How a Lady Weds a Rogue (16 page)

Somehow they got him to the chair. It was large, comfortably stuffed leather. He closed his eyes and in another moment seemed to sleep. She watched him, the slight rise of his chest with each shallow breath, the sunken hollows and stark bones of his beautiful cheeks, and felt a tickle of shame that even now staring at him made her warm where she should not be.

“You needn’t hover.”

She jumped, then twisted her fingers together. “I’m afraid you will slide out of that chair and injure yourself.”

“Shan’t break.” The words were a breath between clicking teeth. “Not made of glass.”

Rather, steel. Fired steel. Foundry hot. She glanced at the bed and her cheeks warmed now. It was maidenly idiocy for a woman nursing an ill man. But she’d never looked at a gentleman’s bed before.

There was no sign of a blanket through the bed curtains.

“Foolish man,” she muttered. She went to the bedchamber she shared with Mrs. Polley, collected blankets, and returned to him.

“Thought you’d gone.”

“To fetch this.” She draped the coverlet over him. It sagged at one side onto the floor. But shock no longer propelled her actions, and she was—belatedly—shy of touching him, even to tuck it around him. “Now you must eat.”

“But do feel free to go at any time,” he added in the unexceptionable tone he had used with her a hundred times, albeit a bit unsteady, and she suspected this nonchalance cost him.

“You are wonderfully droll, sir. But I shan’t be deterred so easily.” She poured another cup, took up several biscuits, and wrapped his hands around both. That operation left her entirely without breath, so she retreated to the writing desk and sat on the wooden chair there. “Now, eat. And drink. And I will read this book while I wait to be certain you don’t feed those to Ramses.” She took up the volume. “
Blaise Pascal and the Curiously Unsubstantiated Axioms of Euclidean Geometry
. Well, Mr. Yale, you have succeeded in astounding me anew. Unless of course this was Ramses’ choice.”

“Have we reverted to Mr. Yale and Miss Lucas, then?”

Her pulse tripped. His eyes were closed, the empty cup on his upturned palm resting on his knee.

“No.” She set down the book, uncorked the bottle of laudanum and went to him. She poured a spoonful of the syrup into the cup then put it once again against his palm.

His hand came around hers. “Diantha, thank you.”

“You can thank me,” she whispered, “after you don’t die.”

The slightest smile tilted up his mouth at one side, but his flesh still burned.

“Drink it.” She whispered to disguise the tremble in her throat.

His eyes were dark, seeking as they scanned her face, and vulnerable in a manner she could not have anticipated of this man. Then trusting. Trusting
her
.

He did as she bid. She drew away and set down the empty cup on the tea tray. She stared at the pretty porcelain painted with lavender flowers and tiny green vines and rimmed in silver. A lady’s porcelain. The lady in whose house they were now living like a troop of genteel Gypsies. Lost in the wilds of Wales and no one the wiser for it.

Her fortnight would end in three days. Papa would send the carriage to Brennon Manor to collect her, but it would not find her there. She was no closer to Bristol and Calais than she had been a sennight ago.

She cared about this problem, very much. Two peculiar weeks on the road with a man she did not entirely understand, having an adventure she could never have imagined, had not dulled her desire to see her mother. Now she wanted that reunion even more than before. She needed to see her. To
ask
her. She needed to
know
.

But the desperation simmering in her had nothing to do with hurrying back to the road, instead all to do with this man she did not truly know but who at times felt as though she had known her whole life.

He finally seemed to sleep. She set about straightening the chamber, although in truth he’d barely lived in it. His coat, boots, and neck cloth were arranged neatly upon the coat horse. A shallow dish containing a bushy white brush, a bar of soap, and a remarkably lethal-looking blade were certainly his shaving gear and gave her a little frisson of nerves—as much because she had never before seen a man’s personal items and it seemed very daring to see his now, as because he clearly didn’t need the pistol if he wished to do himself or anybody else damage.

Dragging her gaze away, she neatened the packets of herbs atop the writing desk, sticking her nose into them one at a time to sniff. The Cayenne pepper made her eyes well up and she sneezed, but Wyn did not flinch.

She pulled the Holland cover off a side table, and another from a framed painting on the wall. It showed a black-haired lady settled atop a gray horse. But her eyes, which matched her mount’s coat, were somber—too somber for Diantha, and she covered the image again. Finally she steeled herself, went to the bed and drew back the curtain fully. A stack of folded linens sat at the foot of the mattress. With her heart beating fast she made up the bed.

Finished tidying, she went to her knees on the dusty floor. For the first time in four years she folded her hands and bent her head.

“Allow me this,” she whispered, the remnants of the pepper filling her eyes with tears again. “I pray you, allow me to do something with my life that matters.”

Chapter
16

Fellow Subjects of
Britain,

Due to Unanticipated
Circumstances my agent in Shropshire is once again detained in pursuing his
Falcon Club quarry. In short, I begin to despair of this particular
quest.

No—I shan’t cease seeking
justice! Yes—I shall hound the members of this wasteful club until they are
all discovered!

But, as I have fretfully
awaited my agent’s communications, I have learned a valuable lesson:
subterfuge is not my bailiwick. I would rather approach a man directly,
accuse him of wrongdoing justifiably and without recourse to secrecy, and
hear him defend himself with mine own ears than sit like an Eastern despot
upon his throne who waits for his henchmen to perform Despicable Deeds in
his name. My methods must remain pristine so that my victory is
too.

I have not recalled my
agent from the countryside; his troubles are sufficiently noisome to inhibit
his progress without my intervention. But when he is again mobile I will
inform him of my desire to quit this project. For now. For when this Falcon
Club member returns to London, I will confront him and he will be obliged to
answer to you, the People of Britain, for his criminal excess.

—Lady
Justice

My dearest
lady,

I breathe a sigh of
profound relief. Quit your pursuit of my fellow club member, indeed. But
know this: I am already in London. I entreat you, pursue me instead. If you
should find me, I promise you a most satisfying Interrogation.

In eager
anticipation,

Peregrine

Secretary, The
Falcon Club

Chapter 17

W
yn did not recover that night, nor the following night, nor the day after that. Diantha’s fortnight came to a quiet close as she rolled dough in the fading light of evening for yet another batch of Mrs. Polley’s ingenious oat biscuits. She glanced at Owen pumping away at the old butter churn they’d found in the chicken shed. Somehow he had managed to milk the cow, lugging in a bucket of milk that tasted like sheer heaven. Her mouth watered anticipating butter. She thought of Glenhaven Hall and Cook’s seed biscuits and roast goose with drippings and lemonade and pork jelly and crumbly cheese with crisp apples and shepherd’s pie, and then, of course, the man abovestairs.

“The tarts I could make with a dozen apples, if I had them,” Mrs. Polley mumbled as though reading her mind.

“There’s apples, ma’am.” Owen’s narrow shoulders leaned into his work. “In the grove a ways past the stile.”

“Well, why didn’t you say that before, boy?”

Diantha could nearly taste them. “Tomorrow I will see what I can collect.”

The following morning she had excellent reason to escape the house and seek out the grove. Entering the kitchen for breakfast she discovered Wyn and Mrs. Polley at the table and her heart flew into her throat. Without a coat, in shirt and waistcoat, breeches and boots, he looked better. No fever darkened his cheeks, and the glimmer in his eyes as he turned to her was familiar.

“You are
better
!”

“To a degree.”

She expected him to smile. He did not. He stood up.

She thrust out a palm to stay him. “No! You’ve been so ill. You mustn’t stand merely because I have entered the room.”

“In fact I must.” He offered her a modest bow. “But I also happen to be leaving.”

Already?
“Oh.”

Silence filled the kitchen. Mrs. Polley muttered beneath her breath and took up the dishes.

Diantha fought to recover her tongue. “To where?”

He paused, then said, “To the drawing room.”

It was too awkward. Nothing had ever been awkward between them before, not even those moments outside the inn in Knighton. Then he had been determined to do the right thing by her. Now he seemed cautious.

“Well, then.” She moved toward the table and around him as though passing him by so closely did not cause every one of her joints to turn to jelly. “I’m very glad you are feeling well enough to be up and about. We have worried.” She flicked a glance at him. “And, naturally, we are anxious to be on our way.”

Mrs. Polley harrumphed.

“We shall be soon.” A peculiar note in his voice turned her around.

“Not too soon,” she said hastily. “Not until you are ready.” Her heart beat ridiculously fast.

“Thank you.” He left.

She stared at the door. After a minute she could no longer bear the discomfort in her belly and the disapproving silence of her companion.

She set off along the canal toward the stile, carrying only a bucket and her confused thoughts. Her shoes sank deep into the sodden moss along the bank. The abbey was not so different from Glenhaven Hall where she busied herself with small tasks and spent the days with her young sister and servants. Her stepfather was a recluse, his scholarly books claiming most of his attention. When it came to his children, he cared most for his true daughters, Serena and Viola and little Faith. As a stepdaughter, Diantha had long understood that. But the people of Glen Village were always kind, and her weekly visits to Savege Park when Alex and Serena were in residence were happy occasions.

London would be different, she knew. There were museums and historical sites and shops in the hundreds. There would also be grand ladies like those she had sometimes encountered at Savege Park, but in much greater number. Grand, elegant, proper ladies. Slender, with porcelain complexions. Beautiful, like his friend Lady Constance Read.

What he must think of her,
in her wrinkled frock and soggy slippers, her hair a mess of unkempt curls and her manners a mess of overfamiliarity. No wonder he wished to keep her at a distance.

She released a long breath, looking up from her toes to see the grove just ahead. Heaps upon heaps of apples lay on the ground, some still hanging on branches, red and green and thoroughly neglected and bursting to be picked. She plucked one off a low branch.

Firm, sweet, juicy.
Heaven
. She ate another, leaning back against a lichen-mottled old trunk and watching the clouds parting above.

Perhaps her stepfather would not banish her to Devon forever after all. Perhaps she would go to town as planned, and Serena would dress her up like a lady, and she would attend balls and use the dance steps she’d barely had occasion to practice in Devon. The only occasion she really remembered was when she had danced with a handsome Welshman on the terrace at Savege Park.

She wandered through the grove, searching out the choicest apples. When the bucket was three quarters full she hefted the handle over her elbow, picked an apple to eat during the walk, and started out of the grove. And she saw the man.

Her heartbeat stalled. With broad strides he approached from across the slope toward the road above.

Then her heart simply halted.

As before at the mill, Mr. Eads looked enormous. She was too far away to see his face, but she knew him well enough by his size and shape.

The pistol!
She must get to Wyn—tell him—warn him. Flinging down the bucket, she ran. But the stile was distant. She lost a slipper and her foot sank into the soft earth. Her lungs pounded, damp skirts tangled about her calves. She threw back a glance. He was running too and had closed the distance between them by half.

She flew, pressing away terror, her footfalls silent on the moss. She threw herself upon the stile, scrabbled for a handhold, then a foothold, and another, dragging her damp garments up, up. Another step—

He grabbed her cloak. She yanked back, hands slippery on the rock, and flailed. She fell. He caught her, banding both arms about her and hauling her against his massive chest. It was hopeless, but she fought, grunting and pounding his arms with her fists until he trapped them too.

“Yer a mettle lass.” He sounded unperturbed. “But A’m no wishing ta harm ye, so ye can cease yer struggling nou.”

“I shall cease struggling when you unhand me!” She kicked back against his calf and he grunted. His arms were rock. But instead of releasing her, with one big shake he turned her to face him.

“Nou will ye cease struggling?” He looked down at her with a face entirely devoid of menace. His features were strong and good, remarkably attractive really if one liked bulky men that tossed one around like a doll, which Diantha did not. At least not the bulky part. She definitely preferred lean muscle. And Wyn had not precisely tossed her around, rather seized her with purpose. She dearly hoped Mr. Eads’s purpose was not similar to Wyn’s when he’d held her this close.

She made herself stiff in his arms. “I will cease struggling if you will unhand me.”

One dark brow tilted up. “A will if ye’ll no run off again.”

“I would be a perfect imbecile not to run off, wouldn’t I?”

For another moment he studied her like he had at the mill. “A’ve come for ma horse.”

“I suppose you have, but I’ve no doubt you’ve also come for Mr. Yale. But, as before, I shall not allow you to harm him. You will have to tie me up, bind my mouth with a gag and throw me into the shed with the chickens and bolt the door first.” She bit her tongue belatedly. Silly to give him ideas. But her head was muddled. It did
not
feel good to be hugged to his chest, and she thought she might be ill. It was, she supposed, useful to learn that the embraces of all men were not equally thrilling. “Now unhand me, if you please.”

Astoundingly, he did. She took an unsteady step back and glanced at the house in the distance. His eyes narrowed. Then he moved away from her, climbed over the stile and started toward the house.

She scrambled up the stile. “What are you doing? Where are you going?” She ran to meet his long strides. “You promised!”

“A promised nothing except ta unhand ye.”

“It’s true. But, please, I pray you. I
beg
you.” She grabbed his arm and tugged with all her strength. “Please! You
mustn’t
harm him.”

He halted. She slammed into him. He set her away and his brow came down over fixed blue eyes.

“A wonder, miss, why ye would imagine A could harm a man who’s bested me once in yer sight, another out of it, and half a dozen times afore that?”

Her jaw loosened. “I suppose I did not perfectly understand that.”

“What’s amiss with him then?”

“Amiss?”
Oh, God
. Her foolish tongue. “I don’t understand you. There is nothing amiss with Mr. Yale. It is only that I did not wish you to surprise him.”

“A reckon he’s never been surprised a day in his life.” He crossed his massive arms. “A’m nae a dull-witted man, lass. A’ll have the truth from ye nou, or A’ll be taking more than ma horse with me today.” He scanned her from brow to toe. There was no mistaking the threat. “All the way ta the duke, if A must.”

“The
duke
?” Could he be speaking of Wyn’s duke?

“His Grace’ll no take kindly ta ye standing in his way.”

Fear clogged her throat; a scream would not come. But even if she were to scream, Wyn could not come and save her. She must save him.

“Mr. Eads,” she said, drawing in steadying breaths. “I will tell you what you wish to know.”

Satisfaction settled upon his square jaw. “Ye will, nou?”

“I will.” She hated to manipulate a man in this manner, but God could not give her a mind that tended toward reckless calculation then fault her for using it for the good of another. “But first I would like to hear about your sister.”

“R
ook to Queen four. Check.”

Sunlight streamed across the library onto the chessboard and Owen’s face wreathed in cheroot smoke.

Wyn studied the board. The scent of the smoke relieved the thirst that still dragged at him, though it did nothing to ease the hunger. Each time Diantha entered a room, as she’d entered the kitchen that morning, he could not wrest his attention from her. She moved with unselfconscious grace, erect and tempting and apparently unaware that she dazzled him.
Dazzled
. She made him hungry as the devil.

He knew it was the lack his body suffered now that made him want her with such intensity. But he also knew that he’d never before been dazzled by a woman.

“You have forgotten my other knight, young friend.” He glanced at the cigar in the dish, the last remaining that he must nurse, as once he’d been able to nurse a glass of brandy. But he had lost that ability. He saw this clearly now. “I urge you to reconsider.”

Owen whistled through his teeth. “It’s a tricky game, sir.”

“You will master it. You possess the natural intelligence.” He slid the black knight across the board. “You also possess a tendency toward defiance of authority that can prove useful for a man.”

The boy shook his head and reached for his rook. “The old girl didn’t mind coming home. But it’s true, sir, I didn’t know someone would need to be milking her.”

“Do you imagine cows drop their milk like one drops a hat?”

“Not now, I don’t. Should’ve learned to milk, I guess.” He studied the board. “Uncle always says a man can’t earn his keep with his head.”

“Mm. I have heard that before.” So many times as a boy he’d lost count. “Your uncle is wrong.”

“Sir?”

Wyn nodded.

The boy bent again to the game. His hand descended upon the white bishop.

Wyn cleared his throat. “My knight?”

“My knight!” Diantha swept into the library in a cascade of sunshine. “Mr. Yale, you milked the cow.”

Owen jumped up and pulled off his cap. “G’day, miss.”

“Hello, Owen. And Ramses.” She bent and stroked the dog’s head, her fingers tender in the beast’s matted fur. “Owen, since the sun is finally shining, will you bathe poor Ramses?”

“Yes, miss. Right away.” His cheeks sported fiery red spots. “Come on, boy.” He hurried out of the library, Ramses alongside.

She set her lapis gaze upon Wyn. “How did you do it? How did you milk that cow?” Ribbons glimmered in her hair, her dimples glowed with life, and he could only stare. She was simply dazzling.

“In the usual manner,” he managed.

The pink on her cheeks deepened and he remembered when he’d last used those words with her, when he had taught her how to breathe.

But she recovered swiftly. “There is no usual manner in which a gentleman milks a cow. Mrs. Polley told me just now that it was you and not Owen. I could not believe it. But now here you are saying it is to be believed.” Her smile could not be bridled even by embarrassment.

He turned back to the chessboard. He had not stood when she entered, not because of weakness but because of a remarkable strength in one area of his body whenever she came near. “I am variously talented, it seems.”

“You truly are. I have never met a gentleman like you, Wyn.”

“Under the circumstances, Diantha, I am not quite certain how to take that. Although of course you have admitted that you are acquainted with very few gentlemen.”

“It’s true: my society has been limited.” She ran a finger down the glass panel of a bookcase. “Mrs. Polley dusted in here.” She opened the door and drew forth a volume. “She would be a remarkably fine housekeeper. Bess at Glenhaven Hall does not drop off to sleep unexpectedly, of course, but she’s not so clever in the kitchen. Or perhaps Mrs. Polley could open a bakery.” She slanted him a quick glance, her lips twisting. “And Owen could open a school for blushing ne’er-do-wells.”

Wyn allowed a grin. “He is very taken with you.”

“He is a thief.”

Not precisely. “He wishes to please you.”

“He will get us discovered.” She reshelved the book, drew out another, and pursed her lips to blow across its binding. Dust puffed into the air. “But so are we thieves lately, of course,” she said, her fingertip turning pages swiftly. “By the by, Mr. Eads has just been by to retrieve his horse.” She took the book in both hands before her like a shield. “We spoke then he left with his horse.”