Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage] (25 page)

F
or the first time in as long as he could remember, Marcus was thankful to be passing through Andersen Hall’s wrought-iron gates. He urged his mount to slow to a walk and directed the mare toward the stables. He was exhausted to the core. After the euphoria of success had worn off, the usual wretchedness that he felt after a mission had set in.

The questioning of his actions. The damage he’d had to inflict. The men he’d had to kill. Not that Renfrew had deserved anything less. But it was as if his evil had somehow rubbed off on Marcus, leaching his soul to black.

On the long silent stretches of the dark ride back, Marcus had had too much time to think, too much opportunity to see the faces and feel the darkness of what he did.

He was getting too old for these wretched missions, he realized. He needed to see Cat and feel redeemed. Her sweetness was the balm his soul required. Her loyalty the air he needed to breathe freely once more.

Golden rays of light stretched long over the green lawn
rolling before the army of trees guarding the orphanage. Cat would be up shortly, if she wasn’t already, Marcus noted as he dismounted.

Timmy, the stable lad, stepped out of the barn. “Blast it’s like Tattersall’s on auction day,” he muttered. His dusty brown cap had slipped into his eyes and he shoved it back onto his sandy crown.

Marcus handed over the reins. “An extra ration of oats for Polly. And brush her down well. She did me great service.”

“Good morning, Major.” The lad’s scrawny shoulders were hunched and his chin stuck out, like he had a bone to pick with someone. “Glad you’re finally back.” There was a certain satisfaction in Timmy’s tone. “Oh, I can’t wait to see Devane’s face now that yer here.”

Marcus froze in his tracks. He turned.

Timmy had led the mare into the barn.

Marcus strode inside, blinking his eyes quickly to adjust to the light. Usually the scent of hay and manure made him feel at home, now all he experienced was a sudden nausea in his hollow belly. “What the hell are you talking about, Timmy?”

Timmy grunted, hauling a bucket over to Polly’s stall. “Blast, it’s aint right, if ya ask me.”

“What’s not right?” Marcus asked, schooling his impatience to cool. The lad would tell him, he just wanted his drama. Well, Marcus would give him thirty seconds. Mentally he ticked off the time as he eyed the mounts in the row of stalls. His father had always been a horse enthusiast and had often asked donors to contribute in horse-flesh to maintain Andersen Hall’s stable. Not one of the horses would be deemed acceptable by polite Society as a “park hack”, yet it was a modest, if respectable stable.

“Women tearin’ off in the middle of the night,” Timmy declared. Keeping his eyes trained on the brush as he
swept the mare’s flank, his surly expression deepened into a full-blown scowl.

Marcus’s heart skipped a beat. “Who?” he asked, but he already knew the answer.

The lad busied himself at the mare’s shoulder, keeping his eyes averted. “Miss Miller.” Timmy glowered. The pace of the brushing accelerated. “And I’d bet a good saddle it’s that blasted Devane’s fault.”

Jealousy flashed through him like whipcord. Marcus ground his teeth. “Prescott Devane?”

“Yeah. The bugger thinks ’e’s better ’an us. With ’is fancy coats and full a pretension—”

Trying to keep his tone level, Marcus interrupted, “Is Miss Miller all right? What did Devane do?”

“’Er ’ead’s in the clouds is all. Carryin’ men’s clothes around—”

“His clothes?” Marcus shook his head, his anxiety soaring. “What the hell’s been going on here?”

“Devilry!” Timmy declared, attacking the horse’s withers with the brush. The mare nickered and stepped sideways. The lad laid his hand on her neck and she relaxed. Timmy resumed brushing. “The ’eadmaster’s barely cold an’ ’e’s movin’ into the man’s bed. The man’s bed for lawd’s sake!”

Anger swept over him like a brush fire. “Prescott Devane moved into my father’s rooms?”

“They say ’e’s a hero. But it’s the oldest trick in the book.” Timmy stepped around the mare, stabbing the brush in the air to enunciate each point. “The chits get all a’ swoon when a man acts all gel’nt—”

“You mean gallant?”

“Yeah. The ol’ knight in shining armor trick. Works every time.” He spit into the hay. “Although I’d a thought Miss Miller was smarter than that.” Tossing the brush into a bucket, Timmy reached for a comb. “I’ll bet ’e’s even
faking the injuries. That’s the second oldest trick in the book; the ol’ nurse ploy. Plays on a woman’s sympathies. Take a fine woman like Miss Miller, and between the hero maneuver and the nursing ruse, she’s lost fer good.”

Marcus’s heart was pounding through his chest so hard it hurt. Blood roared in his ears. He didn’t recall leaving the stable or even walking the path to the main house. He simply found himself standing before his father’s wood-paneled door, the same door where years before he’d painted the white jar.

“Dear Lord, your hands are like magic.” It was Devane’s voice. “I never thought such a little thing could feel so heavenly, Cat.”

Marcus saw red. He punched the door open and it bounded against the wall with a crash.

Cat turned, her eyes wide with surprise. “Marcus!”

She stood beside the bed where Devane sat on the edge. The bed was unmade. His clothes were strewn on the floor.

“Hey!” Devane cried as if Marcus was the trespasser.

Marcus’s eyes flew to Devane’s drawers, which hung short to the calves. The sight of his naked feet sent the last vestiges of Marcus’s restraint over the edge. Stomping over, he grabbed the intruder by the collar of his dandified purple coat, yanked him into the air and tossed him onto the floor.

Devane landed on his bandaged hands and howled like a wounded dog. But then Devane rolled over and scooted away, defter than Marcus would have expected for a
supposedly
injured man.

Grabbing Marcus’s arm, Cat cried, “Stop it, Marcus!”

That she would defend this scum ripped something fragile inside of him. Tossing her off, Cat rebounded off the bed and he couldn’t help himself; he was thankful that she wasn’t hurt.

He was the one in pain. His heart burned with a scorch
ing ache that made him feel razed by its devastation. His eyes burned, his mouth tasted of bile. If he weren’t so bloody mad, he’d be sick.

Dr. Winner tore into the chamber. “What the hell is going on?”

Mrs. Nagel rushed to Devane’s side, screaming, “What’s the matter with you?” She threw her arms around the quaking sod. “Can’t you see that he’s hurt?”

Cat stood before Marcus, blocking his path to Devane.

“Move aside,” Marcus growled.

Instead of budging, Cat jumped up and threw her arms around his neck, hanging on for dear life as if she could stop him. She was so brave, his little lioness. But she was not
his
. No longer his. Betrayed. Again, betrayed.

“Stop and look at me, Marcus,” she begged, her voice muffled by his coat. She hung on him, her arms around his neck, her legs dangling beneath her. She was rushing to Devane’s rescue, trying to protect her lover. Fighting their enemy. He stood frozen, feeling suddenly cold. Terribly cold. He didn’t care any longer. He couldn’t; it hurt too much.

“Look at me, Marcus.” Cat placed a palm to his cheek, drawing his gaze down to hers as she sank onto her tiptoes. “Please. Look in my eye.”

Those luminous gray eyes. He’d never quite identified the color. Smoky. Nay. Slate? Storm? Cold, icy, tempest? No. He was seeing things. For all of her unfaithfulness, she was never cold, not his fiery, passionate Cat.

But not his. Never to be his. He was winter, dark, lonely winter, filled with black frost. She was golden-haired, citrus-scented spring, teasing him with her proximity, but never to be his.

“It’s all right, Marcus,” she soothed. “I’m here.”

But it was not all right. It would never be. Not really. He welcomed the coldness, draping the loneliness around
him like a chilly shroud that could shield him from the pain. Numbness was better than feeling this…agony. It buffeted him, making his knees weak. But as he did when on duty, he locked his legs, braced his muscles and leaned into the assault, closing himself off from the pain.

“What the hell is wrong with him?” Winner exclaimed as he and Mrs. Nagel helped Devane to stand.

“Why did he attack poor Prescott?” Mrs. Nagel cried.

Everyone was against him, Marcus realized. Just as they had been before. He was alone. The Wolf, Tam had called him. Perhaps his sergeant had been right. Mayhap he was destined to travel alone. Die a lonely, bitter man.

“Prescott, can you stand?” Cat asked over her shoulder.

“Yes.”

“Help him outside,” Cat directed the other two. “Then close the door.”

“Cat—” Prescott argued.

Mrs. Nagel scowled. “Now see here, Catherine—”

“Just go! He won’t hurt me.”

“How can you—?”

“Just leave!”

The threesome shuffled out, shooting Marcus glares as they went with obvious reluctance.

Marcus was so numb he hardly even cared.

“Close the door,” Cat ordered.

It shut with a reverberating thud.

Her heart was thumping against his chest, he realized. Fast, warm. But it could not penetrate his chill. He wondered if he’d ever be warm again.

Slowly, her arms drifted downward as she released him, dropped to the floor and stepped away. Watching him with a wary eye, she moved sideways, never turning her back to him. After everything they’d shared, how could she believe that he’d intentionally harm her?

Reaching the armchair, she leaned over and lifted the footrest from the floor. She turned and walked over, placing it before the tips of his boots. She was so close that her silky hair grazed his fingertips. Unthinking, his fingers flexed as if to reach for the golden tresses, but instead he clenched his hand into a fist.

Then, she stood on the footrest, using it like a stool.

Those beautiful gray eyes were level with his. Her pert nose was barely inches from his own and those delicious pink-bowed lips were so close he could smell the mint on her breath. It reminded him of a magical morning only a short time ago. Through the frost, his heart pinched.

A line marred her lovely brow and her lips were pressed tightly in a troubled frown. She exhaled loudly, her breath washed over him in a minty breeze.

“How’s Tam?” she asked, surprising him. “Is he all right?”

“He’ll need to ice his bollocks,” popped out of his mouth of its own volition.

Her lips lifted slightly and the crease between her brows eased. “Other than his…privates, how is he?”

He shrugged. “Fine.”

“And Renfrew?”

“Dead.” That’s how Marcus felt. Cold, lifeless, the blood having drained out of him, leaving nothing left but an empty corpse.

“He was guilty?”

“Very.”

“I’m so sorry, Marcus.” Sadness filled her gaze. Gently, she grazed a hand over his cheek. “It must have been awful for you, Marcus. I’m so sorry you had to deal with that.”

Despite himself, something inside him stirred. She understood. He ignored the impulse to press his cheek into her palm.

“How do you feel?” she asked softly.

He swallowed, wondering why they were even having this conversation. “Bleak.”

Shaking her head, she sighed. Reaching up, she brushed a lock of hair from his brow. He wondered where his hat had gone.

“So soft,” she murmured. “When I was little, I used to wonder if it was as soft as it looked. It is.”

Her fingers soothed his brow, gently gliding over his temples.

He swallowed, not wanting it to feel so good. Not wanting to feel anything.

“Do you know,” she murmured, “while we were growing up I used to jump and hide whenever you came near?”

Gentle fingers combed through his hair, raising tingles along his scalp.

“You terrified me.”

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he rasped.

“Oh, I wasn’t afraid that you’d hurt me.” Her gaze tempered, but her fingers never stopped traveling, caressing, soothing all over his face, feeling so lovely that he wanted to close his eyes. But he didn’t. He wanted to look her in the eye when she broke the news to him. He wanted to remember her every expression when she ended it. She would be kind, he knew, it was her nature. And he would memorize her features and her tone and how she acted the day she crushed his heart into a thousand pieces of rubble.

“I was afraid of how you made me feel.” Fingers traced his jaw, oblivious to his unseen pain.

He swallowed. “And how was that?”

Her brow furrowed, and her eyes drifted up to the left. Her fingers ceased moving and a shaft of disappointment knifed through him. “Flustered. Nervous. Like I had ants crawling under my skin and inside my middle.”

“Ants?” That didn’t sound good.

Her eyes met his, smoldering, intense. “And warm.” Enchanting fingers grazed his features as she spoke. “It would start with my cheeks.” Her hand drifted over the fuzz covering his cheek. “Then move up to my hair.” She grazed his brow. “My whole head would heat up as if I’d moved too close to a hot stove.” Her pink lips bowed into a dreamy smile. “That’s what you were to me, Marcus. A fire. Blazing, dangerous…exciting…” Her eyes locked with his and his heart skipped a beat. “But not anymore.”

He braced himself. Now she would tell him that the flames had petered out. How she was fond enough of him, but that the fire was gone. She had a new love. A new man who made her flame. Devane now drew her passion.

“It’s different, now,” she murmured, her voice husky. “Because the fire burns from deep within me. Hotter, more intense.” Her hand drifted down his collar to his chest and slipped through the opening of his coat to his shirt. He could feel her hand pressing against his heartbeat as if holding it in her palm. “It never goes out,” she continued. “Just smolders, flames, blazes hot, then smolders again. It’s with me, always. Like you are always with me.”

He blinked, confused. This didn’t sound like a typical “go our separate ways” speech. Granted, Cat had never done this before, but still, it was a pretty straightforward business…

The hand beneath his coat gently slid up and down in the hollow of his pectorals, feeling so reassuring, he didn’t quite know what to make of it.