The Marker (14 page)
The feel of his breath against the delicate skin of her neck made her shiver. She swiveled to look at him over her shoulder, and he leaned in to kiss her, took her lower lip between his teeth, and sucked gently.
“God, I want you, Lexie.”
If that were so, why didn’t he take her? It wasn’t as if she wasn’t willing.
It hit her then. He may have the reputation of a disreputable rake, but he was being honorable with her. He fumbled with the buttons of her bodice, his hands shaking as he assisted her with her dress. He was as affected by their interlude as she. Only, rather than taking his pleasures, he thought of her. Her needs. Her reputation. Her heart.
Her heart was warmed by his actions. Mrs. Ferguson had been right about him: he was an honorable man despite himself, capable of so much more than his reputation implied. And, as the coach stopped, he smiled at her and descended immediately. Taking her hand, he assisted her into his house as if nothing had happened between them.
Standing in his foyer, he released her hand, and she turned to go to her room near the kitchen.
“Miss Markland.”
His voice drew her attention. Without him touching her, she felt cold. She missed his touch already.
He strode to her purposefully, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her on the mouth. By the time she had the chance to respond, he had pulled away. A part of her—a large part—was disappointed.
Lowering his hands to his sides, he took a step away from her. His turquoise eyes glittered when he said, “This isn’t finished between us, Lexie.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but he had already turned from her, leaving her looking at his back as he ascended the great, curving staircase leading to his bedroom.
She stared up those stairs long after he'd disappeared.
She pressed a hand to her forehead, silently cursing herself. Despite everything that had happened tonight, somehow she'd let Nicholas get away without telling him the truth.
That in their little battle of wills, he'd won.
Lexie woke with the worst headache of her life. Memories of Nicholas’s kisses flooded her, and her body ached, hot and hungry.
Rising, Lexie rummaged through in her compact wardrobe. She considered putting on her maid uniform, but after last night, she wasn’t sure she wanted Nicholas to view her as his servant, so she put on the faded red dress she had worn the day he had come to claim her.
Her battle with Nicholas Wetherby was over.
Oh, she still hadn’t talked to him, had somehow managed to remain silent. She struck that thought: it hadn’t been fortitude so much as simple chance that she hadn’t spoken to him. She’d been so stunned by the passion in his touch she’d been rendered speechless, and once he had stopped kissing her, she’d been afraid her voice would betray her and so held her tongue. So when she spoke to him this afternoon—and she planned to—she didn’t want him thinking of her position in his household. She wanted him thinking of her.
She made her way out to the kitchen and fixed herself some tea, hoping that would settle her roiling stomach, ease her aching head.
Too much wine and too many of Nicholas’s kisses
, she thought wryly as her tea steeped,
could do that to a girl.
So when the time came to do her chores, Lexie was almost grateful when Mrs. Ferguson insisted Lexie attend her while she ran her errands, taking her to market. It got her out of the house, and would give her something to think about other than the sensation of Nicholas’s mouth on hers, his hands on her body. She pushed thoughts of Nicholas away as she and Mrs. Ferguson began their tasks.
Scorchingly hot at barely ten in the morning, Lexie was already sweating under her corset. Her head throbbed, and the bright sun glinting off the water of the river burned her eyes and only served to make her headache worse. But she had signed on as Mrs. Ferguson’s assistant, and what Mrs. Ferguson wanted, she got. Lexie suspected that what Mrs. Ferguson wanted more than anything were details on Lexie’s evening with Nicholas, but Lexie wasn’t feeling inclined to share. She hardly knew what
she
thought of what had passed between her and Nicholas. She wasn’t sure she wanted to add the opinions of others.
She should want to forget the sensation of Nicholas’s lips against hers, forget how his hands had caressed her bare arms, how the faint stubble on his cheeks had felt against her skin. She should want to forget about how those strong arms had encircled her, what it had been like as he held her in his fine coach. Looking down at her dress, she sighed heavily: she should have worn her maid’s uniform. She should try to maintain her distance, pretend what happened the night before was the result of too much to drink and forget about it. If she could forget, the memories wouldn’t torture her in the future.
She sighed again. There were a lot of things she
should
do she knew she wouldn’t.
For too long, she had remained true to her word in not speaking to him. Over the past weeks, she had thought that by not speaking to him, he would be deterred, but he hadn’t been. She had thought silence and distance would protect her heart, and she was fair certain it hadn’t.
After what happened last night, despite every precaution, she somehow had managed to fall for the charms of her employer. Like every other woman he’d ever met. She’d always thought herself immune to such things. She didn’t believe in love or passion. She’d marry for money and comfort and was above such foolish ideas.
How Fate must have laughed. A few weeks being in the presence of Nicholas Wetherby, and her notions of passion were reduced to nothing but ash.
Lexie shielded her eyes from the blinding sun and trudged after the ever-chatty Mrs. Ferguson. As they entered the butcher shop, the scent of the meat assailed her, and her stomach, still touchy from last night’s revelry, clenched. Turning to Mrs. Ferguson, Lexie said,
“I think I’ll go stand outside.”
Mrs. Ferguson fixed Lexie with her steely, blue-eyed glare and put a worried hand to her forehead. “Are ye all right? Ye look a bit flushed.”
Lexie shook her head dismissively, smiling at the older woman for her show of compassion. It had been a long time since anyone had shown her such concern and, for some reason, Mrs. Ferguson’s kindness reminded Lexie of what life had been like before her mother had died and her father fully succumbed to the lure of the drink and the game. She blinked back sudden tears.
“I’m all right. I think I need some air.”
“You’re sure?” Mrs. Ferguson asked, disbelief evident in her tone. Lexie nodded, and the older woman furrowed her brow but gave her a congenial pat on the shoulder. “I just need to pick up a few things and then I’ll be out. You’ll be all right?”
Lexie’s lips turned up in the shadow of a smile. “Of course. It’s my own fault, to be sure. But I’d be much obliged if we kept this short.”
“Och, lass, ye should’ve told me you’re not well. I’ll be as fast as I can.”
“I’m fine,” Lexie protested weakly. “I’ll be right outside.”
The heat was oppressive, but she felt better here in the shade than inside the butcher shop, where the scent of meat and men mingled to form a rather unappealing aroma. Despite the temperature, at least out here a mild breeze blew off of the river, carrying a hint of cool moisture, along with the faint smell of fertile soil and fish. Wiping her brow, the sound of a woman’s voice, angry and loud, assaulted her.
“You good-for-nothing child! You wretched, wicked thing!”
Lexie glanced over and saw a golden-haired woman pulling a dark-haired, dark-eyed boy by the arm. He wasn’t more than six, and he clutched a wriggling bullfrog to his chest. The boy glared up at the woman, his mouth set in a stubborn line, and his hand loosened its hold on the frog. The animal leapt from his hand and hit the woman in the skirts.
She did a spastic jig in the middle of the street as she batted the creature away from her skirts, screaming the whole while, and the sound grated to Lexie’s sensitive ears. She was about to turn away from the domestic squabble when the woman lifted her hand and struck the boy. Even as her blow landed with a loud crack, he maintained a stony silence—not a whimper, not a cry, no tears.
Without thought, Lexie acted. Her father had hit her often enough, though never as such a small child—the beatings had only started in earnest after Lexie’s mother had died. Every time he’d beaten her, Lexie had wished someone would come to her rescue. No one ever had, not until the day Nicholas came to her door and took her away, and that could hardly be termed a rescue, since she was, in theory, little more than an indentured servant. Surely the crime of collecting a bullfrog did not warrant such treatment.
The woman raised her hand to strike the boy again, but before she landed her blow, Lexie descended the steps to the street and caught the woman’s hand in hers. “Enough,” Lexie hissed.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?”
“You don’t need to hit him.” Out of the corner of her eye, Lexie noticed the boy’s gaze shift from the woman to Lexie and back. Deciding to put his lot in with Lexie, he started to inch toward her, and before long, he stood beside her as if he belonged with her and not the other woman. It made her sad for him.
“Did you
see
what he had?” the woman demanded, her shrill voice cutting through Lexie’s head like a knife.
She shrugged, and closed her eyes against the throbbing of her head. “It was just a frog. Surely that doesn’t warrant a public flogging. After all, he’s just a little boy.”
The woman sneered at her. “He’s a hateful, dirty little thing! I caught him in the mud down by the river! Why I thought to take this job is beyond me! They are as bad as their savage mother!”
Lexie was aghast. “You mean he’s not even yours?”
“As if I would ever have such dirty, disrespectful, rambunctious children!” she exclaimed with a derisive snort. She glared at something behind Lexie’s shoulder and shrieked, “I quit!”
Lexie turned, and the boy standing beside her shouted, “Mama!” and raced up the steps to a tall, beautiful, well-dressed woman with dark hair and smooth, dark features, her golden skin speaking of the native blood surely running in her veins.
“Daniel Michael O’Connor, what have you done this time?” she asked in a cultured voice. Her head whipped around, desperately searching for something, and she demanded, “Where is your brother?”
The boy shrugged. “I don’t know, Mama. He was with me down by the river’s edge—”
“Is he still there?” his mother shrieked.
“I don’t know!”
Lexie didn’t think; she simply acted. Down the road, she spotted a crying, dark-haired little boy, smaller than his brother, in the center of the road. Her heart leapt to her throat. A cart was barreling down upon him. Both the child and the driver of the cart seemed oblivious to the presence of the other. The boy would be trampled if she didn’t do something.
Racing down the dusty street, she snatched the boy up in her arms. She registered little about her environment: the warm, small body in her arms, the whinnying of horses, and pain as some part of the cart struck her hard on the shoulder. Reeling, she stumbled, lost her balance, and went down.
Careful to keep her body wrapped around the little boy as she fell, she cradled him against the impact with her body. Her head struck something hard and for a moment she saw stars, followed by blissful darkness. When next she opened her eyes, the driver and the boys’ mother were beside her, all three leaning over her, their faces anxious.
Kneeling beside Lexie, the boys’ mother looked them over for injuries, and then turned to Lexie. The woman touched her with gentle hands. “Are you all right?”
Lexie shook her head to clear it. Her fall had done nothing but make a bad headache that much worse, only now she was distinctly nauseous as well. “I think it’s nothing a good nap and some tea won’t fix,” she said, trying to keep her tone light for the boys’ sake.
“Do you think you can walk?” the driver asked, his cap in his hand.
Lexie nodded, and they helped her up and to a bench back up on the boardwalk. The cart driver anxiously twisted his cap in his hands, and, despite her pain, she took pity on him. “I’m fine, really. You should be on your way.” And, eager to be dismissed so easily, he turned and left.
The boys’ mother sat down next to her on the bench, and Lexie noticed how tall the woman was, as tall as many men. Lexie not only felt small, but plain next to such a beautiful woman dressed in such fine clothes.
“I’m Claire O’Connor,” she said, extending her hand. “And these are my sons, Daniel and Thomas. You saved my boy today.” She paused, and, even groggy from hitting her head and too much wine the night before, Lexie noted how Claire’s eyes misted with tears. “I’m in your debt.”
Lexie closed her eyes and waved her hand. “I’m Lexie, Lexie Markland, and it was nothing. Anyone would have done what I did. It’s hardly heroic, Mrs. O’Connor.”
Claire smiled weakly. “Please, call me Claire. As for heroic, well...it is to me,” she said, and Lexie was touched at such sentiment.
“And Mama,” Daniel interrupted. “She made Miss Carolyn stop hitting me, too, when I brought a frog up from the river!”
Claire closed her eyes and drew a long breath. “So that’s why she quit. I told you no more animals after the last incident. That’s the third nanny this year,” she said with a sigh, trying to be firm, and ultimately failing. She hugged both boys to her shoulder. “Miss Markland, it appears I am doubly in your debt.”
Lexie shook her head and glanced over at the younger boy, Thomas. “Are you okay?”
The little boy nodded and stuck his thumb in his mouth. His mother gently removed it, and, with a smile, said, “He’s two, and not very talkative when he thinks he’s in trouble.” Giving him a stern look, she said, “Which he is.”
To Daniel, Lexie said, “And how old are you?”
“I’ll be six.”
Claire laughed. “Next summer! He’s five.” Looking around, she asked, “Is there somewhere I can take you?”
Lexie saw Mrs. Ferguson making her way down the street. “No, ma’am,” she said, and Claire blinked with astonishment, though Lexie couldn’t imagine why.
