What the Marquess Sees

by Amy Quinton

  They continued to kiss. She wanted to climb inside his skin. She would consider the consequences later.

  Then he capitulated, for after a moment he said, “Ah, hell,” and he wrapped his arms around her and proceeded to kiss her relentlessly.

  Thank God! Her body all but screamed its agreement with their unspoken plans. She reached for his trousers again, but he stalled her. Again.

  “Not here. I’ll not take you on the ground of a cramped and dirty carriage with glass and guns strewn about the place.” He smiled as he touched his forehead to hers. “I have a reputation to consider…”

  They burst out laughing.

  Chapter 17

  “What loneliness is more lonely than distrust?”

  ― George Eliot, Middlemarch

  The Sorceress and the Lusty Hound Inn…

  Dansbury slammed the door to their shabby room and began tearing at Beatryce’s clothes before the pictures finished rattling on the wall. He refused to think on the wisdom, or not, of their actions. Right now, intelligence and forethought was overrated.

  She only wore the oversized dress he had given her. Thank God. He only needed to open a few buttons, and then he was able to pull it over her head and throw it to the floor. He stood back and admired the vision she presented.

  She did not hide from him, though her hands were clenched into fists and her pulse beat nervously at her neck. He was pleased, and nearly dropped to his knees and begged his thanks.

  Damn. She was striking. Perfect. Firm, high breasts with nipples standing erect and ready to be suckled. She was toned, athletic, unusual for a lady. And he discovered that he no longer like soft and voluptuous. Thick, blonde hair down below hid her treasures from his gaze. God, he was more excited than he’d ever been in his life. His cock twitched and throbbed in anticipation. He wanted her everywhere. In every way. He felt the evidence of pre-cum cooling on his pants. He was beyond ready. He might not last long. This time.

  He reached for her and all but tossed her on the bed. She leaned back on her elbows and watched him as he tore off his clothes.

  Once naked, he nearly strutted with pride as he noticed her eyes widen as she stared at his cock. His prick bobbed its head in greeting. Yes, he knew he was over-endowed, and he could see that she was pleased with that fact. He all but crowed with delight, and he was thrilled she wasn’t cowed by the sight.

  He crawled up the bed toward her, his body temperature climbing with each passing second. He could feel moisture collecting on his back from the heat. She rolled over onto her hands and knees and his mouth turned dry at the sight. If possible, his cock swelled further. She was gorgeous, her ass smooth and firm and high in the air. Begging for him. Inviting him to touch, to dine. Her legs widened in invitation, and her back arched. He could see the moisture coating her woman’s hair. God, he could even smell her excitement. All he had to do was surge forward, and he would be buried to the hilt in her hot, willing sheath.

  Mmm…

  He moaned at the thought. He couldn’t control the outburst. And he wanted her in this way, on her knees in submission. But not this time. Not their first time. And so despite his cock’s complaints about the delay, he reached out to nudge her back over.

  She resisted and spoke over her shoulder. “If you want to fuck me, you’ll have to accept me this way. I don’t do it face to face.”

  He was surprised and couldn’t control his lustful response to her vulgar words. Shite. He was beginning to like bold over demure, as well. He didn’t think when he asked, “You mean, you’ve never?”

  Pain flickered across her face before she shut it down. “Are you going to keep talking?”

  The hurt he glimpsed bothered him. She had done it the other way before, that much was plain, but somewhere deep down burned an unpleasant memory. Inexplicable rage surged to the surface. He fought it down.

  Fine. He’d do it her way. This time. But he vowed she would never forget the experience. He would claim her and teach her about what sex ought to be, replacing her upsetting remembrance in the process.

  He stood on his knees, his cock leading the way and straining toward her wet and waiting core. She was ready. Her woman’s hair was absolutely coated with her moisture, glistening and winking at him in the candlelight. He drew in a slow, deep breath, and her womanly fragrance set every inch of his body to nigh bursting with need.

  He lost the last of his control. And without using his hands or his tongue to prepare the way, he gripped his cock and guided it to…

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  “Mr. Churchmouse?” came the muffled voice.

  Shite.

  Dansbury leaned back on his heels, knees spread, and dragged his hand down his face. His throbbing cock stood out erect in front of him, rigid and purple and proud. Beatryce flattened herself to the bed, her face buried in the crook of one arm.

  “Yes, what is it?” His voice practically growled though he tried to play his role.

  “A message for you has arrived downstairs. The runner said it was urgent and that he was to give it only to you. Directly.”

  Beatryce crawled out of bed. Dansbury followed her with his eyes.

  “I’ll be right down. Thank. You.” He all but bit out the last, not even attempting to hide his irritation.

  *

  Dansbury pulled on his trousers, his movement jerky in his agitated state. Beatryce watched him through the mirror before her. And as he pulled them over his hips, she caught sight of his cock, semi-hard and not quite relaxed, before he tucked it away.

  He hadn’t even put on his drawers.

  He left without another word, slamming the door on his way out. Just like earlier, the pictures shook the walls and remained askew.

  Beatryce thrust aside her frustration and turned her attention to practical matters: to the fire, or where a fire should be burning bright. In their haste to have at each other, they hadn’t spared the time to light one. And despite their heated passion, the room had turned cool as night fell.

  So, she set herself to the task of lighting a fire. She’d seen maids and footmen perform this chore numerous times before, and she understood the mechanics of fire making. How hard could it really be?

  Hands on her hips and jaw set with confidence, Bea checked the battered coalscuttle next to the hearth. It was half full, but the lumps within didn’t look quite like the coal she was used to. She reached in and picked one at random; it was lighter in color than coal. Dark, yes, but not quite as black.

  She took a sniff.

  And immediately dropped the foul thing.

  Ack. Horse dung. Erg, figures.

  She wiped her hands on her dress, pulled back her sleeves, and picked up the scuttle. She poured what she thought to be a reasonable amount of dried manure into the coal grate, then searched for a tinderbox. An abused and beaten circular tin container lay on the mantle. That must be it.

  She sat down before the hearth and took everything out except the tinder and began the process of striking steel to flint over the shredded kindling.

  Or should it be flint to steel?

  Both felt awkward in her unpracticed hands. She’d always gone out of her way to avoid learning how to light a simple match.

  Ten minutes later, Beatryce had a newfound respect for the servants.

  Actually, for anyone who could light a fire.

  Twenty minutes later and she was ready to scream in frustration.

  The tinder would not win, dammit. She would build a fire if it were the last thing she ever did.

  Twenty-five minutes later, she gave her hands a break while she paced the cold room, mumbling to herself and cursing the laughing tinderbox. She was going to have to ask Dansbury to up his staff’s wages after this, for surely he couldn’t be paying them enough to perform a task such as this.

  Eventually, she dropped to her knees before the hearth once again.

  Another five minutes more and the tinder finally caught.

  Yes! Such sweet success.
>
  She lit her match and managed to transfer flame to the dung in the hearth.

  Right, nearly there.

  She turned to snuff out the tinder and put everything away again, but when she stood to place the box on the mantle, she noticed…that the fire had gone out.

  Argh.

  Bea sucked in a deep breath and started the process all over again. She was far too stubborn to lose to horseshit.

  After another ten minutes and much coaxing and blowing and not turning her back for a second, a respectable fire burned in the grate. At last!

  She held her hands out to warm them as the flames worked to erase the chill on the air. She was still there, bent toward the hearth, when Dansbury returned a few minutes later.

  She jumped and spun around and caught him standing in the doorway, staring where her ass had been. The look in his eyes made it clear the direction his thoughts had gone. But only for a moment.

  His mouth turned down in a glower as he marched into the room. Clearly, they weren’t going to address the large white elephant in the room—the fact that they’d almost had sex.

  “You’ve started a fire, I see. I’m surprised.”

  She nearly rolled her eyes. “Some of us women are more useful than you men give us credit for.” She decided not to tell him what an arduous task it had been.

  He barked out a cynical laugh as he joined her at the hearth. “I doubt I’ll ever underestimate you again.”

  She wasn’t sure whether or not to take that as a compliment. She decided to ignore it. He seemed to be finished anyway. He fed his missive to the fire and turned contemplative as he stared off into the flickering flames.

  “Wait! What did it say?”

  He disregarded her; his focus lost in the blaze. His posture screamed inward reflection; his mind buried deep. She sat down before the hearth, tucked her knees beneath her dress, and crossed her arms. She would wait him out. He’d speak when he was ready. She needed to know what that missive said and pushing him when he wasn’t ready was the surest way to keep him from telling her what she wanted to know.

  After a moment, he blinked as he came back to the present. “The men following us seem to know our every move. Though I don’t want to admit it, I’m beginning to suspect we have a traitor in our midst.”

  He looked weary, grave, and aged beyond his years by that thought. He was only about thirty if she had to guess, and from what she knew of him, he had lived a life of ease despite the fact that his parents and brother were killed some years ago.

  Certainly, his life had to have been better than hers. Again, the thought that he had hidden secrets just begged her to ask him of it. But he wasn’t ready…they weren’t ready…to divulge such confidences.

  Her life had been filled with lies, hatred, and abuse. From her own father—a man she was supposed to be able to trust. She swallowed the lump in her throat and it made her angry. After all these years, the thought of the earl’s abuse still managed to upset her. He was supposed to love her, instead he abused her. And she hated that she still wished she could have won his regard. It was mad and wrong. Insane, like him. Would she ever stop seeking his approval?

  Father made her bitter and unable to trust. Anyone. Save herself. Dansbury, on the other hand, seemed to trust everyone. Well, except her. And she was surprised when she thought about it. He was a spy for the Crown. He should be used to betrayal and corruption. It didn’t make sense.

  She didn’t think it through before she queried him on it. “How can you be in your line of work and still trust anyone?”

  He turned on her in a flash. “How can you live in a world where you don’t?”

  His flash of anger caught her off guard.

  He continued on. “There are beautiful things and there are ugly things, Lady Beatryce. Everywhere. You will always find whichever you seek.”

  She thought on that for a moment. Perhaps it was true. She was a poor judge for she only ever experienced the ugly side of life. Or so it seemed. And then she thought on it further, as she regarded him in the flickering light of the fire.

  Here is something beautiful. Right before my eyes. I can see that much even though he is only ever hostile to me…well, mostly hostile.

  The thought gave her pause. Was it true? Did she only see the viciousness in life because she chose to? That was difficult to accept.

  Father abused her. Abused. Her. Beat her to the point where she had to take to her bed. For days. Her own father!

  Why me? Why not someone else? Would anyone blame me for having a cynical view of the world with a father like that?

  No. She shut down the memories; she’d had years of practice at it. “So what do you see when you look at me then?”

  Where had that come from?

  And apparently, she wasn’t finished. She didn’t give him a chance to respond to her first query. “How come you are kind to everyone but me?”

  “Because I’m too afraid of finding out I like you after all.”

  He didn’t look at her as he admitted it. Coward.

  But what could she say to that?

  Nothing.

  She stood and turned to tidy the bed, an action born of nerves stretched tight. She was just plumping the last pillow when he broke the strained silence. “We should do something.”

  “I am.” She liked to use sarcasm when she was angry.

  He chuckled. “Not that. I mean, about this case. I don’t want to sit around and wait for someone to tell us to come out of hiding. I want to do something. Take action. You seem as if you are capable.”

  Beatryce beamed inside but hid it well. If she wanted anyone to notice anything about her, anything at all, it was her capabilities. Her father’s old taunts threatened to ruin the moment. They told her Dansbury lied to gain her compliance. She thrust those unproductive thoughts aside.

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. You know, you’re going to have to trust me. If you don’t, you die.”

  She analyzed his words, turning them over in her mind. “I noticed you didn’t say ‘we’ die.”

  “Of course not, I trust myself.”

  “I couldn’t even trust my own father. How am I supposed to trust you?”

  “That is up to you, Lady Beatryce. I cannot make it happen. But you know what I think? I think you trust me already and it scares you. I think it is why you chose me to protect you. Your request for my protection implies a certain measure of trust, does it not?”

  It made sense, but she would never own up to it. No. She could only believe in herself. “Just tell me what you want to do.”

  “For now, we proceed to our next stop as planned.”

  “That’s all?”

  “For now…”

  * * * *

  Nearby, Outside an Abandoned Shack…

  That Same Night…

  The cloaked man pulled out his gun and shot the messenger. A small flock of birds took flight at the sound. “I do not accept failure, nor excuses for it.”

  He looked up from the victim, his eyes shadowed by his hood, and glared at his remaining men. He waved his still smoking gun in the air as he spoke. “Anyone else care to explain how four of you, now two, managed to let a lone woman and one man escape? We had every advantage. My dog could have managed this simple task better.”

  The men standing before him shifted their feet and all but wet their trousers, but no one volunteered a response. They had seen what happened to the last guy after all. Perhaps they weren’t entirely foolish.

  Ha. The both of them were utter idiots. Not an ounce of sense to be shared between the two.

  Mist drifted in and out of the woods surrounding them, snaking around the trees and swirling around the men’s legs. Silence blanketed the scene save for a few brave crickets. As if the woodland creatures held their breath, hoping not to draw his notice.

  He nearly growled his frustration at his men’s incompetence. Now, he would be forced to explain matters to Himself. He wasn’t afraid of t
hat. He just hated that he had to cozy up to the man for he only allowed the man to think he was in charge. All the groveling and posturing cut into the time he could be spent dreaming about and plotting his revenge…and training for the moment he would seize it. Alas, he needed the man’s power and money to see the job through. And that fact never failed to make him bitter.

  He would do it though. Beg and plead and serve…do whatever was required to make this happen. At least until Himself outlived his own usefulness.

  The cloaked man sighed. “Very well. It seems I’ll have to take care of this myself. In the meantime, I have another task for the pair of you. This one even you two should be able to handle. I need you to fetch something for me.”

  It was only a matter of time before he would revel in his victory. He was confident of that; it was the only acceptable outcome.

  Chapter 18

  “Three things cannot long stay hidden: the sun, the moon and the truth.”

  ―Buddha

  The next morning, Dansbury and Beatryce headed downstairs with the rising sun. As usual. They hadn’t spoken a word, and he was glad of it. He’d slept on the floor after yesterday…played the gentleman…though it chafed. Why should he be the one to suffer while she slept on…or snored on as it were?

  He was exhausted now, and surly, for he hadn't slept a wink. Discomfort combined with too many tortured thoughts and even more torturous sights clattered about in his mind throughout the night. And all of it centered on her; when he should be thinking about their traitor. Or at the very least, sleeping so he could be clear-headed and well-rested. It was another gripe to lay at her feet.

  They reached the ground floor without exchanging more than a glance. He turned the corner and was surprised to see MacLeod in the dining area. And the man wasn’t alone, but it wasn’t Kelly who graced his table as might be expected. It was the American, Mrs. Chase. She didn’t appear to be happy about that fact either. She wasn’t at all acting like the ebullient woman from yesterday. The one who had every man in the room, and some women, too, hanging on her every word. Well, everyone except MacLeod.