Surrender Becomes Her (32 page)

When darkness fell, he descended the tree and walked to where his horse had been staked out with food and water within easy reach. His expression was abstracted as he mounted and rode away.

His observations today only confirmed what he already suspected: the Sherbrook estate was too large to make his task simple and, as he reminded himself, time was running out. He had to strike and strike swiftly if anything was to be
salvaged and, unfortunately, there appeared only one sure way that he could accomplish his task as quickly as possible.

If Whitley was to be believed, the key to solving his current problem lay somewhere within the vast Sherbrook estate. All he had to do, he thought with a grimace, was find it. And he could see only one sure way that would accomplish that task, swiftly and with as little violence as possible. He sighed. It wouldn’t be pretty, but unless something else occurred to him in the next few hours, he wouldn’t have much choice.

He shook his head in disgust. Christ! Sometimes there was little question, indeed, that he really was a bastard.

I
sabel woke Monday morning in Marcus’s bed. She stretched luxuriously, delighting in the feel of a healthy body well used by an inventive lover. Smiling, she stared overhead at the silk canopy, thinking of the night just passed and all the marvelous things she had learned about her own body and her husband’s as well. Marriage, she decided, was wonderful!

Though the hour was early, daylight just filtering in from behind the heavy drapes, before he left several minutes ago she vaguely remembered Marcus pressing a warm kiss on her shoulder and mentioning something about meeting his steward to tour several of the farms on the estate. He would be gone until late afternoon.

Yawning, she sat up in the bed and glanced around for her clothing. Spying her robe slung across one of the chairs and her gown tossed on the floor near the bed, she smiled again. Thinking of the way Marcus had made impatient work of her garments last night and the things he did to her with his mouth and hands, a delicious shiver went down her spine.

She left the bed and, shortly, bathed and gowned and having eaten the toast and tea that Peggy had brought up to her, she hurried across the foyer and out the massive front doors of the house. A smile lit her face as she stepped into the May sunshine and, happier than she had ever thought possible,
after telling Thompson her destination, she fairly skipped to the barn.

Since Marcus was away and construction had not started on any of the improvements, she decided that a call on her former father-in-law and his bride was in order. During the few days she’d been in residence at Sherbrook Hall, though her attention had been taken up with other things, such as Marcus’s lovemaking, Lord Manning’s health had never been far from her mind. Today was the perfect time to pay a visit to Manning Court and see for herself how the old baron was faring.

As she walked down the wide aisles of the barn, in spite of all the good things in her life right now, there was, however, one tiny cloud on her horizon. It was so small and, she told herself firmly, not of the
utmost
importance, that she tried not to dwell on it or allow it to dampen her cheerful mood. Even as she tried to pretend it wasn’t vital to her happiness, she knew she was lying to herself and, despite her best intentions, she couldn’t help wondering how Marcus really felt about her. She knew her own heart, had known for years that she was madly, helplessly in love with Marcus Sherbrook, but what did he feel for her? Was it only mere affection he had for her? Or did he love her as a woman deserves,
needs
, to be loved by the man who holds her heart?

Even as she led her horse from its stall and absently refused the help of the stable boy who rushed forward to aid her, her mind was on Marcus and whether or not he was in love with her. Quickly and efficiently, she saddled and bridled her horse, a spirited little chestnut mare, and within moments was riding in the direction of Manning Court.

The mare knew the way and Isabel’s thoughts were free to roam as the mare daintily picked her way through the dappled sunlight of the forestland that separated the Manning and Sherbrook estates. It was a lovely morning, but Isabel was only peripherally aware of her surroundings.

She didn’t question for a moment that Marcus had a deep
fondness for her. Nor did she question that he took enormous pleasure in her body, in the marriage bed, but she couldn’t pretend that theirs had been a normal courtship and marriage.

Their marriage, she admitted glumly, had not come about because Marcus had really wanted to marry her, but because of a series of complicated circumstances. She smiled faintly. His innate desire to protect her had prompted his brazen announcement to Whitley that they were betrothed, and she’d wager her best horse that it had never occurred to him that he might actually have to marry her. Recalling the expression on his face that night at Manning Court when he had realized that there was no way out of the engagement, her lips drooped. While he had shown no great distress, he certainly hadn’t danced a jig of joy. Forlornly, she reminded herself that the wedding itself had been none of their making: the baron’s fragile health had been as effective as a sword held over their heads. Again, Marcus had had no choice, but, she thought a bit more cheerfully, he had married her without the least reluctance.

She frowned. Had it been only his strong sense of honor and affection for Lord Manning that had prompted his actions? Or simply something more prosaic: the need for a son to carry on the Sherbrook name? She grinned at that thought. Marcus had never struck her as someone who worried about his legacy or what would become of his fortune and estates in the future, and she dismissed the notion that the need for an heir had been behind the ease with which he had accepted their betrothal and marriage.

Isabel had been so lost in her own musings that she had not realized how far she had traveled and, when the mare suddenly stopped, she looked up surprised to find herself in the courtyard in the front of Manning Court. A stable boy came running to hold her horse, the front doors of the mansion opened, and Deering, a broad smile on his face, hurried across the terrace to meet her.

“Oh, madame! It is so good to see you,” he said in greeting. “And I know his lordship and Lady Manning will be very happy that you have come to call.”

Jumping down lightly from the mare, Isabel handed the reins to the stable boy and ran up the steps to join Deering. As they walked toward the house, she asked, “I know it has only been a few days, but how is he doing?”

“Splendidly!” Deering cast her a sly glance. “And forgive me for being so bold, but I must say that marriage appears to agree with you also.”

Isabel laughed. “Oh, it does, Deering, it does indeed.”

She found Lord and Lady Manning sitting in a small stone courtyard at the rear of the house. Roses and peonies, with the occasional tall, graceful willow casting patches of shade here and there, surrounded the area. Shaded by one of the willows, Lord and Lady Manning were taking their ease in a pair of wrought-iron chairs, the hard lines softened by cushions in shades of green and gold. Several other chairs were scattered about and, off to one side, a round iron table held the remains of what had been a light repast.

A huge smile broke across Lord Manning’s face at the sight of Isabel and, rising to his feet, he met her halfway. Holding her shoulders, he stared down into her face and said, “Now this is a pleasant surprise. Clara and I were just talking about you and Marcus and wondering how you were doing in your new home.”

On tiptoe she pressed a kiss to his cheek and replied, “As you can see, I am doing well.” She ran an assessing gaze over him, pleased to see that his gaze was bright and alert and that his color looked good. Most important, the ease with which he had arisen and walked to greet her banished the faint, lingering worry that his illness had left him completely crippled or incapacitated. He had not escaped unscathed, though, and as they rejoined Clara, she was conscious of the slight hesitation to his step and she noticed when he had gripped her
shoulders that his left arm was weaker than she would like, but overall, he appeared to be making an excellent recovery.

After a brief hug and a kiss on Clara’s sweetly rose-scented cheek, Isabel took a chair beside the pair of them.

“Would you like some tea, my dear?” Clara asked. “I can ring for Deering. I’m afraid what is on the table is cold by now.”

Isabel shook her head. “No. I’m fine.” She looked from one smiling face to the other and said, “And it would appear that the pair of you are doing just fine, too.”

Lord Manning laid his hand over Clara’s soft, plump one and said, “Indeed we are. We have decided that my illness was actually fortunate. Without it, you’d still be dithering on a wedding date and Clara and I would still be pining for each other.” He beetled his brows at her. “Forgiven me yet for rushing you to the altar?”

“There was never anything to forgive,” Isabel said truthfully. “But next time you wish me to do something, could you choose a less dramatic way to accomplish it?”

Lord Manning guffawed. “I’ve missed that tart tongue of yours, and Edmund’s spirited presence.” He flashed Clara an apologetic look and added hastily, “Not that Clara and I aren’t content in each other’s company.”

“That’s very true,” Clara said, with a fond smile at him, “but it will be most enjoyable when Edmund is back and stirring things up a bit for the two of us.” She looked at Isabel, an impish gleam in her eyes. “Too much peace and quiet will turn us into a pair of doddering old crotchets. Edmund will keep our step lively…and then, of course, I’m sure that you and Marcus will present us with some honorary grandchildren, won’t you, my dear?”

For a moment, Isabel’s mind went blank. With everything that had gone on recently, she’d not yet given any thought to a child. Why, this time next year, she realized excitedly, she could be holding her own child, her and Marcus’s baby in her
arms. Joy blossomed through her and she exclaimed, “Oh, I do, indeed, hope so!”

It was mid afternoon when Isabel eventually rode away from Manning Court and toward Sherbrook Hall, taking the path by which she had come. She had not meant to stay so long, but the older couple had pressed her to join them for an alfresco luncheon and she could not deny them. Relaxed and smiling, she was in no hurry to reach home, content simply to enjoy the warm afternoon and dwell on the miraculous path her life had taken.

The secret surrounding Edmund’s birth was safe, and if she had not loved Marcus before, she would have adored him for the way he immediately became her ally in securing Edmund’s future. The burden she had carried for so long had been lifted from her shoulders and, she thought with a faint smile, her pesky virginity had been taken care of, too. Marcus was…oh,
very
good at solving problems.

Clara’s mention of possible children flitted through her mind and, dreaming of the children she might someday bear, she was oblivious to the world around her. Her mare gave her the first hint, stopping and snorting in the middle of the narrow path.

Jerked from her daydreams of gray-eyed, black-haired little boys and girls, her reaction was slow, and before she knew it, the horsemen were upon her. She barely glimpsed the pair of them, the lower halves of their faces hidden by handkerchiefs as they rushed out of the woods on either side of her, before a heavy dark blanket was thrown over her and she was lifted easily off her horse by one of them.

More outraged than frightened, she struggled to escape. “Unhand me, you blackguard!” she ordered. Her position, slung over the horse in front of the rider, made escape nearly impossible. Her arms were tangled in the blanket, and with her head dangling over one side of the horse and her feet the other, she could gain no purchase.

Her captor gave her buttocks a sharp slap and said, “Be still! You keep wiggling like that and you’re going to end up falling on your head.”

Enraged that he had taken such liberties, Isabel turned her head and bit him on the thigh.

“Jesus Christ!” the man gasped. “You bit me!”

“And I’ll do more, if you don’t release me at once!”

To her astonishment a soft chuckle met her ear. “Unfortunately, madame, that is beyond my power. Now, be a good little wench and this will soon be over with nothing hurt but your pride.”

Isabel frowned. Her captor’s voice was that of an educated man, his tone and words not that of a common footpad. What the devil was happening? Her breath caught, and she demanded, “Is Whitley behind this? Did he hire you to abduct me?”

“I think,” said the stranger, “that I should be the one asking questions. Now hang on, we have some ground to travel.” And he kicked his horse into a fast gallop that made talk impossible.

As the horse swiftly bore her away from the place of her abduction, the possibility that she might be in real danger occurred to Isabel. She wasn’t frightened, exactly, but as her first burst of anger dissipated, neither was she sanguine about her position. The fact that both men had worn handkerchiefs over their faces made it impossible to identify them, and instinct told her that they were strangers to her. Or rather, she amended, she couldn’t imagine someone she knew abducting her in this bold, insolent fashion. Which raised the question, why had she been taken in the first place?

The ride, considering her uncomfortable position, was not overly long, but they traveled at speed and had crossed, by her count, three streams. Crisscrossing? Covering their tracks? When the horses stopped a short while later, she breathed a sigh of relief. She had no idea where she was, but she knew that they couldn’t be too far away from either Manning Court or Sherbrook Hall.

Her captor swung out of the saddle. A second later, he lifted her down and, like a sack of potatoes, threw her over his shoulder.

A hint of laughter in his voice, he said, “I apologize for the rough treatment, madame, but this is the easiest way to transport you to your, er, abode.”

With her firmly anchored across his shoulder, he scrambled across the ground, climbing slightly, and as they climbed, Isabel heard the heavy breathing and the occasional vicious curse made by the other man as he followed. Her captor may have some polish, but his companion, if his speech was anything to go by, was as common as dirt.

Upon reaching their destination, the man carrying her pushed open a door—one not used often, she thought, if the creak and the scrape it made across the floor was anything to go by. Inside, she was set on her feet, her captor’s hands on her shoulders holding her steady until she could stand by herself.

The instant his hands left her shoulders, Isabel grabbed the blanket and tugged at it, suddenly needing to be free of the smothering folds.

The companion saw what she was doing and yelled, “Damn her eyes! Grab her! She’ll be free of that blanket in a moment.”

Two hard hands caught her, stifling her movements and, in frustration, Isabel kicked out wildly. By luck, her foot connected with someone’s shin and she was pleased by the sound of his painful yelp.

“Dash it all! Will you be still? I don’t want to hurt you, but if you keep this up, you’ll force me to do something you won’t like.”