Married to the Rogue

by Lancaster, Mary

  She nodded without commenting. She took another sip of brandy and set the glass down. After a few moments, she asked, “How long will Lord Hawfield stay?”

  “We can eject him whenever you wish.”

  She smiled. “I would not be so rude to your grandfather, the head of your family! Should we halt the work for now?”

  “Under no circumstances. He can put up with the inconvenience or go away. Same with Bilston. For what it’s worth, I think they are pleasantly surprised in you.”

  “Hmm.” She didn’t sound convinced.

  However, he left it there, and for a little, they sat in companionable silence, occasionally sipping from their glasses. She was a peaceful person. He hadn’t expected to like just being with her. He hadn’t expected to kiss her and mean it.

  He gazed at her profile, enjoying her quiet beauty. “Perhaps, once we have set everything in motion here, we can take a trip to the continent. If you would like.”

  She looked round in surprise. “But you have so much to do here.”

  “I think it would be good to escape for a while, do only as we wished, and get to know each other a little better. Besides, it is always fun to visit other countries.”

  A little frown tugged at her brow as she searched his face. “Did I tell you that we all came so eagerly to the princess that evening because we hoped she was taking us abroad with her?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then you are not just being kind to me?”

  “Oh, I’m far too selfish for that. I hope it might be kind to both of us.”

  In the candlelight, her eyes seemed to glow softly before her lashes swept down, hiding whatever emotion she felt. A delicate flush stained her cheeks. He didn’t know if it was embarrassment or pleasure, and he had to force back his impulse to take her in his arms, to kiss her properly this time. He didn’t know yet what either of them wanted… But the thought of finding out excited him.

  *

  Like the gentleman he was trying hard to be, he left her at her bedchamber door, with no more than a chaste kiss on the hand. He imagined her breathing quickened, and then, before he could do or say anything else, she slipped free and closed the door on him.

  He smiled ruefully to himself as he walked the long, winding passages to his own chamber. No light shone under any of his guests’ doors. All must be asleep. He hoped his grandfather would leave again tomorrow to relieve Deborah’s stress.

  Yawning, he finally reached his own chamber, lit his lamp from the candle, and undressed.

  No, he told himself severely, as Deborah’s face kept swimming into his mind, smiling, laughing, surprised by his kiss, wide-eyed, walking beside him so closely her skirts flapped against his legs…

  Still, he wondered how she would feel in his arms—fragile and sweet or warm and passionate?

  Or simply appalled by his attention?

  Or politely tolerant? That would be worst of all.

  But her eyes had been warm and soft when he had kissed her, and when he had spoken of going abroad together…

  “No,” he said aloud and splashed cold water over his face and body. He would not break their agreement. In fact, he would do better to find a woman to distract him from his wife. Only it seemed unnecessarily humiliating to his wife to do such a thing, whatever their agreement, and however discreet he tried to be.

  Besides which, when he thought about them, he found he didn’t really want any of his past inamoratas, not even Marina Belham, not even Nell.

  He groaned. Am I really going to be obsessed with the wife I married for convenience? What in God’s name was I thinking of?

  He dried himself and threw the towel aside before flopping into bed and blowing out the lamp. Determinedly, he closed his eyes and prepared to sleep.

  After a little, he forced his mind into different channels—the school and its funding, parliamentary problems and ambitions, the possibility of a minor cabinet post. He imagined entertaining the great and good here at Gosmere Hall, Deborah standing beside him as they greeted their guests.

  Hastily, he tugged his mind away from Deborah once more, fixing instead on the room he wanted for a study, the possibility of taking a house in London rather than just the rooms he rented in St. James. He would need different accommodation if Deborah were to join him in town, an expense he had not considered. He wasn’t even sure if she would wish it. She did not like crowds, though she could cope when she was the hostess with clear duties. It came to him that he did not want her simply to cope. He wanted her to be happy.

  Outside in the passage, a floorboard creaked. Something swished. Mice, he thought with irritation. They would need a cat. Several cats.

  Other sounds, from other directions, interrupted these speculations. A faint rumbling outside, like wheels on the stone yard, though he could hear no horse’s hooves. A faint groan, a thump, and then a creak, like door hinges.

  Frowning, he threw off the covers and walked naked to the window, which he had left open a crack because of the warm weather. He heard a horse’s snort, even before he peered down into the yard and saw moving shadows close in against the wall of the house.

  The bedchamber he had chosen was the one he had been given as a child when he had come to visit his grandfather. It looked on to the back of the house, to the kitchen door, and the cellar. There was no reason for a horse and cart to be here. A silent horse that must have had covering tied over its hooves. Burglars? Or smugglers? More likely, the latter. It was not unknown for a few bottles to be left at certain houses, either because the goods were paid for or to encourage blind eyes. But no one had lived in this house for years.

  He stumbled back to his bedside and lit the lamp before scrambling hastily into his pantaloons and throwing the recently discarded shirt over his head. He pulled on his boots, then lit a candle from the lamp, and left the room.

  He used the side stairs, hurrying down toward the kitchen and the servants’ hall. Both were in darkness. He moved silently toward the back door, opposite which was the inside door to the cellar. Both doors were bolted. But surely that was a faint light showing from the cellar?

  Hoping they wouldn’t screech, he carefully drew back the bolts on the cellar door. Just in time, he noticed a bottle on the top step and picked it up before he could kick it downstairs and give away his presence. It was French brandy. He set it down against the kitchen wall and then descended the cellar steps, listening intently.

  He had been too busy over the past few days to do more than glance in here. After all, Hunter seemed to have kept the cellar stocked with decent port and brandy and had always sent up good choices of wine. But he saw now that the cellar had other rooms.

  The stairs led into a storeroom containing a good stock of bottles and two barrels of ale for the servants. But beyond it, a half-open door with light shining through led to another space. And from there, an open door led to the yard. Barrels and crates were piled by the door and, judging by the faint rumbling and grunting, being moved onto the waiting cart outside.

  A movement inside caused Christopher to spin around. A man who seemed to have been slumped on the floor was heaving himself to his feet. Christopher’s candle flickered over the pistol in the man’s hand, and he froze.

  The man stumbled, then righted himself, blinking blindly in the sudden light. A bloody arm hung loosely by his side, but the pistol was steady.

  “Don’t move a muscle or I’ll shoot you,” he growled.

  For a stunned moment, Christopher stared.

  And then the hairs on his neck sprang up, and he whirled around to face a huge man about to bring a pistol down on his head.

  “Wait!” The words came in perfect unison from both himself and the injured man. But almost at the same moment, a ghostly figure leapt behind the huge man and brought a bottle crashing down on his head.

  The man blinked and dropped to his knees. And Christopher stared into the wide, frightened eyes of his wife.

  Chapter Eight

  Unabl
e to sleep, Deborah had been wandering around the house with her single candle, absorbing the atmosphere and the sounds that made it unique. At night, alone and without guests or servants, or even Christopher, she could almost feel Gosmere Hall was truly hers.

  She even pushed open the baize door to the servants’ quarters and heard furtive footsteps coming from somewhere below. She wondered if someone was ill and trying not to wake the household, so she hurried after the footsteps into the kitchen and found the unbolted, open door—not to the kitchen garden, but down into a cold cellar.

  She crept down, her heart beating now with as much alarm as curiosity, and crossed the storeroom to another open door. And there, she saw her husband caught between two armed men. One pointed a pistol at his heart. The other crept up behind him, his arm lifting to bring the weapon down with force on his head.

  Before Deborah could even think, her hand had closed around the neck of a bottle from an open crate. She almost flew at the immediate threat. There was a shout, but only as she crashed the bottle onto his head did she realize the other man could still shoot Christopher, but perhaps the surprise could…

  She stared into his startled eyes as her victim sank to the floor. Then, although she had seen nobody touch him, the other gunman wobbled, and to her amazement, Christopher whipped around and caught him around the waist, murmuring, “There, I’ve got you. Sit down before you fall, you idiot. And give me the gun before you kill someone.”

  The words caught at her in panic. It seemed Christopher wasn’t about to die, but the man she had hit was lying on his face in a puddle of brandy and glass. She sank to her knees beside him.

  “Oh, no,” she said in fright. “Have I killed him?”

  “Him?” the other gunman, now disarmed, said breathlessly as Christopher lowered him to the floor against the wall. “God, no, he has a much harder skull than that. Though if you could pick him out of the glass, Chris, before he wakes and cuts himself to pieces, I’m sure he’d be grateful.”

  Christopher came to the fallen man’s other side without a word.

  “I’m afraid he’s rather heavy,” said the man who seemed to know Christopher.

  Christopher grunted, lifted the man by the shoulders, and heaved him up, dragging him over beside the other before brushing glass out of his hair and off his clothes.

  Deborah could only stare. Rather to her surprise, Christopher came back to her, bent, and took her hand, raising her to her feet.

  “Mind the glass,” he said gently.

  She swallowed. “What the devil is going on?”

  “Good question,” Christopher agreed. “But first, do you know where the bandages and medicine are kept?”

  “Of course I do, but—”

  “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Chris?” his acquaintance interrupted. “And then tell me what the devil you’re all doing here?”

  “What I’m doing here?” Christopher repeated, staring. He shrugged and sighed. “Deborah, my cousin Rupert Halland. Rupert, my wife, Deborah.”

  Rupert? The cousin who had killed someone in a duel and had supposedly fled the country?

  “Wife?” Rupert exclaimed, startled. “Good God.” He let out a laugh. “Who’d have thought it?”

  “It’s my house,” Christopher went on, “and we’re living here. What’s your excuse?”

  Before Rupert could answer, two other men strode in from the yard, one saying peremptorily, “Where are you, man? Do we have to do this all oursel—” He broke off, staring. Dudley, Lord Bilston.

  “Dudley,” Christopher said amiably.

  Dudley actually stamped his foot. “Damnation, Chris, will you stay in one place? How am I meant to get anything done with you—and your wife!—floating around here as if…”

  “As if we own the place?” Christopher suggested.

  But Dudley seemed to have lost interest and was scowling at the groaning figure of the huge man who seemed to be coming around and was trying to lift his head. “What’s the matter with him? Come to that, why the devil is Rupert sitting on his—”

  “Because he’s shot,” Christopher said calmly. “Did you not know?”

  Without a word, Deborah ran upstairs to the kitchen, into the housekeeper’s room, and found the medicine box which Mrs. Dawson had shown her only yesterday. Pausing only to check that there were bandages as well as the usual salves, she fetched a bowl of water from the kitchen pump and rushed back down again.

  By then, Christopher and Dudley had wrestled the wounded man out of his coat, and Christopher was examining the blood-soaked arm.

  “I can’t see anything for blood,” Christopher said irritably.

  “Sorry,” Rupert said. “I did try to be shot cleanly, but some things…”

  “Who shot you?” Deborah demanded, kneeling at his side when Christopher made space for her.

  “Excise men,” was the shameless reply.

  “And here I thought you’d come back to help me shift all this,” Dudley said.

  “No point, now,” Rupert said as Deborah began to cut away the makeshift bandage and shirt sleeve.

  “Yes, there is,” she said severely. “I don’t want smuggled goods in the cellar, and Christopher is a member of Parliament.”

  “I don’t see what that has to say to anything.” Rupert smiled at her when she glanced up, alarmingly like Christopher. “We deliver to lots of members of Parliament.”

  Deborah concentrated on washing off the blood until she could see the wound. She had never dealt with a firearm injury before.

  Christopher reached past her and examined it more closely. “The ball’s gone straight through the fleshy part of your arm. With luck, it hasn’t damaged anything too important. You’ve lost a lot of blood, though. I’d be happier if a doctor saw you.”

  “Just bandage me up tight, and I’ll be right as rain,” Rupert said optimistically.

  Deborah rubbed some salve across both wounds and held the dressings in place while Christopher wrapped a bandage around his arm.

  “Who hit me?” the huge man demanded suddenly, feeling the cut at the back of his head.

  “I’m afraid it was me,” Deborah said calmly. “You were about to strike my husband, so I hit you first.”

  He stared at her. “But you’re tiny. And a female.”

  “You don’t have to be big to be effective,” Rupert observed.

  Deborah, leaving Christopher to tie his cousin’s bandage, rose and went to the big man, who warded her off with one hand.

  “Let me see your head,” she said patiently.

  He lowered one arm but still looked suspicious.

  “She’s trying to help you, Josh,” Rupert pointed out.

  At last, the big man lowered his head and let her bathe it. To her relief, although he had a large swelling on it, the cut was not too bad. While she washed and dressed it, Christopher began to talk.

  “So, you’ve been using Gosmere Hall to store smuggled goods before they’re sent off to wherever they have to go. That’s why you’re really here, Dudley. Nothing to do with my marriage.”

  “On the contrary,” Dudley retorted. “When I heard you were married and intending to live here, I had to come and move it before anyone found it. And I knew Rupert was about to bring in another load.”

  “I thought Rupert had gone to America.”

  “That was the story we gave out,” Dudley admitted. “In reality, he doesn’t go further than France, and spends as much time on the coast of England.”

  “I should have known you wouldn’t leave him to cope alone,” Christopher said.

  “Didn’t stop him marrying Georgianna, though, did it?” Rupert said bitterly.

  “Who’s Georgianna?” Deborah asked.

  “My betrothed,” Rupert said, glaring at his brother.

  “My wife,” Dudley said firmly. “You know it was never going to work. You couldn’t come home, and in any case, her father wanted the heir to Hawfield. Don’t pretend you’re broken-hearted because I know all
about the woman in—”

  “Dudley,” Christopher said mildly, and Dudley cast Deborah a hasty apology. “Does my grandfather know?”

  “God, no,” Dudley said. “He thinks Rupert’s in America, too. We cooked up this little scheme between us. A bit short of the readies myself, Chris, for the old gentleman is not generous by nature. This makes us both a living. Rupert brings it in, and I see it distributed.”

  “Something to do,” Rupert muttered, passing another bandage from Christopher to Deborah, who began binding it around the large man’s head.

  “Not fun anymore?” Christopher asked with a trace of sympathy.

  “Devil a bit. It was only meant to be for a few months until—” He broke off with a shrug that made him wince and nurse his bandaged arm. “What are you going to do, Chris?”

  Christopher frowned and looked at the two remaining barrels at the cellar door. “Is this lot going somewhere safe?”

  “As soon as it’s on the wagon,” Dudley said.

  “Well, take it away and try to make other arrangements for next time because I don’t want Deborah bothered with all this.”

  Josh, duly bandaged, smiled doubtfully at Deborah and lumbered to his feet to help with the barrels.

  “You’d better stay here for a day or two, Rupert,” Christopher said.

  Rupert sighed and shrugged. “I’ll be more comfortable on the ship than on your cellar floor.”

  “I didn’t mean the cellar, idiot,” Christopher said. “There are lots of unused rooms in this house. I don’t see why you can’t hide in one. Hunter can bring your meals since I’m pretty sure he’s in on this enterprise.”

  “A bottle of brandy to turn a blind eye whenever I pass,” Rupert admitted.

  “I thought the brandy was too good to have paid duty,” Christopher remarked. “Come on, Dudley, I’ll give you a hand with the last crates, and they can get off. Then we can see about smuggling Rupert upstairs…”

  It was only as they began to lift the loads that she realized the total impropriety of Christopher’s dress. Dudley had removed his coat but still wore waistcoat and cravat beneath it. Christopher wore pantaloons that flapped about his calves. His shirt hung loosely over the top, but when he lifted a crate, it dragged up his shirt and revealed a flash of skin and the fact that his pantaloons were barely fastened at all from the waist down.