“Hush,” he said as his fingers swept along her ruffled bodice, setting every inch of her skin alive with the fierce craving. “Listen to me. I know you and I loathe the idea of that dashed wedding—”
“If you want to halt it—”
His laugh silenced her. “Sweetheart, I want it held without delay. I cannot sleep at night for the taunting dreams of holding you like this.”
“We cannot …” She closed her eyes as his fingers found the very tip of her breast and grazed it as lightly as a butterfly. Forcing her eyes open again, she whispered, “We cannot return to London until the danger is past.”
“There must be something we can do to ensure that happening quickly.”
“If I were to send a message to some of Papa’s friends in the government, we might be able to put an end to this.”
“And a beginning to this,” he murmured in the moment before he claimed her lips anew.
She answered his kiss with her own longings, not pausing to think that the first time they were ready to work together would bind her life even more closely with a man who refused to let her be the woman she longed to be.
“How does it go?”
Regina put the top back on the inkpot and leaned her elbows on the rough table as she looked up at Marcus. With effort, she kept from looking at the bundle of blankets where her husband slept each night while she was alone in the aired featherbed upstairs. As surely as if he had shouted it, she knew he would welcome her into his arms, but she could not sell her heart for a moment of pleasure. She wanted love.
What a complete block you are! How many times had that thought played through her mind? Its singsong rhythm brought no answers. She had been a nick-ninny to let him woo her into his arms again yesterday, but his kisses were so difficult to resist.
“I have finished the letters to Lord Liverpool and Lord Sidmouth,” she replied quietly. “If anyone in the ministry can help us unravel what might be happening, I believe it will be one of them.” Standing, she massaged her aching forehead with two fingers. “Is there someone we can trust to deliver them only into their hands?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
He smiled and took her hands between his. “Trust me on this, Regina. For you to know too much now might endanger you more.”
“Do not coddle me. I have been in danger before.”
“As I well know.” Frowning, he led her to sit by the hearth.
“No, I mean before I came to England.”
His eyes narrowed into ebony slits. “Your father brought you into danger?”
Laughing, she clasped her hands around her knee. “Each time we entered the Dey’s palace. This bit of intrigue and mischief, I must own, is nothing compared to what transpires there every day. A man may be raised to a position of power and favor, and be dead before the day’s end. Advancement often requires the assassination of your superior. Within the seraglio, even more scheming takes place.”
“You were in the Dey’s harem?”
A tremor of distaste fled through her. “No, never. If I had allowed them to send me there—as they wished—I fear I would never have escaped.”
“But you are an Englishwoman, the daughter of a diplomat.”
“Do you think that would have mattered?” Standing, she went to the window overlooking the meadow that was so unlike anything she had ever seen in the countryside surrounding Algiers. “I am a woman, and the only place for a woman there is in that closed world.”
“So you became a man in their eyes.”
“It was my only choice if I wished to remain outside the seraglio.” She turned and wrapped her arms around herself, although the day was sticky with heat. “I wish Mr. Fisher was here. He might know of a way to contact Papa, some way that I have not considered.”
Sitting on the edge of the table, he smiled grimly. “Your father is of little use to us when it would take him a fortnight to get from Algiers to here even if he knew of the trouble.”
“A swift ship could get him here in a very short time.”
“A very short time is what we might have.”
Regina laughed and saw astonishment on his face. “You are being too pessimistic. Who would think to look for us in this horrid place?”
“It would not be so horrid if it had a few less layers of dirt.” He wiped his fingers on his leather breeches. “Your skills as a housewife have not improved.”
“I thought you wanted me to write to get us help.”
He laughed. “I said also, if you will recall, that you might as well do that because it is clear you have no talent to do housework.”
“Nor interest in learning more.”
Reaching for his hat, he said, “Seal the letters, Regina, and I shall see them on their way without delay.”
“Are you sure they will get to the proper hands?”
“You are going to have to learn to trust me someday, sweetheart.”
“I want to trust you.”
“When I do something worthy of your trust?” His laugh had a rough edge on it. “Maybe this banishment will bring that about if nothing else.” He took the letters and strode out.
With a sigh, Regina collected her writing materials and set them on a shelf near one of the windows. She feared the only thing this exile would demonstrate was that the match of Marcus Whyte and Regina Morrissey had been a horrible mistake.
The low sounds of the forest animals whispered through the trees. Regina sat on a hummock and listened. There was more life in this single glade than she had seen in all of Algiers. Without the blistering heat of the sun and the desert which crept near to the city, trees flourished, and flowers of every imaginable color could be found beside each rill.
She had never seen such a collection of birds. Their songs woke her in the morning and hushed her to sleep at night. She was fascinated with the hue of their feathers, reds and blues and golds that seemed to be born of the sunshine. Even the blacks and gray hues were somehow more vibrant than anything in Algiers.
Running her fingers through the low carpet of moss, she knew she could not linger here long. Marcus had been insistent that she tell him where she was going and when she expected to return. He had not been at the cottage when she left, and if he came back while she was gone, he would be furious.
Regina stretched as she stood. When had she last slept well? Not since before they had come to the dowager cottage. Dowager cottage? She tried to envision the dowager duchess in the cramped, dirty room that even a household of servants could not clean completely. Without a doubt, the dowager duchess would have invoked her own ideas on the cottage, turning it into something completely different and unique.
She laughed as she strolled beneath the trees, but grew sober when she wondered how much longer they could remain in hiding. Most of the dried vegetables—and she never wanted to taste another withered carrot!—were gone. Marcus kept a small cache of wine in the case he had next to the blankets where he slept, but that must be nearly depleted, too.
Her spirits were dreary by the time she reached the cottage. Dismay added to her burden when she saw the door was open. Marcus must have returned already. Steeling herself for him to fly out at her, she went to the door.
“You are late for dinner,” Marcus said as he blocked her way.
“Late?” She took a deep breath of a tempting aroma that wafted through the cottage. “What is that?”
“Dinner.”
She gasped, “Marcus, you know the danger of going to a market for food! If—”
He placed his finger against her lip. “Sweetheart, hush! Just sit and enjoy what I have prepared for you.” With a flourish, he seated her at the table which was surprisingly clean.
In front of Regina, a plate steamed with meat and some of the dried vegetables Cook had packed for them. She looked up at Marcus. He grinned and gestured for her to eat. She picked up her fork and took a bite. Her eyes widened.
“What is it? It’s delicious.”
“Hare.” He sat on the bench
across from her.
“Where did you get it?”
With his fork, he pointed to the hearth where a blackened pot sat at the edge of a pile of embers.
“You cooked this?” she gasped.
“Shot, skinned, and cooked.” He laughed as he put another piece of the meat on her plate. “I honed my eye during the hunt, never realizing that I would have to depend on it to keep me fed.” With another laugh, he said, “Eat, Regina. I did not go to all this work simply so the food could go to waste on your plate.”
She smiled and cut a small slice of the meat. “It is quite tasty!”
“That’s because of the herbs.”
“Herbs? What do you know of herbs?”
He took a bite before answering. “I have heard you mutter more than once that I must have been a spoiled child before I was out of short coats.”
“And that you still are,” she said, her smile broadening.
“Now, now, wife, that is no way to speak to a man who has provided you with this succulent repast when I am sure you were as tired as I was of the dried food Cook sent with us.”
“True.” She bowed her head in his direction. “I stand corrected. However, you were talking about herbs.”
Leaning his elbow on the table, he pulled it back when the table rocked on its uneven legs. “I developed an interest in what was in the garden behind the kitchen, but Cook feared that I would trample her valuable herbs if I was allowed to run tame through it. So she took it upon herself to give me lessons in what was planted where and how each can be used. When she saw I was intrigued by all the strange names, she took me to the forest behind Attleby Court and helped me find wild specimens.”
“I cannot imagine you, as a young boy, being fascinated by plants.”
A roguish smile tilted his lips. “Not all of them, Regina. Only the poisonous ones and the ones that could make people sick. Think what a lad could do with that information.”
“And did you?” She looked at the food in front of her uneasily.
“No.” Folding his arms on the table, he ignored how it wobbled. “I know you think I am some sort of beast, but I wouldn’t intentionally poison someone.”
“Unintentionally?”
Marcus dug into his food and took a big bite. “You have two choices. You can sit there while your food gets cold and wait for me to pop off to a Diet of Worms, or you can eat.”
She laughed. “Mayhap I should consider if you are so anxious to be rid of me that you might poison yourself as well.”
“What a macabre mind you have!”
“This is truly excellent,” she said as she tried another forkful. “You have many hidden talents.”
“So I’ve been told. Jocelyn always says …”
Regina lowered her fork to her plate as his voice trailed away. When he stood, she jumped to her feet and moved around the table. “Marcus, maybe it is better that you speak of her rather than pretend she does not exist between us.”
“I want nothing between us.”
“Nor do I!” Her heart threatened to burst with happiness.
“Is that so?” He cupped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. As his thumb brushed her jaw, he bent toward her. “Did I tell you that Cook was always trying to rid the garden of heartsease?”
“Heartsease? What are you talking about?”
“I overheard several of the kitchen maids arguing that they needed to keep some of the weed to use as a love potion.” His voice grew husky as he whispered, “It is said that a woman will do anything when an unguent made with the seeds is rubbed into her skin.”
“Nonsense,” she said, but more defenselessly. “That is just silly.”
“Is it?” He bent to kiss the curve of her neck. When she shivered with the desires she had to struggle to keep in check, he asked, “Do you dare to test it?”
Regina needed every bit of her strength to turn away. “There is no need.”
“Because you love me?”
She went back to her side of the table. “I am your wife, Marcus.”
“But you love me, don’t you?” He rested his palms on the table and slanted toward her.
Poking at her food, for she had no more appetite, she asked, “I will answer that if you answer a question for me. Do you love Mrs. Simpson?”
“Jealousy?”
“Curiosity.”
He moved to the bench beside her, but stretched his feet out toward the center of the room. With his elbow on the table, he caught her eyes with his enigmatic gaze. Just when she thought she was learning something about him, he proved her wrong. She had hoped this meal proved that he was thinking of someone other than himself, but apparently she had been wrong. He thought only of seducing her. That was, without question, a compliment, but she wondered if he treated all women with this same intriguing charm.
“No,” he said.
“No?” She did not want to own that she had been lost in her thoughts.
“No, I do not love Jocelyn.” He brushed a strand of hair back from her forehead. “Nor does she love me. There is a reason why we use the term convenient. Do not misunderstand. I have a great deal of affection for her, but love? No.”
“Oh.” She knew she should think of something else to say, but nothing entered her head.
“Now it is your turn. Answer my question.” He smiled as he tilted her chin toward him. “Do you love me, sweetheart?”
“Ask me something else.”
Shaking his head, he chuckled. “You said you would answer my question if I answered yours. I have. It is your turn.”
“Then I must tell you no.”
“You are lying!”
She shrugged as she stood. “I never said I would speak the truth. Only that I would answer your question.”
“Then you love me!”
“I did not say that either, for I did not say that I would be dishonest with you.”
“Then which is it? The truth or a tarradiddle?”
She bent and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for the wonderful dinner, Marcus. If you will excuse me, I thought I would retire early tonight.”
Marcus’s fist struck the table as Regina climbed the stairs. Blast her and her wily ways! Striding out of the cottage, he sat on a log at the edge of the ragged clearing.
He should not be here, suffering the ennui of grassville, while his friends were enjoying the entertainments of Town. What a botheration this was! He was a fugitive with a wife who was as skittish as a rabbit, and separated from his mistress who would be much more welcoming. It was unquestionably a complete bumble broth.
“Marcus?”
At Regina’s voice, he jumped to his feet, then was furious at responding like a well-trained pup. He forgot his irritation when he saw the strain on her face.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
“Did you read these?” She pressed two slips of paper into his hand.
Sitting back on the log, he scanned the pages. He whistled as he reread them again, this time more slowly. It was a letter from Mr. Morrissey to the Duke of Attleby. Checking the date, he guessed it had been included in the packet of papers sent just before Regina’s arrival.
I thank you again, old friend, for being so open to this match. I can assure you that my daughter will make your son a matchless wife, but, as you know so well, finding my daughter a husband is only a slight concern at this time.
The situation here in Algiers continues to deteriorate. Although the Dey is suggesting that he would be open to further negotiations between his nation and Great Britain, I can assure you, as I have the Prime Minister and his cabinet, that he is considering other, much more dangerous actions.
The government here is still smarting from the negotiations with the United States. Although they have accepted the goods brought on the Allegheny, few in the Dey’s government are pleased with having to compromise on the issue.
I believe the game of asking for tribute and ransom for foreign prisoners has grown tiresome to the corsairs, who
wish to rule the Mediterranean with their terror. While none of us can be unaware of the Regent’s letter to the Dey of four years past to offer protection to the city and its denizens, the mood has changed here.
That is why I have wished Regina to return to her homeland. No foreigner is truly safe now in Algiers. I hope she will find a sanctuary there, but I fear no place is safe for her now. She is too well-known here, for no other woman is granted the freedom she has been. I pray she can lose herself among the Polite World, so she cannot be found by those who would hurt her.
I shall write you again, old friend, if I can.
Marcus lowered the pages to his lap. He had thought the situation was a muddle before. It was clear he had underestimated the trouble still ahead for them.
Fourteen
“Regina?”
Marcus went up the stairs and peered into the bedchamber as his voice echoed oddly through the empty cottage. Vexation stung him. He had thought she was wiser than this. Less than a week had passed since they had read her father’s letter; yet she had forgotten Marcus’s counsel to remain close to the cottage. She was not in the clearing, and she was not here.
Dash it all to perdition!
Rushing back down the stairs, he tried to disregard a pinprick of apprehension. She did know better than to wander away. Mayhap she had not left of her own volition.
Instantly he dismissed that thought. It was more likely that she was just being pigheaded again and pushing his patience to its limits.
He went out into the yard and called out her name again.
Just silence.
“Dash it all to perdition!” Saying the curse aloud did nothing to help.
He strode out of the clearing. Mayhap she had returned to the brook where she could see Attleby Court in the distance. She had spoken of that glen more than once.
Twigs pulled at his sleeves and tangled in his hair. He batted away the branches. Briars refused to be shoved aside so easily. Scratching his hand, he pressed it against his mouth. The taste of his own blood added to his frustration.
Marcus frowned as he parted shrubs to see Regina sitting on a low stone wall winding along the edge of the brook. Climbing over the wall, he followed its curve to where she was tossing flower petals into the water.
An Undomesticated Wife Page 14
