For a delirious moment, Delilah thought the man referred to her, but Starlight had stolen Tom’s attention.
“This is Starlight.” Marcus patted the mare’s neck. “She’s in need of a rubdown and oats, if you have any to spare. I’m Lord Wyndam. My estate abuts Wintermarsh to the west. Although I haven’t had the pleasure of making the earl’s acquaintance, he and my father were well acquainted since childhood. Is His Lordship in residence?”
Tom’s brows drew low and his mouth firmed. “The earl has not been in residence since last summer, I’m afraid. However, his son, Lord Drummond, arrived yesterday from London for a short spell. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to receive you.”
“We’ve not been formally invited, I’m afraid.”
“You’ll find Lord Drummond doesn’t stand on formality.” While’s Tom’s words were a comfort, his expression held a veiled warning.
While Marcus and Tom conferred about Starlight, a chuff drew Delilah to a large stall set off from the others. A magnificent black stallion pawed the ground and stared at her with one big dark eye heavily fringed in lashes. As if conferring an honor, the horse stepped closer.
“I’m sorry I don’t have a treat, beautiful boy,” she said, equally entranced and intimidated.
Tom came up beside her with an apple in hand for her to offer as tribute. “Aries is a gluttonous charmer.”
“He’s magnificent.” Marcus’s voice was awed.
“He is that. No one else besides the master dares ride him.”
“Has he ever been studded?”
“No, sir.”
Delilah wrapped her arms around herself to gather warmth to her chilled body. Somehow Marcus noticed. “Let’s throw ourselves on Lord Drummond’s goodwill.”
They ducked back into the drizzling rain, quickly walked to the front door of the house, and used the iron knocker.
“What if he doesn’t let us in?” A shiver invaded her voice.
Marcus rubbed her arms. “He will.”
The door opened and revealed a white-haired butler with a perplexed smile on his face. “Good evening, sir. Madam.”
“I’m terribly sorry to trouble you. I’m Lord Wyndam, and this is my wife. My estate neighbors Wintermarsh. A lame horse and the weather has driven us to seek sanctuary. We were hoping to warm ourselves and beg a room for the night.”
The butler didn’t hesitate to draw them inside. “Come in, please. A fire is lit in the drawing room. Let me take your cloaks. Your father was a frequent visitor over the years. I was so sorry to hear of his passing.”
“Thank you,” Marcus murmured.
Delilah looked up at the unlit chandelier hanging high from the second-story ceiling, dazzled by the size. The marbled floor and sparse appointments of the entry offered a cold welcome. What sort of welcome could she expect from Wyndam Castle?
The drawing room was a lovely surprise. Warmth from a crackling fire lured her closer. A comfortable-looking settee and two armchairs were arranged to face the hearth. Books were scattered like buckshot around the room, giving it a lived-in appeal.
“I’ll let the master know you’re here. There’s brandy on the side table. I’m Cuthbertson, if you need anything.”
Marcus smiled. “Thank you, Cuthbertson.”
Delilah turned in front of the fire as if she were a pheasant on a spit and toasted her bottom. “That went well.”
As if her assertion was an affront to the fates, the sound of bootheels clashing on the marble floor ratcheted up the tension. The man who appeared did little to settle her nerves. He was as large and intimidating as his stallion. While he wasn’t conventionally handsome, he was arresting, with unfashionably long black hair and a dark beard. A scar bisected his cheek and added to the aura of danger around him.
“Wyndam. I’m Drummond.” The man approached with an outstretched hand. He and Marcus shook. “I wasn’t certain when—or if—you were going to take up residence at your estate. I was terribly sorry to hear about your father.”
“As was I. I was in Ireland when I received the unexpected news. I assumed I’d have more time with him.”
Drummond smoothed a hand down his beard, matching Marcus’s sober tone. “Indeed. Our fathers seem indomitable when we are young. It is only as we mature that we understand human frailties.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t had the chance to meet your father.”
“You won’t have the pleasure tonight either. My father is not in residence.” The man turned the blast of his intensity on Delilah, and she shivered in spite of the fire. “I wasn’t aware there was a Lady Wyndam. A pleasure, madam.”
“We are recently wed.” Heat spread up her neck and into her cheeks as if she had stuck her head straight into the flames. She cleared her throat and shot Marcus a glance that said “save me,” but his attention remained on Lord Drummond.
“How recent?” Drummond’s sleek, dark brows rose.
“Very. Yesterday morning, to be exact,” Marcus said with more aplomb than Delilah had ever possessed.
“A hasty marriage and a retreat to the country. Will news of a fresh scandal await my return to London?” Drummond asked.
“Scandal? Certainly not.” Delilah’s laugh sailed high and broke. Lord Drummond’s silent stare made words burst forth. “Unless you consider a kiss a scandal.”
Drummond’s sleek eyebrow rose.
“It just so happened several matrons saw us, including my sponsor, Lady Casterly. Perhaps you’re acquainted with her?” Delilah finished with a wan smile.
A middle-aged woman with a chatelaine of keys jangling at her waist saved her. “A room has been readied and a bath drawn for my lady.”
Lord Drummond nodded. “Would you escort Lady Wyndam upstairs, Mrs. Devlin?”
Delilah was grateful to escape, but a twinge of guilt had her casting a glance over her shoulder. Marcus sent her a brief smile before turning a guarded expression on Lord Drummond, as if he were trying to decide if he was friend or foe.
Chapter 14
Marcus didn’t like letting Delilah out of his sight and protection but had little choice considering they had thrown themselves on the mercy of Lord Drummond. Trust was a precious commodity these days, and he wasn’t sure if the lord of Wintermarsh was deserving.
“Come and sit, Wyndam.” Drummond lowered himself into a roomy leather armchair in front of the fire, leaving Marcus to perch on a decorative chair that felt rickety. Was the disparity done on purpose to set visitors at a disadvantage?
Drummond refilled both their glasses with a decanter on the table by his elbow, then he stared into the fire. “I’ve heard rumblings.”
“Of what sort?” Marcus took a sip of the excellent brandy to cover his discomfiture. The direction of Drummond’s line of questioning could angle in too many directions.
“Your father’s passing…”
“Was tragic.” While Marcus hated the rumors and would keep the truth of his death close, it was still safer ground than the true reasons behind his flight from London with Delilah.
“Indeed.” Lord Drummond stroked his beard. “Had he many enemies?”
Marcus tensed but tried not to squirm or otherwise give himself away. Drummond’s intense stare seemed to miss nothing. “I can’t say. I was raised in Ireland with my mother’s people. I’ve heard he counted your own father as a friend, however. You should ask him.”
“I would if I could.” The edge to Drummond’s response had Marcus riffling through what he knew about the earl. Was the man in possession of vital information that could provide Marcus a lead?
“Will your father be returning soon?” Marcus asked.
“One hopes so,” Drummond said vaguely. “Strange things are afoot, wouldn’t you say?”
The two men were like hunters leaving bait while trying to determine whether the other had left a metal trap.
“Very strange, indeed,” Marcus said simply. He forced himself to relax into the uncomfortable chair and take a sip of his brandy. “Ar
e you returning to London soon?”
“As soon as I handle a bit of estate business. My sister, Lily, is in the midst of her first season. Perhaps your paths crossed?”
“Ah, I don’t believe so.” Marcus didn’t want to admit, title or not, he was persona non grata with London’s hostesses. Rising, he faked a yawn even as his blood thrummed, keeping him on alert. “It’s been a long, trying day, Drummond. I hope you don’t mind if I join my wife upstairs.”
“How obtuse of me. You are newly wedded, after all.” Drummond was slower to his feet, his brows drawn low over his eyes.
The hairs on the back of Marcus’s neck quivered. Drummond was a dangerous man who could make a powerful ally or a deadly enemy, but which was it? Marcus couldn’t take a risk and be wrong.
“A night in comfort is much appreciated. I’m afraid my father has let the estate fall into disrepair.” Marcus sidled toward the door, keeping Drummond within sight at all times.
“Will you remain at Wyndam Castle or return to Ireland?” Drummond asked.
With the change in subject, the tension between them ebbed as a pang of homesickness reverberated in the heart. “I have nothing left in Ireland. My dream is to breed horses. I have a mare of fine quality. She’s boarding in your stables right now. I only need a stallion to breed her. A horse like the one you keep in your stables.”
“Aries is a fine horse.” Drummond’s voice gave nothing away.
“Have you studded him before?” Marcus asked as they made their way into the entry.
“I haven’t acquired the right mare. I assume you’re offering your mare?” At Marcus’s nod, Drummond said, “I would be willing to discuss the matter further after I examine your horse. If you like, we could meet in the stables before you depart.”
Marcus had no doubt as soon as Drummond examined Starlight, he would offer Aries for breeding. How Marcus would pay a stud fee was a hurdle he would have to jump.
“Excellent.” Marcus put out a hand, and Drummond took it in a firm shake.
“Your room is up the stairs to the right. Third door on the left.” Drummond made a small bow and crossed the entry hall to a room opposite the drawing room, giving a brief glimpse of book-lined walls and a large desk.
Marcus climbed the stairs slowly, the ebb of tension blunting the edge of his wariness. He’d taken the concept of safety for granted for most of his life. Now danger was closing in on all sides, and he was left foundering.
He hesitated at the door. Should he knock? While their marriage had been consummated in spectacular fashion the night before, they weren’t entirely comfortable with one another yet. After all, Delilah’s life had been upended, and he carried a brunt of the blame.
Granted, if she hadn’t stumbled into a murder scene, their paths would have veered in opposite directions, never to cross. No one would be chasing her and trying to kill her. She would have married Wainscott and lived an uneventful life.
Relief nearly took him out at the knees knowing she was on the other side of the door waiting for him. He rapped softly and let himself into the room. Candles illuminated a magical scene. The blue hue of the drapes and coverlet shimmered like the sky at dawn. Delilah reclined in a copper tub, her hair piled on top of her head, her bare arms resting along the sides. She didn’t move.
Marcus removed his boots and padded toward her on stocking feet, slipping his jacket and waistcoat off and dropping them on a yellow-and-blue brocade chair. She was asleep. He skimmed his fingertips though the water. It had cooled. The ripples he’d created lapped along the curves of her breasts. His hungry gaze took her in, from parted lips to tightened nipples to soft mons shadowed deeper in the water.
His wife. The thought was both thrilling and terrifying.
He knelt by the edge of the tub and stroked her cheek with the back of his hand until her eyelids fluttered open. Confusion knitted her brow.
“You’ll catch cold if we don’t get you out of the bath and into bed, love,” he whispered.
She jerked to full self-consciousness, covering her breasts with an arm. He rose and held up a length of drying linen for her to step into.
With her cheeks pink and her gaze anywhere but on him, she rose, presenting her deliciously round bottom. He wrapped the cloth around her and helped her step from the tub toward the warmth of the fire.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” she said softly.
“It’s been a long, trying day.” He let out a huff of laughter. “A long, trying week.”
“Indeed.” The slightest smile flashed on her face then disappeared. “I need to dress.”
“Of course.” He sketched a bow and retreated to the window to stare into the darkness. Fabric rustled. The bed creaked. Their intimacy was as fragile as freshly spun glass.
“You can turn around now,” she said.
He did as she bade and shuffled toward the tub. “I’m going to wash the day’s travel off.”
“The water has chilled.”
“I’ll be quick.” He pulled his shirt from his breeches and loosened the ties. He hesitated. “Would you prefer to shield your eyes?”
“What? Of course I would.” The covers were up to her chin, and she peeped over like a wide-eyed chick, frozen in either fear or fascination.
He fought a smile. Would she ever cease to surprise him? He dispensed with his shirt, and still felt her heated regard. If he had a scrap of decency, he would turn his back so as not to shock her. Apparently, he was all out of the gentlemanly impulse.
Facing her, he didn’t move except to release each disk of his breeches until they grew loose around his hips. He pushed his breeches and his smallclothes to the floor. Blood pulsed between his legs.
Delilah gasped and disappeared under the covers. Marcus glanced down. His cock jutted at full mast. Washing in the tepid water cooled his ardor but didn’t extinguish it. Instead of his usual practice of sleeping as God made him, he retrieved a pair of clean smallclothes from his bag.
He snuffed the candles and slipped into bed by the light of the fire. He lay on his back, able to sense Delilah mere inches away but not touching her. She deserved a decent night’s sleep in a soft bed. She tossed this way and that, jouncing him.
“Is the bed not to your liking?” he asked with amused exasperation.
“It’s not the bed but my bum that’s not to my liking.” She was on her stomach, her voice muffled in the pillow.
A laugh skittered out of him, and he turned to face her, propping his head in his hand. “What’s wrong with your bum? I found it rather fetching as you climbed from the tub.”
Her intake of breath was sharp and scandalized which only made him smile wider. “You shouldn’t say such things.”
“If I can’t say such things to my wife, then what’s the point of wedding at all?” He lay a hand on her back and traced the line of her spine through the thin fabric of her night rail. “Now, tell your husband what’s the matter, so I can help.”
“I ache all over. I’m not used to riding so far. Or at all.” She looked up at him. “Are you disappointed?”
He skated his hand lower to rest in the dip of her lower back. “Disappointed in what?”
“In me. Your dream is to breed and train horses, and I’m not even a proper rider.”
He let his hand wander lower until he was lightly massaging her abused flesh. “I’m not disappointed. You have your fair share of redeeming traits.”
“Like what?” She arched her back and pushed more fully into his touch.
He slipped his hand under her night rail and smoothed his palm over her bare bottom. Her skin was silky, the twin globes enticing him to explore further. Delilah’s eyes were closed, and she gripped the sheet beneath her, twisting her hips higher and spreading her knees wider. He let out a slow breath and marshaled his self-control.
How could she for one second wonder if she were a disappointment? He lay kisses along her shoulder, easing the fabric over the curve. “Your spirit is strong. You were miserable to
day, yet you didn’t balk.”
“You make me sound like a well-bred horse.”
He smiled at the hint of tartness in her voice. If she understood how highly he esteemed a well-bred horse, she wouldn’t take offense. “You are intelligent. The decoy book was a stroke of absolute genius.”
He could deny himself no longer and slipped his fingers between her slightly parted legs. She was velvety soft and wet. At his first touch, she moaned into the pillow and arched her back, surrendering. Her wanton response emboldened him. He scooted closer so the hardened ridge of his cock pressed into her hip. He found the bud of her pleasure and teased her, reveling the silken feel of her body.
“You are adventurous and brave and passionate.” So very passionate.
He was lucky to have found and wed Delilah. Granted, he hadn’t expected to wed at all with the black cloud of danger and deceit hovering over him. She was the one who should be disappointed in him. As soon as she was faced with his crumbling estate, he feared she would be doubly disappointed.
Those worries were for tomorrow. Tonight he would give her what he could afford. Pleasure.
He slipped a finger inside her and was rewarded with another moan and the rock of her hips. Without taking his hand from between her legs, he rose to his knees and shifted to kneel behind her.
He flicked her night rail to her waist. The fire cast enough flickering light for him to take in her pale curves. As one hand worked between her legs, he massaged her buttocks with the other, enjoying the sight and feel of her in every way.
She twisted to glance at him over her shoulder. Their eyes met in a moment of intensity that stilled his hands on her body. Her hair had come out of its ribbon and cascaded over her shoulders, and her cheeks had flushed. She looked wild and on the edge of losing control.
“I want… I need…” Her voice was raspy and desperate.
“Tell me, love. I’ll give you anything.” As the words came out of his mouth, he recognized their truth.
He would give everything—his heart, his soul, even his life—to keep her safe.
“Your cock. I need your cock. Now.”
A SINFUL SURRENDER: Spies and Lovers Page 16
