The Marquess (20 page)

“Anytime, guv’nor. You’re welcome back
anytime. We keep our traps shut and respect our patron’s privacy.”

The marquess didn’t reply but strode out into the late
afternoon warmth in the direction of the stable. Dillian scampered to keep up.
She found his moods impossible to sort out. One minute he jested, the next, he
clouded up like a thunderstorm. She might as well follow a tempest.

On the theory that the first strike worked best, she
taunted, “The innkeeper never noticed your pretty face. What’s the
point in keeping that blamed hat pulled down over it in this heat?”

“Heat?” To her surprise, he sounded amused. “You
call this heat? It’s warmer than this in the dead of night in a Georgia
winter.”

Dillian gasped as he turned, grabbed her by the waist, and
threw her up in the saddle. The hard grip of his hands around her waist left
her breathless, which he no doubt intended since he continued talking without
waiting for her reply.

“Your friendly innkeeper expected payment for keeping
his mouth shut. He thought you my catamite. In comparison to that, my pretty
face is little cause for comment.”

He threw himself into his saddle and jerked the reins to
trot his horse from the stable into the sunshine, throwing a coin in the
direction of the stable boy who had saddled the animals.

“A cat what?” Dillian stared at his broad back.
His tone indicated grim distaste, yet she heard irony in his words.

He looked over his shoulder at her. “I suppose
that’s something else they don’t teach ladies. You’ve lived
in this world how many years? You can’t be as innocent as you seem.”

Dillian scowled as he faced the road again. “I’ve
lived long enough to distrust all men. I suppose he must have thought us
capable of some kind of perversity.”

“Very good,” floated over his shoulder as they
rode out of the yard. “Reflects intellect and innocence at the same time.
You’re quite good at this game, Miss Whitnell. Why hasn’t some man
snatched you up before this? Or does the change of names have something to do
with a hidden husband?”

She wanted to hit him. If she had a gun, his broad shoulders
would make an inviting target. “The innkeeper was quite right, my lord,”
she shouted back at him. “You are perverse.”

He chuckled and continued on in silence.

This time, Dillian kept a close eye on the road they took
and the places they passed as they approached Arinmede Manor. If for any reason
they must flee this place, she wanted to know in which direction.

Dusk became dark as they reached the village nearest the
manor. The local tavern spilled light and song, but all else appeared quiet.
Dillian noticed the marquess took the back roads around town rather than the
more direct path down the main street. She supposed it wise to conceal the fact
that the marquess had left his lair for any amount of time. He wouldn’t
want his appearance in Hampshire connected with his departure from here.

He’d discarded his great coat and broad-brimmed hat at
dusk. Now he withdrew his cloak from his bags and threw it on. The night had
cooled considerably, but Dillian thought the change of clothing more for
disguise than warmth. Both coat and cloak were distinctive enough for people to
notice, but few would connect the two, unless someone got a close look at the
marquess’s face. He made it a point to let no one get that close.

“Surely, you don’t think someone will have noticed
our comings and goings,” she said as she rode her mount up next to his.

“I’ve learned it’s best to take no
chances. Your garb is nondescript enough not to call attention. I would prefer
that the rumors confirm the Marquess of Effingham haunts only the streets of
Arinmede.”

“‘Haunts’ is right,” she grumbled. “You
creep around like a ghost. Where’s the point, I ask you? You’re
lord of the manor, provider of all you survey. People would worship at your
feet did you display yourself. What have you to hide?”

“Perhaps I would prefer not to be worshipped,”
he answered dryly.

Even as he said it, a slight feminine figure walking along
the path gave a shrill shriek and dashed into the nearest doorway as they rode
by.

“Well, that was certainly illuminating.” Dillian
stared at the house where the woman had entered. Frightened faces peered around
the shutter and watched them until they rode out of sight. She returned her
gaze to the marquess’s stiffly proud back. “What did you do,
threaten them with hell if they didn’t behave?”

He gave one of his mirthless laughs. “I don’t
speak to them at all. The feeling is mutual.”

She had an upbraiding for his attitude on the tip of her
tongue when a scream of sheer panic split the silence. The village was small,
and the reason for the scream easily discovered. An orange flame shot through
the thatched roof of a cottage on the next road over.

The sight of fire froze Dillian into motionlessness. A night
of roaring flame flared instantly in her mind’s eye, and panic ate at
her. Not so the marquess. He spurred his weary nag down a side street and
disappeared before she could follow.

Dillian had trouble fighting her way through the narrow
street as the entire village poured from their doors, buckets in hand, while
excited children raced up and down screaming “fire” at the top of
their lungs.

As she worked her way closer to the source of flames, she
found the populace nearly motionless while a young mother screamed and wept in
the street before the burning cottage.

From Dillian’s vantage point on top of the horse, she
scanned the building, searching for the reason for this inactivity. Her breath
caught in her throat at the sight.

The damned marquess had climbed a rickety ladder up to the
burning roof of the cottage and now hurled hands full of thatching at the
street in some insane effort to break through the roof. It didn’t take
long for Dillian to figure someone must be in the loft, and the stairs below
were already lost in flame. She gasped in panic at memories of a similar
incident.

Only the angry murmurs of the mob brought her back to the moment.
She could hear the curses and fear rippling through the crowd as the cloaked
figure on the roof rained smoldering thatch upon their heads.

They villagers remained motionless in the street, letting
the fire burn rather than aid the marquess. They despised what they feared, and
they feared this man they didn’t know. To them, he was no more than a
black shadow seen infrequently and then only in darkness, a menacing figure who
lived in a haunted mansion.

Dillian couldn’t imagine what the superstitious idiots
thought the specter on the roof was doing except saving the lives of the people
inside, but they offered no help.

Leaping from her horse, nearly breaking her neck in the
attempt, she grabbed a bucket already filled with water, ran up to the cottage
and splashed it on the nearest eruption of flame. She slammed the empty bucket
into someone’s waiting hand and grabbed the next.

The young mother at the foot of the ladder continued wailing
as she watched the man frantically digging through her roof.

Gradually, the crowd returned to its senses. An older man
snapped orders, and a chain of people formed between pump and flames. He
displaced Dillian at the head of the chain, giving her an odd look indicating her
disguise had come awry.

She glanced down at herself and saw where she’d
splashed water and soaked the tunic. Even with the binding, her breasts swelled
against the damp cloth. So much for hiding herself.

She left the bucket brigade to their work and elbowed her
way toward the wailing woman. Other women crowded around, trying to comfort
her, but her cry of “My babies! My babies!” would pierce the
hardest of hearts.

Dillian’s stomach lurched as she glanced to the roof.
Smoke seeped through everywhere, and small sparks glittered against the
darkness. Only the prior night’s rain kept the entire roof from exploding
in flame. She couldn’t tell if the marquess made much progress.

“Angel of death, that’s what he is,” some
woman grumbled beside her. “He’s come to take their souls away.”

Similar sentiments echoed around her, and fury at such
foolish superstition replaced panic. The young woman was near hysteria, but
Dillian grabbed the arm of an older woman who seemed to have her wits about
her. “Get him a knife, saw blades, an ax, anything to help him,”
she ordered.

The woman looked surprised, then thoughtful as she glanced
at Dillian’s improper attire and heard her ladylike accents. With a nod
of her head, she whispered to another woman beside her. Word spread rapidly,
and soon several women broke into a run down the street in search of the needed
implements.

“Daughter of the devil!” screamed one of the
more hysterical women in the crowd, pointing at Dillian.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a friend of the
marquess. If you want those children saved, you must help him. Bring me some
water.” Dillian’s impatient response caught the ear of someone a
little more sensible, and a bucket eventually appeared.

The water weighed more than she could reasonably carry, but
she attempted it anyway, hauling the bucket in one hand while she maneuvered
the precarious ladder with the other. Effingham wasn’t even aware of her
presence as she splashed the water over the entire area where he worked. At the
first touch of water, he looked up, cursed, and returned to his efforts.

Someone hastened up the ladder and handed them an ax.
Dillian grabbed it and shoved it beneath the marquess’s nose. He offered
no thanks but began hacking at the remains of the roof beneath the hole
he’d created. The faint sound of crying seeped through the cacophony below.

More buckets and more tools followed. The marquess yelled at
one of the men on the ladder to remove Dillian. When she saw that the man
intended to stay and help, she went willingly. The stench of smoke and burning
wood choked her into near insensibility. It was too much like that other night,
too close to that disaster. Her frayed nerves couldn’t withstand much
more of the strain. The crying rang louder in her ears as she escaped, shaking,
down the ladder.

A cry of “He’ll kill them all!” met her
ears as she climbed down. Without thinking, Dillian swung around and slapped
the terrified woman across the mouth.

“
You’ll
kill them all!” Dillian
shrieked back. “You’ll kill them by standing here doing nothing in
your narrow-minded prejudice. If you won’t help, then get the hell out of
here!”

Her fury and near hysteria made an immediate impression.
Someone led the woman she’d slapped away. Others stared at her in fear.
One tentatively began the climb to the roof with a bucket in hand. The
hysterical mother unwrapped herself from her consoling friends to grab Dillian
by the arms and plead, “Don’t let him kill my babies! Help them,
please!”

Even as she said it, a tower of flame shot through the hole
in the roof where the Marquess of Effingham worked.

Dillian didn’t hear herself screaming as the
black-cloaked figure disappeared through the roof behind a wall of flame. She
only heard about it later when the marquess gave her one of his wry looks and
commented on her fine set of lungs.

Right now, as he disappeared into the inferno, she felt only
the hands of a plump village woman holding her back while the waiting crowd
grew silent.

The men continued pouring water on the dying flames
downstairs. A few brave souls scampered up and down the ladder, dousing the
sparks in the thatch as quickly as they appeared. After that one brief spurt,
the fire apparently died to a smoking, steaming sizzle. Finally, after what
seemed hours of waiting, a hoarse shout rang from inside.

“I’m handing them up. Someone come get them!”
The clipped American twang sounded oddly resonant among the slurred accents of
the villagers.

The man already at the top of the ladder hurried to the edge
of the hole and reached down, straightening a moment later with a limp bundle
in his arms. A murmur passed over the crowd, and another man hastened up the
ladder to take the child. A minute later, an even smaller bundle appeared
though the burned thatch.

The hysterical mother cuddled one child and broke into sobs
as the second one let out a healthy squall as he was carried down the ladder.
She still cried, “My babies, my babies!” but this time the note in
her voice was that of relief.

Dillian waited. No more bundles appeared. The villager on
the roof scurried down as if his duty had ended. She looked around. The women
banded together and led the weeping mother and children away. The men returned
to their bucket brigade, dousing the final trails of fire. No black-cloaked
figure reappeared on the roof.

She approached a gray-haired old man who seemed only to
watch. “Shouldn’t someone fetch a ladder to help the marquess out?”

He looked at her as if she spoke a foreign tongue.

She turned to a man coming up beside her and repeated the
question. This one looked dubiously at the smoking, gaping hole in the roof,
and shrugged.

She couldn’t stand it another minute. Effingham had
just risked his life rescuing a stranger’s child, and they made no effort
whatsoever to see to his welfare.

All her hysteria, panic, and fear erupted in an explosion of
rage as she shouted at the crowd. “He could die in there! If you cowards
will do nothing for him, then someone must!”

With a strength she hadn’t known she possessed,
Dillian scurried up the steps to the roof, caught the ends of the ladder, and
heaved it up after her. The men below stared at her in astonishment. One sidled
off to retrieve a ladder thrown down in the street in the confusion. Dillian
didn’t linger to watch. She hauled her burden over the roof to the gaping
hole.

“My lord, are you down there?” she called into
the smoldering stench of wet thatch.