By Love Unveiled (6 page)

He released her, but only to loosen his petticoat
breeches so they fell to the floor. She could see him thickening underneath his long shirt, and she shuddered.

Forcing her off the bed and onto her knees, he pressed her head forward. “Let’s see just how obedient you shall be, wife.”

“Please, Pitney,” she whispered as loathing filled her. How had she ever been such a fool as to marry him, thinking him daring and strong? She should have listened to Richard when her brother had said Pitney wasn’t to be trusted. But she’d been blinded by Pitney’s mature age, smooth words, and good looks.

She thought now of what he was asking her to do and hesitated, as she’d hesitated so many times before.

“Remember your duty, wife,” he said, pulling her head toward his groin.

Her heart and mind detested him, but it mattered not, for he was stronger than she. So she proved she was obedient.

*  *  *

Marianne had sworn never to return to Falkham House, yet here she was with Aunt Tamara five days later, standing in the magnificent hall that stretched the length of its second floor.

She had no choice—Mr. Tibbett had said the earl was very ill. She had to determine why her stitching and poulticing hadn’t worked. Despite her wariness of the man, the thought of his strong body wracked with fever troubled her.

Her aunt was regarding everything around them with unveiled suspicion. Marianne couldn’t blame her. The earl had transformed the hall into a gallery of rich, dark colors and disturbing, violent images. Its paneled walls looked wholly different from when Father had owned it.

There were no quiet paintings of shepherds and sedate portraits of Winchilsea ancestors. Instead, ancient medieval tapestries depicting battles now lined the walls. Fierce men and women who all bore a marked resemblance to the earl stared out at her.

Unusual weaponry hung along one section: crossed Spanish rapiers, wicked-looking sabers, and even a jeweled scimitar. What kind of man hung such frightening accoutrements of battle on his walls?

The kind of man who wanted to remind all who entered that he wasn’t to be trifled with. The earl was a hardened soldier, accustomed to blood and scarred from his many wounds.

So why hadn’t he survived his sword wound better? She’d cleaned it well and sewn it shut as she’d seen Father do. The poultice she’d used had worked on weaker men many a time. His wound shouldn’t have festered or caused him to have a fever.

“This is mad,” Aunt Tamara muttered as they waited for William to be informed of their arrival. “I can’t believe you came here again.”

“William told Mr. Tibbett that the earl is very near death.”

“As if I’d trust anything that rascal says.” Her aunt snorted. “It’s his fault you went near the earl in the first
place. If not for your mask, who knows what might have happened?”

Marianne dropped her gaze, remembering his lordship’s fingers encircling her wrists. She hadn’t told her aunt how close she’d come to discovery that night. Could William’s claim that the earl lay ill be just a trap?

The manor did seem very lively for the home of a dying man. The tuneless whistle of a footman in a distant room and the chatter of passing servant girls gave her pause. Why weren’t they more concerned about their master’s condition?

Perhaps they didn’t know. William might be keeping it quiet to prevent them from being alarmed.

In any case, she couldn’t risk ignoring the possibility that the earl
was
ill.

“Think of what could happen if the earl dies after I treated him,” she pointed out. “The townspeople won’t dare protect me then. And as soon as the soldiers discover that Mina and Miss Winchilsea are one and the same, I’ll be arrested. Don’t you see? I must help him, or I’ll pay for it with my life.”

Aunt Tamara’s dark eyes glittered. “We could be far away by nightfall.”

“I won’t abandon a man to a sure death. Besides, even if we escaped, this time they’d hunt me until they found me. They only left me alone before because of your trick.”

Her aunt stiffened. “Well, at least this time I’m here to protect you from that jackanapes William and his fearsome master.”

An image leapt into her mind of Aunt Tamara wresting a sword from the wall to defend her niece’s honor. She stifled a smile.

William entered the hall and strode toward them. Odd, but he looked much handsomer than she’d remembered. He lacked his master’s intimidating build, but his wiry frame seemed imbued with a quiet determination she could respect.

“So you’ve come,” he said in hushed tones as he approached.

His eyes wouldn’t meet hers, which instantly alarmed her. “Is he dead?”

He blinked. “Oh . . . oh, no, he’s well . . . I mean, he’s feverish. At the moment, he’s resting some, but . . .”

His voice trailed off as he noticed Aunt Tamara. “What are
you
doing here?”

“I’ve come to help my niece, of course.”

The two stared at each other with a strange tension. The gleam that leapt into William’s eyes confused Marianne until she remembered he’d met Aunt Tamara at the apothecary’s shop the night the earl had been wounded.

William took Marianne’s arm and pressed her forward. “Please go on to my master’s chambers. You know where they are.” As Aunt Tamara, too, moved forward, he stayed her with one hand. “You remain here.”

Marianne halted. “Why can’t she accompany me?”

“Yes, why can’t I?” Aunt Tamara snapped. “Where she goes, I go, sirrah. Let me pass if you want her near your master.”

William looked from one to the other. “You shan’t see him,” he told Aunt Tamara, stepping between her and Marianne. “Bad enough your niece might have killed him. Together you could murder him for certain. No, I’ll keep you here to ensure that the girl doesn’t harm him.”

“Why, you barbarous rogue, you can’t speak about my niece that way!”

But Marianne was more alarmed by the thought that he suspected her. “It’s all right, Aunt Tamara,” she called back as she headed for the master’s chambers. “Remain here. What can a sick man do to me anyway?”

With her aunt’s protests ringing in her ears, Marianne hurried through the vaulted passageways. Her heart pounding with dread, she pushed open the massive oak door to his bedchamber and slipped inside.

Then she froze. The bed was empty. Had they carried the earl elsewhere? She started to back out, then heard the door close behind her. Whirling around, she came face-to-face with the Earl of Falkham.

Dressed simply in an unbuttoned waistcoat, white holland shirt, and blue-black breeches, he leaned with casual ease against the door. His weight rested on his good leg, while his wounded one was bent to take the pressure off of it. His loose-fitting breeches hid the bandage around his thigh so well, however, that no one except Marianne would have guessed he was hurt. He didn’t seem to be straining to hold himself up. Nor did a trace of fever flush his skin.

In short, he was the very picture of health.

“So good of you to come.” His gray gaze locked on her mask, as if he could see what lay beneath. Then a smile crept over his finely chiseled features.

Relief that she was no longer in danger of having killed an earl was rapidly driven out by fiery rage. “So my aunt was right. Your ‘summons’ was a trick. How dare you make me fear I’d nearly killed you when all the time you were well?”

His smile broadened. “Were you worried about me?”

“I was worried your man might have me hauled off to the gaol for killing his master. What possible reason could you have for spreading such a lie? Was suffering a gypsy’s touch so distasteful to you?”

He came away from the door, wincing when his weight came down on his wounded leg. “In truth, I’d thought to thank you,” he said brittlely.

“By ruining my reputation . . . by spreading malicious lies and rumors so the townspeople would avoid me.” He was as bad as his uncle. “What manner of thanks is that?”

His eyes darkened as he took a step toward her. “Will tried to find you, but no one seemed to know where you lived, even Mr. Tibbett. I could think of no other way to bring you here so I could express my gratitude. Tell the truth—has anyone in Lydgate really accused you of anything because of my subterfuge?”

“Not yet, but gypsies are often held suspect in this place, and your ‘subterfuge’ hasn’t helped matters.”

He frowned, reminding her of a painting she’d seen once of a vengeful devil scowling at the creator. With a shudder, she gathered her cloak more closely about her. It was dangerous to be here alone with him.

He stepped closer, still blocking her path to the door. “I apologize for any inconvenience my ‘trick’ may have caused. But can you blame me for wanting to thank the woman who saved my leg, for wanting to offer her, yet again, some recompense?” When she remained silent, his eyes warmed. “If you wish, you may add my latest . . . ah . . . thoughtless act to the debt I already owe you. It’s a debt I’m more than eager to pay.”

His words mollified her little. Her heart still beat frantically from the terror she’d felt when she’d feared being blamed for his fever. But now that her anger had cooled, her sense of caution had returned. This was no time to castigate an earl who had the power to see her arrested. She had to keep her wits about her.

“You may consider the debt paid,” she said stiffly. “Seeing that you are well and that my remedies eased your pain is enough reward for me. I’d best go now, before my aunt begins to worry.”

She started to move around him toward the door, but he caught her by the arm. “You can’t go without allowing me to repay my debt in full.”

He stood so close that she could see the spark of interest in his eyes. The attention he gave her mask sent alarm whirling through her body.

“Please unhand me, my lord,” she said quietly.

He did as she asked but made no move to let her pass.

“What I did, I’d do for anyone,” she went on. How she wished she’d listened to her aunt and had stayed away from Falkham House. “I’ve already refused your gold, so nothing else remains to be said.”

“But I’ve something better to offer than mere coin. There’s a London physician named Milburn, with a miraculous treatment for smallpox scars. He claims he can wipe them away so the skin is as soft and smooth as a babe’s. I’ll send you to him. ’Tis the least I can do for the woman who saved my leg, possibly my life.”

She stared at him. Oh, Lord, her “horrible scars.” Perhaps Aunt Tamara’s explanation for her mask hadn’t been so brilliant after all.

And why would he offer this? She had heard of Milburn. Her father had denounced the man as a charlatan, but some claimed to be helped by him. Milburn was most famous for treating the wealthy and always extracted large sums from his patients. Could Lord Falkham really intend to spend a fortune on Milburn’s “treatment” for a mere gypsy?

She peered at him through her mask, noting how his eyes roved to her hands and then back to the silk covering her face. Could his offer simply be a trick to find out what lay beneath her disguise? Somehow she would have to refuse it without rousing his suspicions.

“Thank you for the offer, but I’ve learned to live with my . . . er . . . unusual appearance. If this doctor failed to help me, I’d suffer far more than I have until now.”

“Ah, but think what could come of it. If his treatment
works, it might enable you to find a husband who’d care for you far better than your aunt can.”

It took all her will not to move away and show her wariness of him. For he looked formidable indeed in the light that streamed through the open curtains, highlighting the broad, stern forehead and the chestnut brows drawn together in a deep frown.

“I’ve already said I won’t accept your gift, my lord.” She had to escape him, curse it! “I’m pleased you’ve recovered fully, but I won’t be forced to endure the probing of strangers for naught when I can scarce endure the sight of my hideous face myself. My scars are too deep for any mere potion to heal.”

She didn’t realize how she’d erred until he lifted his hand to the hood of her cloak.

“Let me see your ‘hideous face’ for myself before you refuse my help,” he bit out, pushing back the hood and yanking the ties of her mask loose. “If what you say is true, you may leave this house without another word.”

“No!” she protested, but he was already lifting away the mask . . .

No beauty she doth miss

When all her robes are on;

But beauty’s self she is

When all her robes are gone.

—Anonymous madrigal

G
arett hadn’t been certain what he’d find when he removed the gypsy girl’s mask. He’d half expected the scarred maiden she professed to be.

But the sight that now greeted him stunned him. Two warm hazel eyes widened in alarm in a face as arresting as it was unblemished. Not only had she no scars but her skin was a light golden color—not the dark olive of a gypsy, yet not the pale cream of a sheltered lady, either.

As his gaze roamed her delicate-boned face, her peach-tinged lips parted in shock. He fixed automatically on the sweet mouth, so finely drawn. He could well believe her father had been nobility. Yet he glimpsed in the stubborn set of her chin and the wild glint in her eyes that she didn’t always follow a lady’s rules.

Hers was a face designed by nature to intrigue, entice . . . tempt. With him it succeeded.

In the past few years, he’d thought only of his revenge and his return to England. Except for the occasional doxy for a night’s pleasure, women hadn’t had a place in that. But for the first time, he wanted more than only a night with a woman. Her soft words about gardens and flowers had troubled his thoughts far too much during his recovery.

He cursed his wayward thoughts. This unmasking was not about that. Yet he couldn’t seem to stop staring at her.

“Are you quite done gawking at me, my lord?” she bit out.

“No,” he said with perfect honesty. He turned her to face the sunlight that streamed through the multipaned window.

“You have no right . . .” she whispered as he pushed the hood completely off her head, loosing her lustrous hair from its knot and allowing it to spill free.