Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (21 page)

To Bey.

The Marquess of Rothgar.

The
éminence noire
of England.

Her comrade in arms, embracing her in the dirt after death.

Holding the hand of a dying man, making death as tolerable as possible with a calm voice and steady eyes.

Glimpsed in a revealing moment later, as they waited for help to arrive, face stark with that death of one of his own.

Who was comforting the comforter now?

That, in the end, was her excuse for slipping out of bed, for pulling the pink cotton coverlet around herself, and venturing out into the corridor of the night-quiet inn. The innkeeper’s wife had said there were only four good rooms here and no other guests, so it shouldn’t matter if she picked the wrong one.

She hesitated for a moment, wondering what his reaction would be, but it didn’t stop her. She quietly opened the door next to hers and found the room unused. She went to the two doors opposite and listened at each.

Nothing.

Did his manservant sleep with him? That would be awkward. Lord Rothgar, however, seemed a very private person. If there were enough rooms, she felt certain he would sleep alone. She carefully opened one door and peeped inside.

Regular soft snores.

With a suppressed laugh, she decided that must be Fettler. Surely the
éminence noire
’s throat would not dare to snore!

Closing the door again with only the quietest
click
, she turned to the next one—

And found the marquess in open-necked shirt and breeches, watching her. His dark eyes were completely unreadable.

Clutching the coverlet more closely, she whispered, “I wondered if you were all right.”

For a moment he did nothing, but then he moved away from the door and gestured her inside.

Heart racing, she walked into his bedroom.

I
t was a similar room to hers, not large, with space only for the bed, two chairs bracketing a small table, and a washstand. Simple quarters for such as they, but not unpleasing. It was clean and neat, and a bowl of fresh flowers stood on a table by the dark gable window. The pastel-shaded petals glowed softly in the light of the single, flickering candle. Sweet peas. When she sat on one of the wooden chairs, the heady perfume wove around her.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He stayed standing. “Most people think me made of cold steel.”

“Perhaps you encourage them to.”

“Would it do any good to encourage you to?”

“I don’t think so. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Hardly surprising.” After a moment, he gestured to a glass and half-full decanter on the table. “Port. Indifferent quality, I’m afraid. My own is doubtless spilled on the road somewhere. But would you like some?”

She nodded, and he refilled the glass and passed it to her. Then he sat in the opposite chair. “We are safe here. There’s no need to be afraid.”

She took a mouthful of the port, which as he said was not of the finest quality, but welcome. “I’m not afraid. Our attackers died. It will surely take longer than a few hours to regroup.”

His eyes rested on hers. “Did you recognize either of the men in the coach?”

“There was no time to—” She stared. “You noticed.”

“Am I not omniscient? Four men with the coach …”

“And three corpses. But surely the survivor will flee.”

“I’d rather catch him. Lady Arradale,” he said, “were you perhaps trying to protect me from worrying knowledge?”

She smiled ruefully. “’Tis my nature to protect.”

“We are likely to trip over each other then. So, did you recognize anyone in the coach?”

“Truly, there wasn’t time—for a mere mortal, at least.” But then she realized. “De Couriac?”

“Not so mere a mortal after all.”

“A deduction, that’s all. Who else could it be? What if he pursues you here?”

“I am awake.” When she glanced at the decanter, he added, “And no longer on guard. I sent immediately to London for reinforcements and they arrived a little while ago. This place is now guarded by my men. It truly is safe.”

The knot of scarce-acknowledged fear untangled, and she took a deep drink of the port. “Why are they doing this? What can you do to harm the French?”

“I can oppose their principal objectives. They want to rebuild their fleet, and preserve their fortifications at Dunkirk, since that is their base for invasion. I want to see it torn down immediately.”

“Invasion! England hasn’t been invaded by a foreign power since the conquest.”

“But has frequently been invaded by contestants for the throne. It will be the Stuarts again, of course.”

Wine and weariness seemed to be making it hard to think. She put the glass down. “Then why hasn’t Dunkirk already been destroyed? It was part of the peace treaty.”

“It was part of three previous peace treaties and still stands.” He took the half-full glass from her loose hold and drank from it. “The French are very fond of Dunkirk, and the acting French ambassador is working hard to preserve it. He has just come up with the delightful notion that the artificial canal there should not be demolished, but renamed the Canal Saint-George in honor of the English.”

“You jest!”

“Alas no.” He drained the glass, then with a steady hand,
refilled it and put it down between them. “The king is quite touched by the idea, especially as the first name suggested was the Canal Saint-Louis.”

Diana had watched him drink, and now awareness of his lips almost blinded her to anything else.

Our kiss
.

Trying not to suck in breaths, she picked up the glass and deliberately sipped from the place still moist from his mouth. “The king is so easily duped?”

“Perish the thought. And I mean that seriously,” he said, though astonishingly vaguely. Even she could see that her words had been foolish, almost treasonous, yet he did not say more. His eyes darkened, and only then did she realize that she had just licked some port from her lips.

He looked away, to touch the petals of the flowers. “The acting French ambassador—a Monsieur D’Eon—is a very clever and charming man.”

“And lethal?”

He drew a blush-pink blossom from the bowl and looked back at her. “Possibly.”

A much more subtle blossom than the scarlet field poppy, and yet she was spinning back to that flirtation. She had no stiff bodice tonight down which a flower stem could be tucked. She was, in fact, shockingly under-dressed. Less than half her mind now on the conversation, she was still aware that he was talking to her as an equal, and even trusting her with things he must surely share with few men.

He leaned back, the blossom resting against his lips. She thought she saw him inhale. She took a large mouthful of port and let it travel slowly down her throat.

“D’Eon served well as a captain of dragoons in the war,” he said, eyes on her, “and in other more secret roles. He once traveled days with a broken leg to deliver a dispatch. He is not a man to be taken lightly. He is also proud and ambitious.”

He leaned forward and took the glass from her hand. Their fingers touched. Then he turned it and drank from the same place as before.

Suppressing a shiver with two causes, Diana asked, “What is he ambitious for?”

“The ambassadorship.”

“Isn’t there an ambassador en route?”

“But for some, hope springs eternal.”

He offered the blossom.

She took it, drawing it close to her nose to inhale the sweet, spicy scent.

“I have reason to believe,” he said, “that Monsieur D’Eon thinks that if he is brilliantly successful in his current role, the Comte de Guerchy will be told to stay home, and he will be given the full role and powers. And income. Which would be particularly pleasant, as he has spent some of the ambassador’s funds already.”

She caught the slight twinkle in his eye. “With encouragement from you, perhaps?”

“Would he believe anything I said? He has received authorization directly from his king.”

She laid down the flower. “Forgery! My lord—”

“Don’t disappoint me, Diana.” His eyes still smiled. “These matters are rarely clean or tidy. I do what I must to confine France and prevent invasion. They have tried to invade twice this century through Scotland. That route is closed to them now the Highland clans are broken or tamed, but Ireland stands ripe for use, and the south coast is temptingly close. I doubt the French will ever give up their hunger to invade England. It will not be allowed,” he added, and she recognized a personal resolution.

No wonder the French wanted him dead. He stood firmly in their way, and was not an easy man to move. He would not be distracted by personal ambitions, or flattered out of his purpose. He certainly could not be bribed.

“Don’t frown,” he said, picking up the flower and stroking it against her lips.

The perfume seemed suddenly stronger, and her lips trembled under the butterfly assault.

“But they are trying to kill you!”

“I’m safer now, I think,” he said, still teasing her lips, her chin, her cheeks, with petals. “In Ferry Bridge it should have
been an unfortunate duel. Today, a mysterious shooting. Now it’s scandal and mayhem, with four corpses attached, three of them probably French. My suspicious death in the near future would raise altogether too many questions.”

She gripped his wrist to still the flower. “Your unsuspicious death?”

“What could that be?” Unresisting, he said, “I’m a healthy man, and I intend to avoid obviously risky activities for the next little while.”

Still, he could not guard against every possible “accident.” She put both hands around his, and carried it to her cheek. “Today,” she said, “in the middle of chaos. I thought …”

She wanted to retreat then, but she had already gone too far. Looking down at their hands, at a flower, she finished. “I thought what a waste our restraint might have been.”

He did not pull away. Instead, after a moment, he drew their clasped hands toward himself. At the brush of lips against her knuckles, she looked up.

“And yet,” he said, “the dangers have not changed.”

“Isn’t there a time for danger?” she whispered. “For risk? For casting caution on the flames?”

Mouth still brushing over her fingers, he let the flower fall. “Toss caution on the flames of passion? A common folly. Burns are remarkably painful, you know.” But his lips still played fire against her skin. “You are speaking under the effect of danger and death, Diana.”

“And you are not … Bey?” It felt so strange, so wonderfully strange, to use his name.

“Why are you still here? Why am I touching you?”

“Touch me more.”

He pressed the palm of her hand to his open mouth, so her skin felt the hot moisture there. As he had done, so briefly, so naughtily, at the ball last year.

If you ever change your mind …

“More,” she whispered.

Against her skin he asked, “How much more?”

She longed to cry, Everything! But the cost, the cost was still too high. “I want … I want to touch you, and kiss you. Is that possible?”

“Of course.” He moved their linked hands toward her lips, and she kissed his hand. The first time her lips had tasted his skin.

It wasn’t enough.

“I want to lie with you. Skin,” she breathed, scarcely daring to speak the words, “to skin.”

His eyes were steady and unshocked on hers. “That too you can have.”

“I mean … I mean without … more.”

He smiled, creases deepening. “You can have anything you want as you want it, my dear. I am not a callow youth.”

“But you?”

“Will feast on skin, touch, and kiss.”

She tightened her twined fingers with his and rested her head on them. “Why does it feel like starvation then?”

He gently drew their hands back to his mouth. “Perhaps we can feast. When did you last have your courses?”

Idiotically, her color flared at that subject. “Weeks ago. They are almost due again. Why? Oh.” She stared at him, remembering Elf’s pamphlet. “There’s always risk.”

“Did you not want to cast caution on the flames?”

Air became scarce. She had come here hungry for this, yet feeling safe behind the fact that it was impossible. That it posed too great a risk to her carefully planned life, and his.

“There is no need,” he said against her knuckles. “You can have just what you want. You wanted to see me, I believe?”

He let go of her hand and stood to begin unfastening the cuffs of his shirt.

Diana gaped. He was going to take her literally, and strip? She hadn’t meant that. She hadn’t really thought how they would get from current state to nakedness. As he pulled his shirt out of his breeches, however, she couldn’t bear to stop him.

But it was the first step.

To where? To what?

Could she finally satisfy all her burning curiosity?

Here.

With him?

If it were only curiosity, however, she would not feel this
breathless sense of peril. They really shouldn’t. They were playing with truly perilous flames.

Her heart raced so unsteadily she feared she would faint, so she picked up the glass and took a deep drink. Too deep, so she choked. When she had her breath back, he was laughing, the sort of gentle, warm laughter that friends share. It melted her, turning her soft as the fat tears of wax sliding down the side of the uneven candle.

Honesty and friendship. Honest embarrassment. Friendly humor. With this man she could permit herself to be exactly what she was. Even uncertain.

Trust. Astonishing trust. She’d never realized how little she allowed herself to trust.

And he, who must live as guarded as she in many ways, was trusting her.

He pulled the shirt up over his head and dropped it. Then he tugged the ribbon off his hair so it fell loose around his face to his naked shoulders.

His broad shoulders.

Did all men look stronger out of their clothes, she wondered, studying him as he paused to allow her to. Paused, perhaps, to allow her to retreat, to run back to her room.

Oh no. She welcomed this fire, even though it could burn her to a crisp.

Dressed, his movements spoke of strength, but here strength was clear in long elegant muscles flaring up to those broad shoulders, and in a subtle ridging of muscle beneath the fine line of dark hair down his chest.