A Most Sinful Proposal (6 page)

George was the man for her, she was sure of it, and as soon as he returned to Abbey Thorne Manor she would persuade him of it, too.

M
ontfitchet, according to Valentine’s copy of
Guidebook to Surrey,
was named for the Montfitchet family who had owned it from Norman times. Thus far it was the only village he could find with any connection to the men who went to the Crusades with Richard de Fevre, but even then the information was infuriatingly sparse.

“Perhaps the vicar of Montfitchet will know something of the history of the family,” Valentine said, as they made their way through a leafy tunnel of elm trees, their branches meeting above the road as if they were holding hands.

“What you need is a scholar.” Marissa rode at his side on the well mannered mare he had provided for her. Her grandmother and Jasper were in the carriage some way behind, preferring a more leisurely mode of transport. “Someone who has studied the land-owning families of Surrey in the twelfth century and knows what became of them.”

“You’re right,” Valentine said. His own horse danced restlessly, taking exception to a patch of dappled sunlight. He tightened the reins. “I have a
friend in London who may be able to help. I’ll write to him.”

Valentine had spent a restless night. Von Hautt’s appearance was unsettling and he couldn’t help but wonder what the villain was up to. The thought of him anywhere near Marissa made his hands bunch into fists as, he told himself, his protective instincts came to the fore. More likely and less chivalrously, he admitted wryly, he was like a dog, forbidden to touch the succulent morsel but at the same time unwilling to share it with anyone else.

Today she was wearing an emerald green riding outfit, with a jaunty little hat perched on her dark curls. He could barely take his eyes off her. The tightly fitted garment accentuated her narrow waist and the flare of her hips, not to mention the rounded curve of her bosom.

Whenever she mentioned George he had the perverse urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her until she forgot all about his wretched brother. He wanted her. Yes, that was the trouble. He wanted Marissa Rotherhild all to himself despite knowing it was impossible. A woman like Marissa did not have an affaire; she married. And even if she was willing, Valentine wasn’t. Apart from the question of George, and their incompatibility when it came to botanical pursuits, he had been married once and he wasn’t planning to do it again.

Ten years ago he had believed himself deeply in love but it had turned out badly. Vanessa might be dead, but her poison lived on. No, even if he could, he would not willingly place his head in that yoke again.

Again his gaze slid to Marissa. As if aware of his scrutiny she turned her head and smiled. Just for a moment he read an invitation in her dark eyes, but he knew he must be mistaken. Marissa was an innocent—her talk of love last night had proved that beyond doubt—and she deserved a man without the sort of shadows that blighted Valentine.

Damn it, she deserved someone like George.

Montfitchet village sprawled over the main London road and boasted a coaching inn, a blacksmith, and a shop. It was clear that this was now the hub of the village, and not the church, which was about half a mile away. It stood on a hilltop, a squat building with a blunt steeple that looked as if it had sprouted from the landscape rather than been built. When they reached the lych-gate that led into the churchyard, Jasper and Lady Bethany chose to remain in the carriage.

“Better not overwhelm the poor fellow,” Jasper said, not quite meeting Valentine’s eyes. “You and Miss Rotherhild go and see what you can discover about Sir Wilfred. I’ll stay here and keep Lady B company.”

Irritably, Valentine bit his tongue on the words that sprang to it. Had Jasper forgotten why they were here in Montfitchet or was he really more interested in Lady Bethany? He would have thought the pair of them too old for an affaire. Or was one never too old? He reached to help Marissa down, releasing her the moment her toes touched the ground. Even so, the feel of her trim waist and the scent of her skin remained with him as he ducked beneath the lych-
gate and headed up the path between gravestones sprouting like crooked teeth from the green grass.

The church door opened beneath his hand and he stepped into the dim, cool interior. He felt Marissa’s fingers curl about his arm and resisted the urge to shake her off. Predictably her touch caused his pulse to begin to pound. Feverishly.

I really must conquer this ridiculous infatuation,
he told himself.
Surely a man of my maturity and intelligence can find a way to snuff out the flame?
Here he was, annoyed with Jasper for not giving the quest his full attention, while he was behaving in an equally ridiculous fashion.

“Oh look!” Her voice startled him back to the moment. She brushed by him, tugging his arm so that he had no option but to follow her. Set into the floor were two life-sized brass memorials, the images of a knight and his lady. Their features were worn smooth, but Valentine wasn’t the least surprised when they made out the name “Montfitchet” at their feet.

“Do you think it’s Sir Wilfred?” she whispered.

“I don’t know. Possibly.”

“The rose might be close by. Could it be so easy?”

He gave a reluctant smile. “Why are you whispering?”

“I don’t know. Churches always make me feel like whispering.” She smiled back, her head tipped to one side, as though trying to read him. There were smudges under her eyes, as if she had slept as badly as he. The urge to smooth them away, gently, with
his fingertip was so strong he began to wonder if he could trust himself.

A sound from the vestry was a welcome distraction, and this time Valentine led the way, trying to ignore the fact that her hand was still tucked safely into the crook of his arm.

The vicar was busy stacking some heavy, leather-bound books into shelves. He straightened at Valentine’s greeting, and turned with a friendly smile. He was a tall, thin man with untidy hair and a lined, comfortably-lived-in face.

“I say, more visitors. I’m afraid you’ve missed the service…”

Valentine was impatient for answers but Marissa was more polite. “We were just admiring your church,” she said with her smile.

The vicar turned to her, Valentine thought wryly, as a blind man to the warmth of the sun.

“It is Norman, you know,” he said with enthusiasm. “Well, most of it. The spire was struck by lightning and had to be rebuilt last century. At the time it was hoped it was only a temporary replacement, and that a taller spire would be constructed when the funds were available, but so far no benefactor has stepped forward.”

“Oh dear.”

Valentine interrupted their head shaking. “There are two brass memorials let into the pavement to the right of the front door. A knight and his lady. Can you tell us who they might be?”

He answered promptly. “The knight is Sir Wilfred Montfitchet and the lady is May, his wife. I be
lieve Sir Wilfred was a crusader. He brought home enough booty to fill the Montfitchet family coffers for a hundred years or so, but eventually it ran out and then they died out. Although not before they had paid for a handsome screen for the church, and a couple of really beautiful candlesticks. I’m afraid the candlesticks are locked away—”

“We are looking for the original Montfitchet manor house. Do you know if it is still standing?”

The vicar’s eyes widened. “Why, what a…a coincidence! It isn’t often I am asked the same question twice within half an hour. But perhaps you are acquainted with the gentleman who has just left?”

Valentine felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck. “There was someone else asking about the Montfitchets?”

“Yes.” At his tone, the vicar’s friendly manner began to wilt about the edges and his face creased with concern. “Surely you ran into him in the churchyard? He’s only just left. Foreign gentleman with gray hair and a red…”

“Von Hautt,” Valentine growled. “Baron Von Hautt.”

“He didn’t mention his name,” the vicar ventured, wilting even further. “I did tell him where the old manor used to be—well, it was a castle, actually. It’s a ruin now. If you go to the far end of the village, beyond the inn, you’ll see one of the remaining towers standing in the field to the left.”

Valentine turned to go, taking Marissa with him.

The vicar called after them. “As I told the other gentleman, Mr. Jensen takes an interest in the history of the village. He will be able to answer your
questions much better than I. He lives in the white cottage just down the hill. You can’t miss it. There’s a rather fine vegetable garden at the front and an old apple tree…”

“But how did the baron know…?” Marissa said, as they hurried down the aisle.

“I told you, he is always one step ahead of me.” Valentine paused, his head tilted, back and shoulders rigid. “What
is
that?”

Then Marissa heard it, too. Angry voices from outside the church. One of them sounded like Jasper. When they reached the porch Valentine set off at a sprint across the graveyard toward the lych-gate, but Marissa froze, staring in horrified amazement at the scene before her.

Lady Bethany was still seated in the carriage but Jasper was on the ground beside it, nose to nose with another man, and they were shouting. Or at least Jasper was. The stranger had steely gray hair but paradoxically his face was that of a man in his thirties. He also wore a red kerchief knotted about his throat and a caped coat covered him from shoulder to toe.

“The arrogance of the English is beyond belief!” he shouted back, his voice slightly accented. “You think you own the world and everyone in it. All is part of your empire.”

At that moment Jasper glanced up, saw Valentine coming, and grabbed at Von Hautt’s shoulder. “Here he is, Kent!” he roared. “I’ve got him. No escape for you this time, Von Hautt. See how you like the inside of one of our English prisons.”

Von Hautt struggled with him, but Jasper wouldn’t
let go, and then there was a loud explosion.

Jasper stumbled back against the carriage wheel and Lady Bethany screamed. Marissa pressed her hands to her mouth in disbelief. Von Hautt had a pistol in his hand, a curl of smoke still lingering about the barrel. The next moment he was running up the lane that led from the church and over the hill, with Valentine in pursuit. A moment later Marissa heard the sound of a galloping horse.

But she was already hurrying toward Jasper, who was now lying on the ground with Lady Bethany kneeling over him, her handkerchief pressed to the spreading red stain on his shoulder. She looked up at Marissa when she reached them, but although her face was pale, her voice was calm. “I believe we require a doctor.”

Jasper groaned, his eyes rolling up, and Lady Bethany opened her reticule, reaching inside for her smelling salts, and waved the bottle expertly beneath his nose.

Just then Valentine arrived back, panting from his run, and began to shrug off his jacket. “Did he get away?” Marissa asked, although the answer was obvious.

“Yes. He had his horse tethered in the trees over the hill.”

He handed his jacket to Marissa without a word and pulled his white linen shirt over his head, folding it into a thick pad, and proceeded to press it to his friend’s bleeding wound.

It occurred to Marissa that she should avert her eyes, but she didn’t seem able to. A very strange thing was happening to her. As Valentine bent
over Jasper, the broad and delectable expanse of his naked back and shoulders was quite the most exciting thing she had seen in her life thus far. The muscles in his biceps bunched as he pressed down, his untidy hair fell forward over his brow, while—dear Lord—his skintight riding breeches clung to his buttocks and the long, strong muscles of his thighs.

“Where is he?” Jasper’s voice brought her back to herself. His eyes were open and he was staring wildly around. “Von Hautt was here, Kent. He was right here.”

“He got away. Keep still, will you?”

“Blast him.”

“What did he say to you, Jasper? What did you say to him to make him act so rashly?”

“I called him a swine and a thief and told him I’d have him locked up.”

“That would do it then,” Valentine said dryly.

“We need to get Lord Jasper to a doctor,” Lady Bethany repeated loudly. “You can have this discussion later.”

“Ahem.” The sound of the vicar clearing his throat behind her made Marissa jump violently, and she wondered if he’d noticed her avid interest in Valentine’s flesh. “There’s a doctor in the village,” he said helpfully. “He’s retired now but he still takes urgent cases. I’ll show you the way, if you like?”

Valentine sprang into action. He lifted the groaning Jasper in his arms and placed him into the carriage, his head resting in Lady Bethany’s lap. The vicar squeezed in beside them and Valentine set his own foot on the step, ready to take control of the horses. And then he stopped and looked down.

Marissa, standing with his jacket still in her arms, gazed up at him mutely. She didn’t mean to do it but she couldn’t help it. Her eyes dropped from his, skimming over his chest and the golden matt of hair that stretched from his nipples and down over his flat belly to the fastening of his breeches.

Dear Lord, they really were tight, and there was a prominent bulge between his thighs.

His body was nothing like hers. The thought of finding out just how different was making her feel quite flushed and dizzy, and when he spoke she had to ask him to repeat himself.

“My jacket, Marissa.”

She handed it to him but didn’t immediately let go, so they stood, joined by the jacket between them.

His hair was darker against the blue sky, his eyes bluer, and she felt her knees growing wobbly as blood rushed into places she’d never felt it rush before. Her breasts grew heavy and sensitive, and between her legs the flesh ached, while her breath quickened in her throat.

“Do you want to squeeze into the carriage?” he said.

She shook her head. “I’ll w-walk, I think.”

“Do you think you can manage the horses then?”

“Of course. Yes, I’ll bring the horses.”

He took the jacket and slipped it on, but his eyes stayed on hers and his jaw tensed, and Marissa knew without doubt that he read everything she was feeling. Then he was whipping up the horses
and the carriage moved away down the lane toward the village.