watch Clapford flail and struggle to rise—to the sound of the servant boys’ laughter. Water poured down the baron’s face and dripped from his coat as he staggered, cursing, onto the bank.
Jack tried to apologize, offering him a handkerchief and calling it a dreadful accident, but the baron-to-be was beyond such appeasement. He focused on Mariah with fury in his eyes and declared he’d not take such insolence from a female, no matter how well-connected she was.
Clapford made for her with clenched fists, but Jack stepped into his path and the future-baron confronted his broad-shouldered frame instead. Cursing, Clapford tried to push past him, but Jack grabbed and held him by his dripping coat.
“Think, man—be sensible about this,” Jack growled.
The baron’s fist came up… Jack’s left arm shot up to block that blow and his right countered with a punch to the center of Clapford’s face…and Clapford went flying back into the pond.
For a shocked moment the only sound was water lapping. Then Clapford thrashed to the surface and sat gasping in pain and holding his nose. Jack stood on the bank a
bove him, breathing hard, his tone making the pond water seem warm by comparison.
“A bit of advice, Clapford. Never raise your hand to a lady—especially one with highly placed friends. You would find mending a broken career a great deal harder than mending a broken nose.”
He stalked back to Mariah and ushered her and Mercy firmly to the coach, shouting to the driver to get underway.
No one spoke as the coach rattled down the ill-paved drive. As they made the turn onto the Cambridge Road, Mariah emerged from her shock enough to spring to the window for a look back. Mercy trampled on Jack’s toes to join her. Clapford was standing in the carriage turn, shaking a fist after them. When Mariah slid back into her seat, Jack was staring at her.
“You hit him,” she said in a shocked half whisper.
“I did. Yes.” He took a deep breath, set his hat aside, and started to remove his damp gloves.
“A right proper facer, sarr.” Mercy beamed fresh respect.
“He brought up a fist—I… I thought he was going to strike me,” Mariah said, still trying to grasp how such a calamitous string of events could have happened. “He very nearly did. If you hadn’t—” She paused for breath and composure. “All I did was suggest he consider the health of his servants as important as that of his blessed fish…that he show a bit of common decency.”
“Expecting common decency from the nobility?” Jack’s brows rose. “How eccentric of you.”
“It is not ridiculous to expect people of rank and responsibility to behave with reason and restraint.” She bristled. “Did you see those boys? As blue from bruises as they were from cold. Was I supposed to just stand there and let him thrash me the way he does his stable boys? Someone has to stand up to overprivileged bullies.”
“Does that someone always have to be you?” he countered irritably.
Of course it did.
It was part of who she was, he realized, somewhat rattled by the conclusion. Standing up to arrogant, overprivileged noblemen was exactly what she would do—what she had done that first night at the inn.
“She’s a good miztress, sarr,” Mercy defended her earnestly. “Got a fair an’ gen’rous heart.”
She felt a personal responsibility for the people in her employ, which was why she had inserted herself into the hunting party’s hazardous company. He glanced at the rotund maid whom she treated more like a dotty old aunt than a domestic. She had stood up for her people and her property and placed herself in harm’s way on their behalf.
The contents of his chest felt as if they were sinking toward his knees. Despite the pain in his hand, at that moment he’d have punched a thousand vile barons on her behalf…a few hundred M.P.s…sundry earls, marquesses and dukes…even a prince.
His heart stopped.
Dear God. What was he thinking?
That she was a woman of substance, of surprising depths, courage and conviction. That the prince truly had gotten a mistaken notion of her character, just as she’d said. And that he was partly responsible.
MARIAH watched the play of strong emotions in Jack’s face and guessed that he was thinking about potential consequences.
“Might this get you into trouble?” she said, feeling a stir of guilt.
“An assault on a sitting member of parliament? Whatever gives you that idea?” he said with an edge, brushing at the water spots on his trousers. “Clapford has a vile temper, but I doubt he will make an issue of this.” She watched him reason it through and set aside his concern. “He won’t want a report of his conduct to get around. Though it probably wouldn’t come as a surprise to any who know him. Men don’t lash out in anger like that unless it is from habit.”
“So, he behaves that way as a normal course,” she said with dismay. “If that is the way he treats a woman he’s only just met, imagine what he has in store for the one who is legally bound to honor and obey him.”
A twitch in his jaw let her know her point struck home. He didn’t respond with his usual verbal parry and his expression hinted he was more affected than he revealed. Was it too much to hope that he might have second thoughts about inflicting a husband on her?
She watched him test his right hand, flex it and wince. Her breath caught in her throat. His knuckles were swelling.
He had defended her.
She relived in her mind’s eye the moment when he’d slammed into Clapford to keep him from reaching her…the way his big frame braced and strained…the fierce determination in his face. The elemental female in her savored the raw male power that had come to her defense. The rational woman in her wanted to express how grateful she was. But the feminine heart of her wanted to curl up around that battered hand and soothe—
A well-timed shiver claimed the rest of that thought. She forced her gaze away from him, and it fell on her cold, sodden footwear.
“My shoes.” She hiked her skirt to the top of her nine-button boot. “I didn’t realize I’d stepped into the water. They’re wet through and through.”
Mercy bent to feel the leather. “We got to get ye out o’ them, miz.” She patted the seat beside her, then reached into her carpet bag for a button hook. “Set yer feet up here. We’ll get ye warmed right up.”
Jack jerked his chin back. “We?”
10
“BREAK OUT yer flask, sarr,” Mercy ordered, glowering when he hesitated. “She needs a nip. And don’t pretend ye ain’t got one. Genl’men always got a drop tucked away somewhere.”
His jaw loosened at the old girl’s audacity, but he reached into a compartment under the seat and retrieved a silver flask. Removing the cap, he took a sizeable swallow himself before passing it over to Mercy, who astounded him by doing the same before handing it off to Mariah.
“This is outrageous,” he said, his eyes narrowing on the trim ankles and French-heeled boots now on the seat. He could barely swallow.
“Removing my cold, wet shoes to prevent catching pneumonia is outrageous?” Mariah took a drink from the flask and closed her eyes, clearly appreciating its warmth. “I suppose you think a lady should rather die from lung sickness than reveal her ankles?”
Hell, yes, he wanted to say. He managed to rise above it.
“Then, it’s a good thing that I’m a simple widowed innkeeper instead of a lady.” She sank back, cradling the flask against her breasts. “Absurd, isn’t it, how society decides such things? A woman in a ball gown bares her entire bosom with impunity, but let a man catch a glimpse of a common, ordinary ankle—”
“I think you’ve had quite enough brandy,” he said, holding out a hand for the flask. She ignored it.
“All the more nonsensical because ankles aren’t erotically responsive and breasts are,” she continued. “However did such a paradox come to be?” When Mercy’s surprise turned into a frown, she winked at the old girl and took another sip. “Speaking philosophically, of course. Every topic is allowed in discourse on natural and social philosophy. Is that not so, Jack?”
“Pay her no mind, sarr—she jus’ likes to talk hot peppers,” Mercy said, scowling at her mistress. “She were alwus tormentin’ the old squire.”
“Teasing,” she corrected. “And he liked it.”
Mercy addressed Jack. “He let her get by wi’ a lot, sarr.”
Mariah affirmed that comment with a mischievous smile.
“Because I let him get by with a lot.”
Jack could barely follow the exchange; he was stuck on erotically responsive. The words had set his blood humming and his skin aching. That sin-tainted smile…she was determined to provoke him and he was just as determined not to allow himself to be provoked. Not in that way.
Not again. Too damned much was at stake.
To think that moments ago he was thinking of her as selfless and upright and telling himself she deserved better than Bertie’s wandering lust.
Mercy inspected the boot and set it on the floor to dry. “Yer stockin’s soaked clear through.” She shook her head. “Better take it off, too, miz.”
Mariah lifted her knee and reached beneath her skirt to undo her garter and slide the stocking down her leg. It was all Jack could do to keep his tongue in his mouth as the maid draped the stocking over the seat beside him. The knitted silk retained the erotically charged shape of her leg.
“That feels wonderful.” Mariah closed her eyes as Mercy rubbed her foot briskly with the blanket and started on the other shoe. She wiggled her toes under the cover. “Much better.”
For a long, harrowing moment, he was unable to tear his gaze from the suggestive bump her toes made under that cover. Then he mustered the will to tilt his hat over his eyes and jam his shoulders back into the seat.
SOMETIME LATER, Mariah awakened feeling a little cramped but deliciously warm. Her head and shoulder were propped against the side of the coach and her feet were drawn up beneath her skirts on the seat. As she pushed upright, she smelled sandal-wood and soap and “essence of Jack.” Looking down, she found a familiar charcoal-gray suit coat spread over her, its sleeves tucked around her. She felt a rush of pleasure. It was as if the coat was proxy for the arms of its owner…who sat across from her in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves…watching her.
The rosy light of sunset cast a dusky glow over his angular face and lent a sheen to his bronze eyes. She tried not to stare. Or want. And failed.
“Are we almost there?” she asked, her throat tight.
“At the outskirts of Cambridge.”
“About time.” She pushed upright, conscious of the location of every part of her body in relation to his. “I am desperate to stretch my legs.”
He consulted his watch, holding it up into a wedge of bright light coming through the window. “We’ll have a bit of supper while I make inquiries. I still have connections among the faculty, but I doubt we’ll locate Martindale before tomorrow.” He sounded distracted. “There is an excellent hotel—the University Arms—overlooking Parker’s Piece in the center of the city. We should be able to find rooms there.”
“A warm meal and a clean, comfortable bed.” She smoothed wrinkles from his coat as it lay over her lap. “I never fully appreciated how important they are to travelers. This gives me a new perspective on my own inn.”
