Rogues Gallery (20 page)

Gabriel, she murmured, his whispered name floating away in the lazy breeze. The horse picked its own way while Marisa drifted off into further contemplation of Gabriel's hands on her too-willing body. She shivered, thrilled with the response her senses even then conjured at the mere memory of his touch. The sensations had been so wondrous, almost frightening, yet she had known she could no more avoid them than she could marry Lord Westbrook.

She imagined the horror on her father's face at the imbroglio in which she was entangled. Still, perhaps he would have to concede he had not been able to bend her to his will, after all. There was some small pleasure in that, even though it would seal her status as outcast as far as he was concerned. She had unquestionably gone beyond the pale by throwing in her lot with a notorious highwayman.

It was so deliciously wicked! Just what did he plan next? Perhaps he was locating someplace for her and Aunt Althea. And none too soon, lest Edmund managed to get her to the altar before Gabriel spirited her away.

Perhaps he was arranging her passage on a ship to somewhere far away. Or mayhap they were to flee together. Deciding that was a better solution, since it was more in keeping with her desires, Marisa realized it was past time to resume her illicit ride. It would not do to be late for her latest fitting appointment with the modiste, even if it was for a wedding dress she had no intentions of wearing.

"Marisa!"

"My lord." She urged her horse forward to meet Lord Westbrook, wondering what had tipped him off to her morning ride. She suspected Daphne had been the traitor, little though she could prove it. If she had ever become Lady Westbrook, Daphne would have been the first to be sent packing.

"Marisa." Edmund pursed his lips. "I believe I said it is unwise for you to be riding about alone."

Marisa tossed her head, knowing the frivolous gesture would convince him of her flighty nature. "Why on earth should it be unwise? You did say I was in need of some exercise."

He paused, as if weighing his words. "There are many dangers you might encounter. Footpads, for one."

"Footpads!" The laugh could not be silenced, although she had to admit her effort was half-hearted. She looked at him in a pert fashion, knowing it was dangerous, but just as unable to resist the urge. She felt so confident now, so full of life.

"Surely you know footpads do not go abroad during daylight." She could scarce contain her secretive delight at the thought of her own highwayman's visits. "In truth, my lord, 'tis at night such rogues do their damage."

Lord Westbrook frowned again. Marisa felt a momentary frisson of fear for daring to taunt him so. Before she could insist she had been jesting, he smiled. Yet, once more, it was the infuriating smile of a lenient parent for a spoiled, tired child.

"My apologies, dearest. Yet as your future husband, I am concerned for your well-being. Perhaps overly so, but you know of my concerns regarding riding accidents."

Marisa's fear did not dissipate, for she knew well his unease on that score. Shaking off her misgivings, she declared, "I am fine as five pence, my lord. And an excellent horsewoman. I have been riding since I was a child. Come. I shall challenge you to a race."

"Marisa—"

Before he could finish his certain protest, Marisa spurred her horse into a gallop. The horse's hooves thundered across the wide expanse of green lawn, and Marisa felt like bellowing her exhilaration. She tightened her fingers on the reins, urging the animal to greater speed, relishing the wind lashing her face as she raced farther away from Lord Westbrook.

She could not resist a moment of gloating, however. She twisted to gauge his distance behind her. In the next instant, the horse stumbled. Marisa cried out, yanking on the reins but to no avail. She sailed over the horse, hitting the ground with a thud.

She rolled onto her back, struggling to breathe, but her lungs screamed with the effort. Her face contorted with the pain of knowing she had perhaps taken her last breath. She closed her eyes. If only she could have fled with her highwayman.

And poor Aunt Althea. What would happen to her?

Marisa sucked in a breath, impatient to fill her lungs, unwilling to accept she was not long for this world. The next breath was an easier one, only this time Lord Westbrook hovered over her, blocking out the sunlight.

He grabbed her by the shoulders, lifting her slightly off the ground.

"Marisa! Marisa!"

When she did not answer at once, he slammed her against his chest, nearly smothering her. "No! You foolish chit! You have ruined everything."

Marisa had no time to ponder his comments, craving more of the life-giving oxygen he withheld from her.

"My lord," she said in a muffled voice, her face crushed against his waistcoat.

"Marisa!" He released her, at last, laying her back upon the grass. He carelessly wadded his expensive coat to pillow beneath her head. To Marisa's surprise, Edmund's expression was almost reverent, as though he believed her words a miracle.

Edmund resumed his scolding in a more indulgent tone of voice, as if his earlier outburst had never occurred. "Marisa, you frightened me so! You must not ride in such a fashion again. 'Tis even more dangerous than I imagined when I asked you to heed my warning."

"I assure you I am quite all right, my lord."

His lips tightened into a grim line. "I absolutely forbid it until after—until after the wedding."

Wisely, Marisa stifled a pert retort. Still, his earlier tirade unnerved her. Even more chilling was his ability to behave as though nothing about it was out of the ordinary. Icy dread raced down her spine. There was more to this man than she had ever suspected.

Wanting nothing more than to escape his presence, she resorted to the role which he expected her to play. "You are so kind to think of me, my lord." She raised a shaky hand to her brow and continued with an irony she hoped he would not detect. "I cannot tell you how your concern affects me."

"You must take more heed of your wellbeing," Lord Westbrook admonished. "My system is not able to endure many more such shocks as you have just given me."

Though he had attempted the last on a light note, she knew his panic stemmed from Marisa endangering her ability to produce his offspring.

After several more minutes of Edmund's insistent ministrations, Marisa was permitted to rise into an upright position.

"Are you certain this is not too much for you? Perhaps you should wait while I fetch some footmen to carry you indoors."

"Truly, my lord, I am quite fine." She fluttered her hands in an embarrassed fashion. "I have suffered some bruises to my consequence, and perhaps a well-deserved megrim, but that is all."

He remained unconvinced, judging by the way his eyes searched hers. "I suppose we could delay the wedding to ensure your health has returned," he offered.

Yes!
, Marisa nearly blurted.

No!
, she amended.

Her mind whirled, unable to frame the appropriate response. Would hastening the dreaded day ensure that Lord Midnight would spirit her away? Or would it make it even more impossible for him to carry out his unknown plans?

"I do not believe my spill should be cause for a change in plans, my lord."

She extended her hand, and Edmund rushed to assist her to her feet. They strolled toward the Hall, and Marisa chattered incessantly, to distract him from further discussion of the wedding, even going so far as to grasp his arm for support. As expected, the gesture brought forth a protective embrace, along with an intimate look meant to reassure her of his devotion, but which chilled Marisa to her very marrow.

***

"E
dmund," Bernard drawled. "Do not tell me the upcoming nuptials are the reason for this nervous pacing."

Edmund spun around, blinking as if startled to see Bernard leaning against the library door. He quickly concealed an emotion—dismay, perhaps? It was difficult for Bernard to say for sure.

"Join me in a glass of brandy," Edmund said.

"Even though the hour is early," Bernard said, snapping his pocket watch closed, "I find it a dashed agreeable notion."

Edmund smiled, tipping the decanter until two glasses were quite full. Bernard watched the man who controlled his fate. The trip to London had altered Bernard's future, but not in the manner he had anticipated. After a long streak of bad luck at the tables, Edmund had graciously covered his future brother-in-law's debts. Bernard had insisted on a promissory note, though he had little idea how he could ever repay his sister's husband.

He gritted his teeth. Had that been the plan all along?

Edmund took a long sip of the brandy as he stared off into the distance. After several long moments, he turned his attention to Bernard. He opened his mouth, but then hesitated.

"Come, Edmund, as this is not the first time you have been caught in parson's mousetrap, I know you do not need any advice on what to expect."

"Rascal!" Edmund chuckled, taking another swallow of the liquor. "I confess to some concern, but not on that score." He set his glass down on the desk. "Of late your sister appears a bit—fragile—here, another small sip will dispel the coughing."

"Fragile?" Bernard's eyes watered. "I would not call her fragile," he rasped, coughing once more. "It is more likely she is experiencing the typical nervousness each bride feels."

Edmund appeared to relax somewhat, though his shoulders remained stiff. Bernard felt a moment's remorse that he had judged his future relation too harshly. Perhaps the man truly was concerned about Marisa. It would assuage his own guilt about his sibling if Edmund were to prove to be a solicitous husband.

"I am certain you must be correct," Edmund replied. "But after my late wife's inability to produce any children—well, you can see my concern should the same calamity befall me twice."

"Of course," Bernard managed. The self-serving statement chilled him, not that it was one any man in Edmund's position felt any remorse for expressing. "I have just seen Marisa, and she is resting, with no injuries other than to her considerable pride. You need have no concerns about her."

"I am no longer a young man," Edmund said.

"You need not be a young man so long as you have a young wife," Bernard said, his lips curved in what he hoped resembled a smile.

Still, in a corner of Bernard's soul he despised what his sister would become—yet another brood mare. For her sake, he prayed she produced a son and no more. There was no need to propagate numerous younger sons, placing them in the same untenable position as he was in.

It was as impossible to extricate himself as it was to remove Marisa from the situation in which she was mired. He could not ask their father for additional funds. If only he knew how to retrieve the rubies. Lord Westbrook would view him even more favorably, possibly even cancelling the note he had signed all too willingly.

He had been so certain he could make his fortune, but his luck had turned in quite the opposite direction, leaving him hopeless, as well as powerless.

He drained his glass in one unhappy gulp.

If only he had thrown his lot in with Marisa long ago. Now both their futures were bleak, stretching into eternity without a hope of happiness.

***

B
ernard departed quietly, closing the door behind him, and for once Edmund was glad to see the man leave. He gnawed at his lip, consumed by his growing fears over Marisa's ability to bear his sons. Bernard could not come close to comprehending the driving need to secure for his sons what Edmund had fought for. As a younger son, Bernard had no prospects, while he, Lord Westbrook, had wealth and estates and the title of earl.

He also had no explanation for the curious behavior he had encountered in the village on several recent occasions. Having cultivated the village occupants and his neighbors over the years, and now quite accustomed to their fawning attitudes toward him, Edmund was profoundly surprised at the cool reception he had received.

Had he been in London, he would have thought he was receiving the cut direct. He was the recipient of the countrified version of it, no doubt, though none were brave enough to court financial disaster by completely inciting his displeasure.

Still, it was distinct disapproval he had encountered, but he could not discern any reason why. The villagers knew nothing of the nasty business nearly two decades ago, so there was no logical reason for their sudden about-face.

Yet something was wrong. The prickle of fear dancing along his spine was a most uncomfortable—indeed, a highly unusual—sensation.

In addition, the authorities had yet to locate the stolen Westbrook rubies, despite his repeated inquiries.

Who could be so unfeeling, so cruel as to deprive his heirs of their rightful inheritance? The title and estates, with all of its attendant wealth, belonged to the children of his loins.

The thought of producing those sons brought an instant reaction from the very loins in question. He rubbed at the ache, promising himself it would not be much longer before he could commence his most important task.

Perhaps a small dose of opium would ease his troubled mind. Or perhaps he should summon Daphne. He instantly discarded the idea. After the last disastrous episode, he no longer wanted to waste his seed on any woman but the one who would be giving him heirs. He had done so many times before, but he was no longer a reckless young man.

He was sorely tempted to visit Marisa before the wedding, to ensure her womb was indeed able to carry his child. The waiting had become pure torment.

What a stroke of genius it had been to advance the date of the wedding, for his patience was wearing most thin. A few more strokes brought the necessary relief. He dropped his head against the wing chair, a slow smile of satisfaction appearing where earlier there had been unrelenting fear.

"Laddie, ye'd best be telling me what devilment ye're a-planning."

"Jamie, I do not understand your meaning. What notion has taken root in your brain now?"