“Isn’t it odd your face was so badly scarred that you wear a mask, yet your hands are smooth-skinned as a babe’s?” Without waiting for an answer, he slid up her sleeve to bare her lower arm. His eyes narrowed as he took in her healthy, golden skin. “You’re the healer. Tell me if the pox is generally so virulent in one spot of the body and so mild in another.”
“It can happen.” A growing anger eclipsed her fear. How could he treat with such callousness a woman who claimed to be shy about her appearance?
“What do you think, William?” the earl asked as he resisted her attempts to yank her arm free. “Have you ever known the pox to be so discriminating?”
“Release me at once, my lord!”
He steadied a hard gaze on her. “What if I should wish to explore this strange phenomenon further?”
“Then you’ll merely confirm what I thought all along—that although you have the trappings of a gentleman, you’re as wicked as the rest of the king’s courtiers!”
That only seemed to heighten his interest. “And what would a gypsy know of the king’s courtiers?”
She cursed her slip of the tongue. “I’ve heard the stories like everyone else. How the court sports itself with illicit pleasures. How rogues like you climb out of one loose woman’s bed only to climb into another’s. Are you so jaded with beauties that you must now trouble a poor pockmarked maiden before she’s scarcely finished tending your wounds?”
She wasn’t certain which of her words did it, but something she said had the desired effect. Abruptly he dropped her hand, his mouth tightening into a thin line. “Ah, yes, my wounds,” he said flatly. He glanced down at the neatly bound leg. “You tended them well. I had no right to embarrass you.”
Her urge to box his ears only slightly diminished. “ ’Tis already forgot,” she said with a dismissive gesture, eager to flee before he began questioning her again.
“Not by me. And I won’t let your skill go unrewarded. Will, fetch my purse.”
“No, please don’t!” she protested, afraid to be left alone again with the earl.
William paused in the doorway, awaiting his master’s command.
Lord Falkham’s eyebrows lifted. “You must be paid for your services. I’m familiar enough with gypsies to know they do nothing without expecting a reward.”
She ignored the insult, too anxious to get away before he questioned her scars further. “I don’t take money for doctoring.”
He scowled. “Surely your aunt would expect payment. I’ll speak with—”
“No!”
His gaze turned curious.
She was handling this badly, but she couldn’t have him talking to Aunt Tamara. “She would say the same. The healing I do is for my own satisfaction. My aunt supports us with her needlework—we need nothing more. Please, my lord, don’t concern yourself with us.”
His intent gaze curled apprehension around her heart. She’d erred. She should have taken the gold and been done with it even if it had meant being alone with him a few minutes. But how could she have guessed he’d be so insistent?
“As you wish,” he finally said.
A sigh of relief escaped her. “Thank you. Now, my lord, I must go before my aunt becomes overly concerned.”
“But you’ll return to change the dressing?”
“If need be,” she said evasively.
It wasn’t really a lie. If he needed her, she would return. But he wouldn’t need her. He was strong and healthy, and the wound would heal well. So when William eventually asked about her at Mr. Tibbett’s, the apothecary would tell him how to change the dressing, and the servant would be well able to take care of it himself.
Then Marianne wouldn’t have to encounter the frightening earl ever again.
Chapter Three
Where guilt is, rage and courage doth abound.
—Ben Jonson, Sejanus, His Fall
Bess Tearle watched warily as her husband paced her bedchamber. He wore his now graying hair as all the Roundheads did, cut in a line even with his chin. But only his hair was Roundhead. From the tip of his expensive hat to his imported French stockings, he was as driven by money and a craving for advancement as the Royalists he despised. He’d been able to obtain whatever he’d wanted, for who would deny a man of his position and wealth anything?
But recently someone must have thwarted him, for these days he wore a permanent frown. Time to find out what troubled him. If she left him to brood, he would eventually take his anger out on her.
“Why haven’t we moved to Falkham House?” she ventured to ask, sure that her beloved childhood home had something to do with his foul mood. “You said it was ours now, but we’ve been in the country for weeks and you’ve not made the first effort to have our belongings packed up and transported.”
He grimaced. “You might as well know, since you’ll learn of it eventually. I couldn’t secure Falkham House as expected. ’Tis someone else’s now.”
That was what she’d feared. Five months pregnant, she’d been looking forward to raising her first babe there. “Who has it?”
“Your damned nephew.”
Shock coursed through her. Surely he didn’t mean… It wasn’t possible! “I don’t understand. I-I thought Garett died with Richard and Louise.”
Pitney strode to the bedside where she sat. “It seems he escaped being killed when the army murdered your precious brother. The boy we believed was him was actually some servant. Garett made his way to Worcester and joined the king there. When Charles fled, the lad went with him. So you see, your nephew has been living in exile until recently. And now that he’s returned, he’s taken possession of Falkham House.”
As Pitney’s words sank in, hope sprang to life in her heart. “You’re sure that it’s him? You’ve seen him?”
“I didn’t have to see him. The king himself is his champion now.”
“But the king has been in England for over a year. Why did he say nothing about Garett being alive until now?”
Pitney turned his gaze from her. “I don’t know.”
She could tell from his behavior that he did know. There was more here than met the eye. “Well, at least he lives. The dear boy lives. Thank you, God, for that.”
“Yes, you would be happy about it. Don’t you care that he’s stolen back the title and the estate?”
“They were always his,” she said, emboldened by the knowledge that Garett was alive. She’d grown so accustomed to thinking herself bereft of family that the very fact of his existence gave her courage. “He’s the rightful owner.”
“Don’t you understand? You are no longer a countess, and I am no longer an earl. We are nothing anymore.” His gaze flicked down to her belly. “And our son will only inherit the title if Garett never marries or bears a son of his own. There’s little chance of that, I would wager.”
She looked up at the face so contorted with envy, and wished she could tell him that her son was not his. But she dared not. “I never cared about the title. You know that.”
“But you cared about Falkham House. You told me I should get it back at all costs once I was able to. Why do you think I fought so hard to purchase it from those damned Winchilseas?”
“You shouldn’t have sold it to him in the first place!” she snapped, then moderated her tone when she saw his frown. “I wanted it to belong to my family again. It matters not to me if Garett owns it as long as it belongs to a Lockwood.”
“A Lockwood!” he spat. “Your damned family has caused me more grief than a hundred Royalists. Thanks to your whoreson nephew, I’ve lost everything!” His eyes narrowed on her. “I know what you’re thinking—you’re making plans to throw your lot in with him. Well, you’d best thrust that idea from your mind, madam, for it won’t serve. He wants nothing to do with either of us. He’d as soon kill you as look at you.”
The cold hand of fear seized her heart. “Why? He can’t blame me for inheriting what he wasn’t here to claim. We didn’t even know he lived!”
> A flash of something dark in Pitney’s eyes gave her pause, especially when he turned away with a coarse oath.
“Oh, dear Lord, you knew? You knew he lived, and you kept it from me? From everyone?” The horror of it would surely rip her asunder. Her own nephew abandoned willfully, and she’d known none of it.
“I didn’t know it at first,” he said coolly. “But then letters came from Garett in France, asking me to protect his lands for him until he could return.”
“You received letters from him? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“And have you whining around the house, trying to bring him back? Cromwell himself wanted me… me . . . for his minister. But that was because of my title—he needed nobility on his side to bring the other nobles around to his cause. With that Royalist brat here I would have lost my chance, ’tis certain.”
“So you left him there, alone,” she said, appalled. “How did you explain to him that you didn’t want him around to spoil your plans?”
Pitney gaped at her. “Explain? You don’t think I told him anything, do you? I ignored his letters.”
“Oh, no, surely not,” she whispered.
“Don’t be a silly fool. No one thought the king would ever come back. Why should I have ruined my life for Garett? I’d thought for certain he’d starve in France with the other exiles if I waited long enough. After a time had passed, I didn’t hear from him. I assumed he was dead.” His expression hardened. “I should have known your beloved nephew would insinuate himself into the right circles so he could return to England and take it all back. I never thought the Royalists would return, never!”
“At least you were able to assuage Garett’s temper by returning the house to him after you bought it from Sir Henry.”
“I didn’t get the chance to buy it from Sir Henry. Your nephew returned before I could manage it.”
“But you said that Sir Henry—”
“I know what I said, damn it! Matters proved more complicated than I planned.” His voice deepened. “I thought that at last the world was mine. The title, the lands—I had it all. Then that… that whelp returns, and suddenly, I have nothing.”
So did she. Oh, she didn’t care about the title or the prestige. But Garett and Falkham House were lost to her now. How he must have suffered with his parents dead and no one to help him!
She thought of him as he’d been at ten, shortly before her marriage. He’d been a quick-witted boy, with a confident air that had resembled her dear brother’s. She’d always thought him a strong child who’d hidden his strength beneath his quips.
What might his years of abandonment have done to him? How had he survived? Despite what was more commonly believed by those who’d listened to Cromwell’s tales, she’d heard that the exiles had barely kept food on the table during those years. Pitney had once boasted that even the king was destitute. So what must Garett have endured as a young exile with no money and no parents?
The weight of it all made her ill. Garett was certain to blame her as well as Pitney. How could he ever forgive her for his abandonment?
Unless…
Even at fourteen, Garett had known her husband well enough to see his ruthlessness. Garett would believe her when she told him she hadn’t known that he lived. He would help her escape her wretched marriage. At last she could leave Pitney!
Pitney caught sight of her softened expression and closed his hands in her dark hair, twisting her head around so she was forced to stare up into his face.
“I know what you’re thinking. You’d best forget going to your nephew, my dear, deceitful wife, for I’d kill you both if you deserted me. You know I could do it. And would, if matters came to such a pass.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she whispered, ignoring the aching in her head from where he held her hair.
“Wouldn’t I?” He jerked her head back so hard that she cried out. His free hand loosed the buttons at her neck, then slipped inside to clasp her breast. Roughly he fondled it, while she fought down the bile that rose in her throat. “You belong to me, my noble wife. So if you think to take refuge with your nephew, remember I hold your life in my hands.” He slid his hand down to cover the curve of her belly. “Leave me, and I will take the child from you, I swear.”
A sob caught in Bess’s throat. He could do it, too. Mothers had no rights when it came to children. And she couldn’t give up her babe after fourteen years of trying to conceive.
She wished she could taunt him with the truth—that he’d failed at siring a child, that the father was a handsome merchant he dealt with. But she dared not. He would kill her and her babe.
Then he would ruin her merchant lover, the man who’d shown her the only kindness she’d seen in a long while. She hadn’t told her lover about the child, for she’d known what Pitney would do if she ever fled to the merchant.
“I see that you understand me,” Pitney said coldly. “Go to Garett, and I’ll see him dead. And then you will have no choice but to return to me, or else leave the babe without a mother.”
Her hands shook. He had her trapped. She didn’t know how she could bear it, staying with him any longer. Yet bear it she must. She couldn’t risk having her child raised by Pitney alone.
At her silence, his eyes sharpened with desire. “Do you promise to be obedient, then, wife?” he asked, his hand still groping inside her clothing.
She lifted her head and, with all the quiet dignity she could muster, nodded.
He released her, but only to loosen his petticoat breeches so they fell to the floor. She could see him thickening underneath his long shirt, and she shuddered.
Forcing her off the bed and onto her knees, he pressed her head forward. “Let’s see just how obedient you shall be, wife.”
“Please, Pitney,” she whispered as loathing filled her. How had she ever been such a fool as to marry him, thinking him daring and strong? She should have listened to Richard when her brother had said Pitney wasn’t to be trusted. But she’d been blinded by Pitney’s mature age, smooth words, and good looks.
She thought now of what he was asking her to do and hesitated, as she’d hesitated so many times before.
“Remember your duty, wife,” he said, pulling her head toward his groin.
Her heart and mind detested him, but it mattered not, for he was stronger than she. So she proved she was obedient.
* * *
Marianne had sworn never to return to Falkham House, yet here she was with Aunt Tamara five days later, standing in the magnificent hall that stretched the length of its second floor.
She had no choice—Mr. Tibbett had said the earl was very ill. She had to determine why her stitching and poulticing hadn’t worked. Despite her wariness of the man, the thought of his strong body wracked with fever troubled her.
Her aunt was regarding everything around them with unveiled suspicion. Marianne couldn’t blame her. The earl had transformed the hall into a gallery of rich, dark colors and disturbing, violent images. Its paneled walls looked wholly different from when Father had owned it.
There were no quiet paintings of shepherds and sedate portraits of Winchilsea ancestors. Instead, ancient medieval tapestries depicting battles now lined the walls. Fierce men and women who all bore a marked resemblance to the earl stared out at her.
Unusual weaponry hung along one section: crossed Spanish rapiers, wicked-looking sabers, and even a jeweled scimitar. What kind of man hung such frightening accoutrements of battle on his walls?
The kind of man who wanted to remind all who entered that he wasn’t to be trifled with. The earl was a hardened soldier, accustomed to blood and scarred from his many wounds.
So why hadn’t he survived his sword wound better? She’d cleaned it well and sewn it shut as she’d seen Father do. The poultice she’d used had worked on weaker men many a time. His wound shouldn’t have festered or caused him to have a fever.
“This is mad,” Aunt Tamara muttered as they waited for William to be informed of their arrival. “I
can’t believe you came here again.”
“William told Mr. Tibbett that the earl is very near death.”
“As if I’d trust anything that rascal says.” Her aunt snorted. “It’s his fault you went near the earl in the first place. If not for your mask, who knows what might have happened?”
Marianne dropped her gaze, remembering his lordship’s fingers encircling her wrists. She hadn’t told her aunt how close she’d come to discovery that night. Could William’s claim that the earl lay ill be just a trap?
The manor did seem very lively for the home of a dying man. The tuneless whistle of a footman in a distant room and the chatter of passing servant girls gave her pause. Why weren’t they more concerned about their master’s condition?
Perhaps they didn’t know. William might be keeping it quiet to prevent them from being alarmed.
In any case, she couldn’t risk ignoring the possibility that the earl was ill.
“Think of what could happen if the earl dies after I treated him,” she pointed out. “The townspeople won’t dare protect me then. And as soon as the soldiers discover that Mina and Miss Winchilsea are one and the same, I’ll be arrested. Don’t you see? I must help him, or I’ll pay for it with my life.”
Aunt Tamara’s dark eyes glittered. “We could be far away by nightfall.”
“I won’t abandon a man to a sure death. Besides, even if we escaped, this time they’d hunt me until they found me. They only left me alone before because of your trick.”
Her aunt stiffened. “Well, at least this time I’m here to protect you from that jackanapes William and his fearsome master.”
An image leapt into her mind of Aunt Tamara wresting a sword from the wall to defend her niece’s honor. She stifled a smile.
William entered the hall and strode toward them. Odd, but he looked much handsomer than she’d remembered. He lacked his master’s intimidating build, but his wiry frame seemed imbued with a quiet determination she could respect.
“So you’ve come,” he said in hushed tones as he approached.
His eyes wouldn’t meet hers, which instantly alarmed her. “Is he dead?”
By Love Unveiled Page 4
