What the Marquess Sees

by Amy Quinton

  “Yes,” he said with more than a little hesitation.

  “I just want to know fer sure. And I don’t want to believe what I suspect. But it cannot possibly be a coincidence that those assassins found your trail so quickly…” Kelly was bringing up the possibility of a traitor?

  “Where is MacLeod?” He wanted to shake Kelly, demand he tell the truth because right now he didn’t know who was playing false. One man he didn’t want to believe would betray him; the other he couldn’t believe…his mind shied away from the very thought of it.

  “That is the question isn’t it, ye know?”

  “Yes, I believe we do…”

  And just like that Dansbury knew that the only person he could trust right now was himself. And it made him ill to know it. Was Kelly trying to throw him off the scent by framing MacLeod? Or was MacLeod truly the traitorous one?

  He ended their ‘meeting’ quite quickly after that, knowing that he and Beatryce were on their own now and that he wouldn’t learn the truth this night.

  But he was a damn good spy; he would finish this on his own terms. When the time was right.

  Dansbury proceeded upstairs and picked the lock to their room. Again. But this time, he crossed the room in silent strides, without once looking or even so much as glancing at the bed and her lying in it. Possibly unclothed. Damn, he was proud of his self-control.

  Instead, he walked straight through to the window, and with all the innate grace of a large cat, climbed out it and into the inky night. Their plans had just changed.

  * * * *

  At Sunrise…

  Birds sung their morning song outside the cloaked man’s window. It seemed like there were a hundred of them all projecting their twittering, chirpy melody straight into his brain through the back of his head. God, they were a damned nuisance and distracting to his task. He wanted to run from the room screaming with his hands blocking his ears against the noise. It was a crazy thought. He knew it. So he pushed the random thought away and read through the missive he’d just penned to Himself:

  My Lord Master,

  I regret to inform you that there has been a slight wrinkle in our plans. My men failed to capture Lord D and Lady B at the appointed time.

  Not to worry, for our useful traitor has proved his worth quite convincingly by providing us with invaluable, timely, and accurate information on our quarry’s whereabouts. To our advantage, we remain close on Lord D’s trail. The man has proven a trusting fool…as you suspected he would.

  I am still on point to bring Lord D before you as planned. For now, I have adapted my plans and have chosen to taunt him from afar as we follow his every move. He will grow paranoid and angry as I toy with him—which will only serve you well in the future…the better to convince Lord D to join us in our righteous cause in the end.

  I have every faith you will be most victorious in this endeavor, as always. I long for the day when we can publicly celebrate our victory.

  I will be at the rendezvous point in a fortnight as planned…with our reluctant, but soon to be subservient, guests.

  Respectfully, your most loyal servant,

  -D

  He had to force himself to steady his hands lest he crumple the missive in ire. He despised groveling. But, alas, it was sometimes required. Fortunately, it would not be necessary for much longer.

  The cloaked man sanded his note and folded it, relishing the fact that Himself could not know that when he brought Dansbury before Him, it would only be Dansbury’s heart he would be throwing at His feet—not the man himself as implied. Nor did He realize that Lady Beatryce would remain his own personal bed toy, indefinitely—certainly not His.

  For why would a dead man have need of a bed slave?

  Aaah, it was such a sweet dream to imagine…He savored the image, the look of surprise he imagined on the old man’s face when he plunged his dagger through the old bastard’s heart. Oh, after all these years…It would finally…finally…happen.

  A heavy tread sounded in the hallway outside his rented room. Ah good, so good. It was time to torment the mouse with a gift…

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Yes. Just in time.

  “Enter…”

  The cloaked man was pleased to see their traitorous spy enter the room as expected. He made the younger man wait as he returned his attention to the task of sealing the missive to Himself rather than greet his visitor. The traitor certainly had proven his worth, though. That part of the note was no lie.

  He looked up to see if his turncoat was annoyed by the delay. He didn’t appear to be, which was damn irritating. Alas, the appropriate level of frustration would come in time. Followed closely by doubt and indecision. It worked that way every single time. Oh, how easily people were maneuvered. Like sheep.

  For now, he would send the man on another errand, but not with the charge of dispatching the missive. No. That he would do himself.

  Finally, he gifted the man with his full attention, “Ah, good. You’re right on schedule. I have a task for you. A present, of sorts, I need you to deliver to our mutual friend. Though I suspect Dansbury doesn’t realize you’re not much of a friend to him, does he?”

  Chapter 21

  “The earth laughs in flowers.”

  ― Ralph Waldo Emerson

  On the Road Again…

  They rode in a wagon. Yea. A wagon. Not a traveling carriage as before, but a wagon that was little more than a cart with an old donkey that looked like he’d been put to pasture some ten years prior. And some blankets. And possibly a basket with day old bread for a meal…Hopefully with some cheese and ale to wash it down. Beatryce hadn’t bothered to check its contents.

  Oh, and their small armory from the rented carriage filled the back. Dansbury had covered most of it up with some of their new moth-worn blankets that reeked of cows and other things she’d rather not name.

  A traveling carriage, even one as rundown as the one they’d arrived in, would have been preferable. But alas, beggars do not have the luxury of being choosy. And they were pretending to be little more than beggars. Hence, the cart.

  They’d awoken even earlier than on their previous days. Before the rooster outside had even thought about crowing, Dansbury had shaken her awake without a word more than “Let’s go.” No innuendoes. No smile of greeting. Not even a scowl as was his usual manner in her presence. Just fierce determination with a sharp edge of impatience.

  She had no idea where he’d spent the night. All she remembered was him picking the lock to their room. The thought had made her smile. Then, he walked straight through and out the window. She’d laughed out loud when he was gone and then wondered if one would have to get used to such behavior in order to live with a man like Dansbury. She didn’t think about that for long…drove that thought right out of her mind lest she spend another night without a wink of sleep to show for it.

  Beatryce presumed this, the cart, was arranged by him, and she knew by his demeanor that now was not the time to question him on it. So she went along with it. For now. She knew their position was precarious what with the idea of a traitor or two and deadly assassins trailing them.

  La, it sounded like something out of a poorly-written gothic novel.

  Oh, and she was driving the cart.

  Dansbury was in the back prepping their small armory. Ensuring everything was dry. And ready should they need it. She wished she could be back there with him. Helping. But all he had said to her since he woke her was, “You’re driving,” as he helped her up into her seat. Then he walked away and climbed onto the back. Someone had to drive the cart.

  She supposed she should be pleased that he didn’t question her capabilities.

  But that was hours ago, and it was impossible to converse with him when she was up front driving while he was in the back playing spy. She was going to start conversing with the donkey soon. She’d already named him Dansbury the Younger.

  “Oh, Dansbury, you are a fine ass,” she whispered to the ass…er
, donkey. Loudly. La, she was losing her mind.

  “Did you say something?” yelled a masculine voice from behind.

  “Wasn’t talking to you,” she threw back. With a secret smile she didn’t dare reveal.

  The cart began rocking as Dansbury climbed over his little caches of weaponry. Before she knew it, he was practically breathing down her neck.

  She tightened her grip on the reins. Dansbury the Younger shook his head in protest. And brayed his displeasure.

  Haaaaw Heeee

  “Sorry…” she pleaded to the donkey in a feigned whisper she meant for Dansbury to hear.

  He rested his arm on the backrest behind her and leaned over her shoulder. “You’re doing remarkably well, Bea. How are you holding up?”

  His breath tickled and raised goose bumps on her arms. She nearly giggled. Giggled! Like a naïve little debutante. Something she’d never had the luxury to be. She swallowed the impulse and ignored the smile her soul delivered over his acknowledgement.

  “Thank you. I’m fine. The donkey here is a wonderful conversationalist.”

  He laughed over her shoulder and she felt it all the way to her toes where it bounced around for a while before it settled in her gut.

  “Lady Bea, I’m sure you could hold an interesting conversation with anyone, be it man or beast.”

  Her soul beamed brighter. She ignored the fool. Both of them. She knew she should thank him for the compliment, but she didn’t trust her voice just now.

  And he didn’t seem to mind. “There is a cart path to the right just past that bend up ahead. It is easy to miss, so beware. Why don’t we pull off for a spell and have a rest?”

  He didn’t wait for her to answer, and his continued faith in her abilities further astounded her. He simply made the statement, and then she felt the cart shake again as he climbed back to his former position.

  Her neck felt cool with the loss of his body heat, and her eyes began to water. The wind was particularly sharp today, and cold, causing her eyes to tear up from the dryness.

  No one had ever had faith in her. No one.

  And she didn’t cry. Ever. Thus, it was clearly the wind.

  As was becoming the norm, she had to suppress her father’s voice as he screamed in her mind that Dansbury was only saying these things to bend her to his will. Would she ever be free of the agony of her father’s torment?

  She slowed the cart as they neared the bend and only just managed to turn off onto the little trail to the side. She had no idea where they were, but she was relieved for the respite.

  The path they were on was short, and before too long, it ended in a grassy field filled with wildflowers. A small stream ran nearby. She couldn’t see it; she could only just hear it. It must be lower down where the field sloped down up ahead and fell from view.

  Her hands were cramped from hours of holding on to the reins and her bottom was sore from sitting on the hard bench. She stood and stretched, her muscles protesting yet sighing with relief. Before she could take her first step down from the cart, Dansbury was reaching up to help her down.

  He simply gripped her by the waist and hoisted her off the cart.

  She locked eyes with his. He smiled at her with a smile so warm, his eyes seemed to sparkle. He had never looked at her that way before, and she knew, then and there, that she would never forget that look for the rest of her miserable life.

  Damn him for planting that memory!

  She wanted to rail at him for it, though she knew it was unfair. She held her tongue, though not for that reason. As was her nature, she remained silent and simply smiled in return because she needed information from him and making him angry was not the way to get it. She knew that. It was a conscious decision on her part.

  See, she was always self-centered. Always thinking of number one. It was ingrained in the fabric of her being…she couldn’t be any other way. Even now. Even with him.

  Whether or not the behavior was hers by nature or by nurture (ha!)—as a victim of circumstance developed through self-preservation from a lifetime of abuse from her father—was irrelevant. This was her. Now. Probably forever as she was too old to change her ways.

  The thought depressed her somewhat.

  Dansbury tilted her chin. His eyes were questions that begged to know what was on her mind.

  Had she been so transparent? Huh. That was new.

  She tried to look away, but he wouldn’t allow it.

  “Bea, what is the matter? You look…lost.”

  For a moment she considered revealing it all, and she knew he could see that in her eyes. But her survival instinct was far too strong. She collected herself, and she felt him stiffen in response at the sight of her composure.

  “La, I’m fine, Dansbury. Just sore. And trying hard not to blame you for it.”

  He looked like he would say more, but she stopped the question hanging on the tip of his tongue. “Leave it, Dansbury.”

  Then she turned on her heal, leaving him to retrieve their basket from the back of the wagon.

  *

  “So what are our plans now?”

  They’d finished eating and were both lying on their backs on one of their ratty blankets, staring up at the clear, blue sky. The air was crisp and fresh, despite the foul blanket beneath them. She didn’t know what he was thinking about, but she was imagining shapes in the clouds passing overhead while she waited for the opportune time to approach the subject of their plans to end all this.

  It started with a sigh, a deep, drawn out sigh. She took it as a sign that he was concerned she wasn’t going to like what he had to say. She braced herself for bad news.

  He turned on his side to face her and propped his head up with one arm. He was fiddling with a dandelion, but he looked her in the eye when he spoke. “We’re going to be traveling in this wagon for a week…sleeping wherever we can find shelter. Wherever. They’ll be no more high class inns for Mr. and Mrs. Churchmouse.”

  They both laughed at the idea that their previous nights’ accommodations were more than what they were. High-class, indeed.

  “I mean it, Bea. We cannot afford the risk. I don’t know who to trust besides myself. So I plan to keep traveling by wagon until we reach my Aunt’s house. It should take about three to five days, depending on the weather, our skill, and our luck. I have no doubt of our skill.”

  Beatryce raised her brow at this. “Isn’t it risky to travel to a family member’s house?”

  “Usually, yes. But I don’t think anyone will suspect that to be our plan; that is the beauty of it. I’m not kidding myself into believing that the men following us are unaware of my occupation with the Crown…or of my reputation in that capacity.” He seemed to beam with pride at his vaunted reputation.

  Sigh. Men.

  “But honestly, even if they knew that is where we’re hiding, I’m not worried. It’s being out in the open, exposed, that is more of a danger to us. Being in a place I’m familiar with is preferable. I’m confident in my own capabilities and my ability to protect you, especially at home in a well-known environment.”

  She was lost at “protect you.” Damn his eyes.

  And he knew it. His eyes darkened; his hand stopped absentmindedly twirling his dandelion. A cloud passed overhead, blocking the sun, shading his face even further and enhancing the effect, the sign of his desire. For her.

  And before she knew what either of them were about, he’d dropped the flower, leaned over, and kissed her.

  Slowly.

  Gently.

  Not the passionate attack she was expecting.

  And she was completely undone by it. By his gentleness, his reverence, for she’d never experienced the like.

  His lips slid back and forth across hers, a light flutter and barely there. Yes, there was desire, but the gesture also spoke of tenderness. Tenderness was foreign to her, so she brushed it away by deliberately inciting his passion.

  She pushed up, pushed him over, and kissed him for all she was worth. He ne
edn’t know she’d put her heart and soul into it. That in her kiss, she was saying thanks for her first taste of tender compassion.

  He needed no further convincing. He responded in kind.

  His hands searched her body, rubbing her back, her sides, her arse. At one point, his hands came up her sides, his thumbs pressing in just beneath her breasts.

  She simply held on to his head, one hand on each side, her fingers buried in thick, golden locks as she attacked his mouth with her own.

  Crack!

  A loud sound in the distance startled them apart. A flock of birds took flight several hundred yards to her left. It sounded like the thick branch of a tree falling to the ground. Whatever, it was enough to bring them both to their senses.

  She was wading into dangerous territory.

  Dansbury had turned to look at the sound. Now, he looked back at her, his eyes still heavy with passion. Like hers. Both of them were breathing erratically.

  He reached for her, but she stayed him with her hand.

  “Enough, Dansbury.”

  He backed away immediately, and she nearly laughed at the disappointment she felt flutter around her heart. It was another sign she was growing soft. And soft was dangerous.

  She was soiled goods; her heart was dark. And mean. He was a good man; even she knew that. And he was not for her. She wouldn’t taint him with her problems, her humble future. And she would never trust him enough to make it work. They’d be miserable. She laughed at the thought—as if he was thinking of anything more permanent than a few nights of sex. Not likely.

  “That was fun, Dansbury, but la, I’ve had enough. We really need to get moving so we can find some place to settle down before it grows dark.”

  He smiled, which was unnerving in that it was unexpected.

  “Sure, Bea. You speak some truth; we’ll go.” He stood, but she remained rooted to the ground. She knew he wasn’t finished.

  “But, Bea…” He was standing, but he leaned down and over her, face to face. She could smell his breath. “I never took you for a coward.” And he walked off.

  Chapter 22