Rogues Gallery (11 page)

She uttered the falsehood without exhibiting a trace of her anguish. She could not fail at this, not as she had with persuading Bernard, or when a highwayman's attentions had distracted her from leaving the estate grounds. Her heart caught in her throat, nearly choking her. This truly was her last opportunity.

"Please," Edmund said, closing the space between them. "I insist."

Marisa was pinned against the wall, unable to protect herself, trapped by the man who sought to imprison her as his wife.

She had had the presence of mind to cover her décolleté with a lace fichu prior to coming downstairs. However, it did not prevent Edmund's shirtfront from pressing against her thin muslin bodice. Nor did it shield his avaricious gaze from the rise and fall of her bosom with each panicked breath she took.

He tilted his head toward hers with unmistakable purpose. His bay rum cologne, and another sweet scent she could not identify, assailed her. Marisa cringed as she waited for the inevitable, yet she knew if she turned her head he would follow suit. Instead, she closed her eyes and felt his lips hovering above hers, his heated breath searing her skin.

Dread filled the depths of her soul. This was but a prelude to what Edmund would do once she was legally bound to him. Unbidden came the memory of a highwayman's kiss, and how it had filled her with yearning for more.

Would the Fates truly abandon her in this, her hour of need?

"My lord."

Bernard's mocking drawl saved her from learning precisely how Edmund's kisses compared to those of a dashing highwayman.

Edmund stepped back, and Marisa nearly crowed her triumph. She had known Bernard could not ignore her plea for help, although she was tempted to tear a strip from his hide for forcing her to endure such an agonizing wait.

Once Bernard denounced Edmund as a cad, they could finally leave, the horror of this moment fading as they raced to London. What a treat it would be to see Aunt Althea, as well as her father's disbelief at being bested by his headstrong daughter.

It finally penetrated her brain that Bernard and Edmund were conversing as if nothing untoward had just occurred. Her brother should be calling Edmund out for such despicable behavior! Instead he spoke to Lord Westbrook as if they were bosom beaux, and as though Marisa were the one beyond the pale.

Her stomach tumbled about, the earlier rush of relief replaced by a stab of betrayal. At least it was not necessary to feign illness anymore. The question was when she would cease feeling this terrible chill, a horrible numbness in her soul that nearly paralyzed her.

"Miss Dunsmore. Your letter?"

Marisa stared at Lord Westbrook's outstretched hand. She could not comprehend what he meant. In the next instant she remembered—the useless bit of paper crumpled in her fist. She almost succumbed to the maniacal urge to read it aloud to him. It would leave her betrothed with absolutely no doubt how she viewed her upcoming role as Lady Westbrook.

Yet some instinct prevented her from doing so. Instead, she tittered in the brainless fashion she despised in others, knowing Lord Westbrook would view it as entirely characteristic of her.

"Oh, my lord, I have forgotten to tell my friend all about the betrothal ball! And she loves masquerades even more than I!"

Marisa saw Bernard's lips twist in a wry fashion, for he was well aware her behavior was but a pose. Though he did not say anything to dispel Edmund's view of her, neither did he offer her any assistance. She knew it was fruitless to ever expect anything but duplicity from him in the future. For some reason, he had allied himself with Father, leaving her to fend for herself when she most needed help from another.

She smothered a cry. Much as she did not want to, she was forced to concede she had exhausted all the possible options for escape. It was a harsh notion to accept, for she had always found a solution to her previous dilemmas. Yet this situation proved entirely hopeless.

She grabbed at the banister and fled while she still had the strength to do so. Only now she sought the refuge of the very bedchamber that had once seemed her prison cell.

Gabriel tightened the leather strip about his eyes. He peered around the damask drapery, not entirely surprised the French door had been left unlocked. He swept without a sound into the bedchamber, and removed his well-worn gloves, tossing them in one of the brocade chairs before seating himself on the bed.

The miss was disheveled, the bedcovers tangled around her. Her slumber was not a restful one. Yet the shadows thrown by the flickering firelight danced upon her in such an entrancing fashion, and Gabriel caught his breath.

He stroked her tousled hair away from her face, careful not to mar the porcelain skin. Her eyes were puffy, as if she had been crying recently, though he could not imagine this dauntless woman succumbing easily to tears. It made him caress her with more tenderness than he should have.

She rubbed her nose and then, sighing, returned to her contented slumber.

"I am most sorry, angel," he murmured with only a trace of regret, "for much as I adore the sight of you sleeping, I much prefer you to be awake."

He leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of her body, and pressed his lips against hers. A hint of lavender from the pillows mingled with her warm scent of innocence, a potent combination he could not resist. He deepened the kiss.

She responded slowly at first, still encumbered by sleepiness. Within moments the rising passion took over.

Her eyes shot open. "Oh, 'tis you," she said, placing a hand to her heart.

"Indeed." Gabriel raised his eyebrows. "Did you fear it was another?"

She nodded, pushing herself into an upright position. Tendrils of blonde hair curled around her, dropping forward and covering the front of her fine cotton nightrail. She brushed at her eyes, sniffing imperceptibly.

Though enchanted by her near-nakedness, Gabriel's lips tightened. Had Edmund caused these tears? No, he would not permit himself to ponder that abhorrent possibility. His uncle had more than enough sins for which to atone.

"Mistress Angel," Gabriel chided, shaking his finger, "you should not accept my kisses so willingly, nor feel relief to discover they are mine."

"Why not?"

"Well, for one thing, I am a hardened criminal."

She rolled her eyes as if to say she had never heard anything more nonsensical.

"And for another," he said with a bit more seriousness, "there is the matter of your betrothed."

"Oh, him," she replied with a heavy sigh.

Gratified that she little liked the man, Gabriel offered, "We shall not mention him again. Agreed?"

"Agreed!"

"Done. He is henceforth banished from this room."

Gabriel stood up, sweeping his arm with a flourish, as if indeed expelling the villain from their presence. If only it were as easy to rid his life of Edmund, he would have done so years ago.

Her face lit up with pleasure. "What is the penance should his name be mentioned here in the future?"

Gabriel pretended to frown. "Penance, is it? Sounds like a woman raised with a healthy dose of religion." Her obvious delight spurred him on. "Well, the penance shall be—mmm." He continued to consider suitable punishments, tapping his finger against his lips. "I have it! No more kisses shall be bestowed if that horrid creature's name is uttered."

"Penance, indeed," she said in a reproving voice, but Gabriel saw the mischief dancing in her eyes.

"It seemed more appropriate than to bestow kisses should his name be mentioned."

She gave him a mock glare, shaking her head at what she considered his appalling lack of logic. She scampered out of the bed, giving Gabriel the briefest glimpse of her shapely ankles before she donned a nearby robe of blue silk.

Unaware of his sigh of regret, she continued in the same playful manner. "I see I shall have to educate you on what constitutes a suitable penance. I daresay there are none that I have not endured."

"Have you suffered much?" The contemplation of her distress caused him more dismay than it should have. Hadn't he in mind for her a misery of the worst order?

"No, I have not suffered," she answered, "at least not physically. Father did not believe in it, though I would have done my best to avoid that as well. But," she said with a rueful smile, "my pride often took the brunt of my willful nature."

Gabriel marveled at her seeming resilience in the face of such adversity. Marriage to Edmund could only be viewed as the ultimate punishment, yet she faced her bleak future with an equanimity he would not have deemed possible. His admiration for her intrepid spirit took another leap forward.

He reached forward to stroke her hair once more, but she ducked under his arm.

"Come," she invited. "We shall sit by the fire."

Gabriel followed her, unable to do anything else. He retrieved his gloves and then pulled the chair aside so that she might be seated.

He sat down, his eyes widening at the heavily-laden tray on the table between them. "'Tis a veritable feast! And brandy no less! I imagine that request must have raised a few eyebrows belowstairs."

The lass was eminently resourceful, and he would be wise to remember that.

***

M
arisa found herself responding in a lighthearted fashion, surprised she was capable of it. She had believed she would prove victorious, and the realization that she had been bested—by Edmund, Bernard, and her father—was a most bitter pill to swallow. She had cried, and railed at the Fates that had seemed to promise deliverance, and mourned for Aunt Althea's grim future.

At least she had prevented the highwayman's capture. She could enjoy that success, as well as the unexpected
tête-à-tête
, explaining to him how she had managed to procure a bottle of brandy.

"I convinced Daphne that even my father espoused the medicinal properties of brandy on occasion. Of course," she confessed, "Father would add the blatant falsehood to the list of my failings should he ever learn of it."

He wagged his finger in mock admonishment. "Shall Daphne appear soon, to brand you a liar?"

Marisa shook her head. "I do not see how she could, since she consumed quite a lot of the medicine earlier."

"Indeed?"

"She was not feeling well," Marisa explained, "having walked into a doorway, and severely bruising her cheekbone."

"Let us toast to her future good health then."

Marisa's heart swelled with happiness for the first time in several days. The moments in the highwayman's company were the only pleasurable pastime she had had since arriving at Westbrook Hall. And now that all other escape routes had been blocked, his visits would be her sole reprieve from despair.

Once again, it was as if her desire had lured him into materializing from the darkness.

If only she held such sway over the rest of her existence. Instead, the minuscule amount of power at her command had been exhausted in one fell swoop: she was to have a masquerade for her unwanted betrothal ball, and a bottle of brandy resided in her bedchamber.

She dismissed the unpalatable thoughts. There was little point dwelling on her bleak future when she could enjoy this fleeting diversion. "There are apple tarts as well. I do hope you like them."

He lifted her hand, pressing a fervent kiss in the palm. "Apple tarts are my favorite," he whispered. "Save for the angels that procure them."

Heat raced through her body, followed by utter amazement. "You think me an angel?"

"Most decidedly."

"A fallen angel, no doubt. Of course," she teased, "rogues such as you likely have different standards when it comes to deciding who is angelic and who is not."

He shot her a devilish wink.

Marisa felt lightheaded, almost as much as when she had woken to find him kissing her. "Please," she said, attempting to recall her senses. "Partake of the meal."

"Only if you will share it with me," he bargained.

Without awaiting her answer, he surveyed the contents of the tray. He bypassed the slices of bread, slathered with butter, as well as the slabs of Wensleydale cheese.

Instead, he grabbed the bottle of brandy, twisting the cork until it released with a satisfying pop. He inhaled, his eyes closed, sighing with what appeared to be genuine contentment.

"Of course it would be the finest available," he said with a trace of wry amusement that puzzled her. He looked around but found only one glass on the tray. Smiling, he poured a healthy amount of the amber liquor into the glass before raising it in a salute.

"To the fairest angel ever to descend from heaven," he declared. His eyes gazed at her with frank appreciation, and in that moment, Marisa could almost believe she was the angel he seemed to see.

He handed the glass to Marisa, signaling her with a nod to take a drink.

"Strong drink?"

Memories of her father's stern lectures about the dangers of the forbidden liquid halted her outstretched hand. Her highwayman could not hide his surprise at her hesitation. It astonished her as well, for she cared little anymore about winning her father's approval.

To demonstrate she was not faint of heart, she took a large gulp.

"Careful!" he warned, but too late.

Marisa sputtered, choking on the fiery beverage. The highwayman rose from his chair and knelt next to hers, patting Marisa on the back while she continued to cough.

She scowled at his barely concealed merriment. "You might have cautioned me."

"Aye, but some things can be learned only by experiencing them. And I do recall you confessing to a deep and abiding curiosity," he reminded her, his eyes atwinkle.

"Rogue! Still, I would ask you to gently advise me in the future when I embark on a perilous venture."

She knew it was unlikely he would have numerous opportunities to warn her. Still, the lack of disapproval over her
faux pas
confused her—and warmed her.

She waved him back into his chair. "Now that I have learned why Father has called strong drink the tool of the devil, I wish to further my education."