Varden's Lady

by Maren Smith

  "You could come in, or we could sneak him out. I won't say anything. I don't think Nanna would either."

  "No,” Mallory said. “I don't want to break any more of Varden's rules. I'm tired of having to always break his rules."

  Sighing heavily, Grete put her arm around Mallory's shoulder. “All right."

  They walked to the nursery in silence. While Mallory remained in the hallway, Grete went inside and closed the door. When she heard Devin's fussy cries, Mallory pressed her hands against the smooth wood panels and lay her forehead between them.

  From the other side of the door, Grete said, “He's getting very big now, very fat. Nanna says the new wet-nurse is attentive and takes good care of him. His little blonde hairs are coming in. He doesn't look near as bald as he used to. His eyes are like his father's. And he smells sweet."

  Mallory slowly sank to her knees, listening to Devin fuss. She wept.

  * * * *

  Varden sat cross-legged on the floor where his desk used to be. Elbows on his knees, head in his hands, he stared unseeing at the papers spread out in a half-circle around him. Cadhla was in shambles. The walls needed immediate repair, and most of the furniture and valuables in his home had been stripped away. He'd probably never recover it all again.

  Confirmation of Godfrey's death had reached Cadhla two nights ago. That same night, Abigail had packed her things into the Michadle carriage and left without a word to anyone. Not even Varden. Her son had been murdered, and she left no doubt as to where she lay blame for that. Varden sighed and rubbed his forehead. When she had stepped up into the carriage to leave, she had looked ... broken. He probably shouldn't have let her go, but he doubted he'd ever hear from her again.

  In truth, he even felt a little grateful that Abigail had let Godfrey into Cadhla when she had, otherwise it might have been completely destroyed. As it was, the curtain walls and the castle's south side had taken the brunt of the damage. The Training Field was nothing more than a charred patch of earth. Wooler had all but been destroyed and its people scattered into the woods. He would have to go to London to draw the necessary funds in order to rebuild. A staggering sum, but he would manage. And he would rebuild. Although, at this point, it might be easier to simply pick up and move to another estate entirely.

  He picked up a paper and looked at it. At the very least he needed another desk.

  Then he thought of Mallory. It had cost him more than two thousand pounds just to repair the damage to the Kincaid's west wing. He'd spent half again as much to complete the work on the third story library. The construction was done; all that remained was to furnish it as would befit a lunatic duchess. Grete had offered to continue her post locked inside that room with Mallory. She and Varden would be the only ones allowed contact with her. Devin, he had decided, would never know his mother. Telling Mallory of his decision had been almost as hard as making it to begin with. But after Caleb...

  Varden rubbed his weary eyes, then his throat. The marks were almost gone. He dropped his hands to his lap and gazed across the remains of his study. He owed his life to her, and now he was going to lock her away.

  From the doorway, Kenton said, “Care to drown your troubles?"

  Varden looked up at the brandy decanter and two glasses that Kenton brought in with him on a silver tray. “I'm afraid they learned to swim a long time ago.” He gestured to a bare patch on the floor across from him and his papers. “I'd offer you a chair, but I haven't any."

  "Perfectly all right, Your Grace. I am not yet so lofty that I cannot sit on the floor.” But as Kenton lowered himself to sit cross-legged across from Varden, his joints popped and he groaned. “That's a sign of old age if ever I heard one."

  Varden threw back his head and laughed. Actually laughed. It was the first time in days.

  "Trust me, my friend. If you ever marry, make sure that she is old and toothless and can't move faster than you. It only gets worse from here."

  With a non-committal grunt, Kenton poured two drinks and handed one to Varden. They sat in companionable silence, contemplating the warming fire.

  Kenton spoke first. “She's not the same person, you know. At this point, I don't know if that counts for anything, but I do know that Mallory loves you dearly."

  Varden rolled his glass slowly between his palms.

  "She loves you enough to go to a man considered to be your most dangerous enemy and beg for your life,” Kenton told him. “And there is nothing that she would not do for Devin."

  "Would you gamble his life on that?” Varden set his brandy aside and stood up. “I appreciate what you are trying to do. In fact, I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you've done, both in protecting her as well as Devin when I couldn't. I have been racking my brain for a fitting reward."

  "Reward?” Kenton studied him warily. “I don't think I like the way you're looking at me."

  "I own a little estate in Wales,” Varden said as he stretched stiffly. “Won it in a game of dice years and years ago. It's only about three hundred acres, most of it poor, isolated farmland. I consider it a miracle any year it produces enough crops to sustain itself through the winter. Eight house servants, fifty-six tenants, low funds, and run down rooms."

  Kenton actually paled. “You wouldn't dare."

  "It's all yours. A gift. I hope it drives you crazy."

  Outraged, Kenton leapt to his feet. “You bastard! After everything I've done for you! You cannot give me an estate! I am low class servility!"

  "And now you are jumped up nobility.” Varden took a paper from a stack on the floor and tossed it at Kenton, who made no move to catch it. The parchment landed at his feet and he drew back as if it were a coiled snake. “Enjoy your title, Baron Kenton Merenamun. The Queen charged me dearly to purchase it."

  "You son of a bitch.” Kenton looked stunned. “You can't do this to me. I won't allow it!"

  "You're welcome.” Varden patted him briskly on the back. “You leave for Wales in a week. I will give you enough funds to ensure you can get on your feet if you are frugal. Knowing you as well as I do, it should be more than enough. Don't forget to write and let me know how you're making out.” Varden headed for the door, then stopped and turned back. “Oh, and before I forget. Watch out for that termagant housekeeper. She has run off every solicitor I've sent there to manage the place. I doubt she'll regard you any differently."

  Varden patted Kenton's shoulder again and added a new manservant to his mental list of things to be replaced. Regrettably, there would never be another quite like him.

  * * * *

  Mallory looked around Claire's bedroom one last time. There wasn't a lot that she wanted to take with her. A trunk with all her favorite nightgowns, her pillows, and that flower Varden had given her all those weeks ago, which she had carefully pressed between the pages of a book she'd borrowed from his second story library.

  "Are you sure you want to do this?” Grete asked. “He might still change his mind."

  Mallory shook her head. “He won't change his mind, and I don't think I could bear for him to shut me in there himself. It's better if I just do it now, no fuss, no muss. Let's stop by the library first, though. If I have to live in a padded room, at the very least I want something to read."

  "I'll meet you there, then. I want to be there when they start arranging the furniture."

  "I won't be long,” Mallory said.

  They parted at the library doors and Mallory went in alone. If there was one thing about Cadhla that she really liked, it was the libraries. The rooms were huge, with wall-to-wall shelves and books stacked ceiling high in places. They had, for the most part, escaped the raid without much damage. Apparently, books weren't considered by anyone to be very valuable.

  Mallory walked up and down the aisles between bookshelves, trailing a finger along the many horizontal stacks. Few had any kind of writing anywhere on the outside of the covers and so, here and there when she found one whose leather binding attracted attention, either by color or
wear, she took it down to create a small stack in the crook of her arm. She had selected six to start with when, by sheer luck, she ran across a small familiar volume stuffed between two thick, heavy books.

  She smiled and took it down. “I was wondering where you'd gotten off to, Miss Anne."

  She turned and froze. Varden was watching her from the doorway, his eyes hooded in shadow and unreadable, and the sight of him sent a sharp stab of pain straight through her. For a moment, Mallory was afraid her heart would break. She had to steel herself not to feel it.

  "Hi,” she said.

  Despite everything, it was hard to believe how much he was going to miss her. Varden mentally traced her outline, part covered in the shadow of the bookcase, part lit up in the soft light of the fireplace behind her.

  "The room is done,” he said, because he couldn't think of any other way to tell her.

  She tried to reclaim her smile. “I know. Grete has some men moving my things right now."

  He looked at the books in her hands. “What are you doing with those?"

  She shrugged, staring down at the books so that she wouldn't have to look at him. “Something to do while I'm incarcerated."

  "I imagine needlework might be more stimulating for you,” Varden said as he started towards her. “Not one of those has any illustrations."

  Mallory allowed herself one small, mirthless laugh. “You know, I can read. I read very well, in fact, and well enough to know that this book—” she held up Bawdy Annie's little red book, “—has absolutely no business being in one of your libraries. It's completely out of character for a stick in the mud like you. Although, I'll admit, illustrations would make the reading more interesting. Hell, I've got the time now. I'll draw my own."

  Varden stared at the book in her hand, an odd look on his face. He took it from her outstretched hand. “You know what this is? Did Grete read it to you?"

  "I can't imagine Grete reading from that book!” She took it back from him and lay it on top of the pile she carried. She shifted the stack to her other arm. “She'd be absolutely scandalized. Why are you looking at me like I just sprouted a second head?"

  "But you're not?” he asked, staring at her intently. Studying her, really looking at her for perhaps the first time in months. What was it she had said to him the night Devin was born, when she'd lain so still and pale against the pillows of Claire's bed, her green eyes clouded with pain and not the slightest trace of recognition for him anywhere within them?

  Do you believe in miracles?

  In life after death?

  Do you believe in souls?

  "I'm not what?” She turned away from him, blindly selecting a book from the shelf and pretending to look at it.

  "Scandalized?” Varden stared at her, for a moment afraid to even think it. It was ridiculous.

  It was insane.

  My name is Mallory. I'm a used bookstore clerk.

  A wry smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “If you knew what I'd kept under my mattress back home, you'd be the scandalized one. Actually, you probably wouldn't even believe me and I doubt I could adequately describe how a vibrator works. Batteries alone are a full day discussion."

  Varden took the book from her hand and replaced it on the shelf.

  "Hey!” she protested when he took the entire stack of books from her arm and dropped all but the little red book none too gently on the floor. “I was going to read those!"

  He handed her the little red book. “What is the title?"

  Without a word, Mallory showed him the title page.

  "Read it to me,” Varden commanded.

  "Why?"

  "Humor me,” he said.

  "Bawdy Anne and the Buccaneers."

  "Who wrote it?"

  "It's signed Anonymous. Someone was probably too ashamed to put their name on it."

  "Shame had nothing to do with it,” Varden said. “More than likely, he was afraid of arrest."

  When he held out his hand, she handed the book back. He opened to the middle, looked at the page and held it out. “Read to me."

  Mallory tried to put the book on the shelf. “I don't feel like it."

  "Read!"

  She jumped for he had all but shouted the command as he thrust the book back in her hands. While she glared, Varden turned his back to her and closed his eyes. In truth, he half-expected her to make something up, to have his sudden and impossible hopes instantly slaughtered should she tell him a tale about fairies or dragons or dashing heroes that spouted romantic nonsense. The last thing he expected, however, was for her to throw the book at him. It bounced off the back of his head and crashed open-faced on the floor at his feet. He spun back around, but she was already storming towards the door.

  "I won't spend my last few minutes of freedom with you telling me what to do! Let go of me!” she bellowed when he grabbed her arm and forced the book back into her hands.

  "Please!” Varden shook her once to still her struggles, and she glared, making absolutely no effort to comply. He gentled his plea. “Please, bise. Just a few words. Please."

  Although she looked as though she'd rather have hit him again, Mallory opened the book. “'She was now at his mercy, wiggling and squirming, his hands wandering over her plump thighs, reveling in their smoothness and softness ... ‘"

  Varden closed his eyes. His breath whooshed out of him and he almost sagged against her.

  Anger abruptly forgotten, Mallory dropped the book and braced her hands against his chest to keep him upright. “Are you all right? Varden, are you sick? Wait here, I'll get help!"

  She grabbed her skirts and would have dashed for the door had Varden not grabbed her about the waist. He lifted her off the ground, catching her startled lips beneath his own. It was not a kiss; it was ravishment.

  "I am sorry,” he whispered. He lay a trail of kisses down her throat to her ear. “For what I have done, and for what I was about to do today."

  Now it was her turn to give him the odd look. She felt his forehead for signs of a fever.

  "I am not sick.” He caressed her face, traced her familiar features, lightly tapped the tip of her nose with his finger. Then he kissed her again, hungrily. “And you are no crazier than I am."

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. “I don't think that's saying much right now."

  Chuckling, Varden took Mallory's hand and executed a courtly bow as he kissed the back. “Welcome to Cadhla, Lady Mallory. My name is Varden Edward de Michadle, the Third, and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance."

  "You believe me?” Her jaw dropped. “Wait! How? What did I do to make you believe me?"

  He could not resist stealing a kiss from her startled lips. Now that he knew—now that he was certain—he could not help it. “Bise, Claire never went to the Training Fields. She shuddered every time I came into the room, much less touched her. She never would have tried to help the Kincaid boy, because she considered the Scots to be of even less worth than the English. She certainly never would have gone to one for help. And, Mallory,” he cupped her face in achingly gentle hands. “Claire could not read. Her father thought it unimportant knowledge for a mere female. Can a fool say that he is sorry? Or that he is blind? Or that he loves you?"

  Mallory pulled back. “Me or her?"

  "Bise,” Varden said, soothingly.

  "Do you miss her?” she choked, tears already filling her eyes. “The next time someone brings up her past, will you hate me for it? Tell me who you want in this body, Varden: me or Claire?"

  "You.” He pulled her into his arms, though she stood stiffly in his embrace and did not hold him back. “Claire is dead, everything that she ever did is in the past. Forgive me, Mallory, because I should have seen you standing before me a long time ago. I should have known the first time you held Devin to her breast. Certainly, I should have known the first time you held me. You are nothing alike. Say that you forgive me, ma petite folle. Say that you will stay with your lion rugissant."

  He stroked her back,
feeling as she gradually softened in his arms.

  "You're not angry, then?"

  "For what?” he asked.

  "The way I intruded on your life? I know it was wrong, but there was so much I hadn't done. I didn't want to die."

  "Have I made you regret your choice?"

  Mallory shook her head, and for the first time in days, she smiled. It animated her face, sparkled and danced in her eyes. “A few less spankings might be appreciated, though."

  "Madame, I know you too well now to agree to something like that."

  She feigned disappointment. “Well, I still haven't any regrets. Not even if you'd locked me away. There was always a chance that someday I might have been able to convince you of who I am. But I can't imagine my life without you or Devin in it."

  "That's right.” Varden laughed. “I do remember you mentioning something about a husband and child on that list of yours."

  She grinned. “Right after saving a whale. I think you were comparable with that degree of difficulty."

  He let the comment go without question. Besides, he had the rest of his life to figure it out. “I love you, ma petite folle."

  "Come here, mon lion rugissant.” She rose up on tiptoes, tilting her face to his, her smiling lips utterly kissable as she said, “Show me how much."

  * * *

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