Beguiled (21 page)

He'd heard the words often enough. Still, from Wittburg's lips…

“Perhaps,” he said. “You may resume your journey, your Lordship.”

Wittburg frowned, staring at him. “You are stealing nothing?”

“Don't make me change my mind.”

At last Lionel Wittburg returned to his coach. He almost slipped on the step. Mark leapt down in time to keep him from a nasty fall.

Wittburg jerked his arm free. “I cannot thank you. I will not thank a criminal,” he said. Then he was back in the coach, slamming the door.

“Go!” Patrick thundered to the driver.

“East and west,” Mark said when the carriage had started off down the trail. They split, disappearing into the woods, just in time to avoid the shots Lord Wittburg fired from the window of the carriage.

 

B
EING THE GUEST OF
Lord Farrow was not difficult in the least. He was charming and private, and allowed Ally the same privacy.

When he announced that he needed to go into London on business, he seemed pleased to accept her company when she asked if she might come along.

In the carriage, however, he seemed disturbed. “I shouldn't have brought you. I must attend to business while I am there, and I am worried about your safety.”

“You needn't be. I intend to shop and stay on the main streets, where there will be an abundance of people,” she assured him.

Lord Wittburg hopped out near Big Ben, telling Bertram to attend to Miss Grayson. The big man nodded, patient and ready to do whatever was asked of him. Ally asked to be let off near the museum and suggested they meet at the same spot in two hours. She noticed the man kept a book on his seat, and she had to smile. No wonder he was patient. While he was waiting, he read.

She walked through one door of the museum.

And out another. Once again, she was determined on reaching the post office. Today, though, she couldn't help but wonder if she had been followed before, so she was careful. She skirted in and out of several shops, buying a few pieces of lace for the aunties, a couple of sachets and a small reticule.

If she hadn't lost her check, she might have bought the charming little muff she saw in one shop. But she had, and there was no safe way to retrieve it.

When she finally reached the post office, to mail her latest article, she discovered that her check had been mailed back to her. She decided that Mark must have returned it to the newspaper. She worried that he might be following her, and she looked around quickly. She saw no one suspicious. Outside, she started along the street and realized she was heading toward the newspaper offices. She had often gone just to stare at the building, dreaming that she might one day write for the paper, though what she really aspired to was becoming a novelist, spinning tales like Arthur Conan Doyle or the Brontë sisters—or even Poe. She had been surprised to recognize her own passion and ability when she had set her hand to essays.

She was standing on the sidewalk when she heard her name called.

“Miss Grayson!”

Turning around, she saw Thane Grier. He looked handsome and cheerful in a striped jacket, black trousers and tan waistcoat. He seemed happier than when she had seen him last.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Well, thank you. And you?”

“Couldn't be better.” He lowered his voice and laughed softly. “A. Anonymous has not been writing every day.”

“Ah, so the front page is yours again.”

“Yes. Would you like to come up? It's not at all glamorous, but perhaps…?”

“I would love to!”

“Then you shall.”

He showed her where the papers were stacked for the vendors, where the presses were, and then dozens and dozens of offices. Phones were in constant use, salesmen worked to make their living by selling advertising space, and scores of people sat at desks arranged in rows, typing, or leafing through huge tomes, verifying facts. She was flushed but pleased at the opportunity to meet the managing editor, and especially gratified when he said they were always eager to get outside pieces, such as those that had been written by A. Anonymous.

Ally did not want to overstay her welcome and tried to hurry out, but as she reached the door, he called her back. “Your wedding will be featured on page one, you know.”

She smiled, unwilling to tell him that it was scheduled to take place on Saturday. She didn't know what plans were in effect or whether secrecy was involved.

After all, she was only the bride.

Thane walked her back down to the street. “May I buy you tea?” he asked.

She was flushed and excited, and ready to accept, but she realized she had used up all the time she had asked Bertram to allow her. “I'm sorry. I would honestly love to have tea with you, but I'm here with Lord Farrow, and I must return.”

He smiled at her, a strange smile. “We should really talk,” he told her.

She inclined her head. “We
have
been talking, have we not?”

“I shall talk, you must listen. You must be careful, you know.”

“Why do you say so?”

“Did you know your proposed groom was in these offices just yesterday?”

“Was he?” She tried to sound casual. “What was he doing?”

“I don't know. I couldn't hear. But he was speaking with the managing editor. And he gave him an envelope.”

“Maybe he's started writing,” she said.

His eyes studied her gravely.

“Thank you. Sincerely. I've dreamed forever of being where I was today,” she said when he made no reply to her speculation.

“I see. So
you
write.”

“Good heavens, what an imagination you have.”

“Mark Farrow was not delivering an envelope on your behalf?”

“Absolutely not,” she assured him. “But thank you again. I have had a wonderful time.”

“Strange, but delightful.”

“What's that?”

“That you should find the offices of the newspaper so fascinating—that you have dreamed of entering them.”

“I love to read.”

“I see.”

He didn't see. He was suspicious. And she didn't know what to say.

“Thank you again, but now I must hurry.”

She shook his hand, turned and fled.

She hurried along several streets, rounded a corner, and then went into the museum through the rear entrance, then out the other side. As she had known he would be, Bertram was waiting.

Lord Farrow had apparently finished his business quickly, and he had somehow known how to find Bertram. He was already in the carriage. “I was beginning to fear I had really cast you into danger,” he told her.

“Am I late? I'm so sorry.”

“You are late by no more than a few minutes. I am just becoming…well, recent events lead one to unwarranted concern. Your timing was fine, my dear. So, was your shopping successful?”

Yes, successful. She now had her check in hand.

And another essay would soon be delivered.

In addition, she was almost certain she hadn't been followed to the post office.

The day continued to be a pleasant one, despite the fact Mark Farrow unnerved her by managing to return home by dinnertime. He seemed somewhat distracted, however, though he was polite throughout the meal. When they had finished dining, she feigned exhaustion, which seemed to be fine with both men. She realized they were anxious to speak alone, a feat they intended to accomplish by “retiring” for brandy and cigars.

Seeing the two men headed into Lord Farrow's private chambers, followed by Bertram with a tray, Ally eschewed her first idea of escaping to the bedroom. She slipped outside and headed for the stables instead.

But where to start?

She glanced at the tack room and, across from it, Bertram's private quarters. That might well be the best place to look.

The door was open. She slipped in. Bertram seemed to be a man of few needs. There were shelves with books, a cabinet with liquor and a fireplace in the outer of the two rooms. One closet. Ally went through it quickly but discovered nothing other than clothing that clearly belonged to the large man. His bedroom was sparsely furnished, offering a bed, a chest of drawers and a bedside table. Quickly, she went through the drawers, feeling like the worst busybody in the world. There was a small water closet, offering nothing but soap and towels.

She quickly left the room, closing the door behind her. The wolfhounds were at her heels, wagging their giant tails, as she came out. “Good girl, good boy,” she murmured, patting their heads. She felt comfortable, knowing she was safe from intruders with the dogs at her side.

But what she was actually frightened of was someone from the house finding her prying, and the dogs would be no help on that score.

She glanced toward the lodge, saw no one and hurried over to the tack room. There she found rows of neatly hung bridles, sawhorses with saddles, and cans of polish and other accoutrements. She left the tack room and looked up to the hayloft. There was a ladder. She glanced back once, then scrambled up the ladder.

She found nothing but hay and more hay.

Frustrated, she sat on a bale. It was hard beneath her. Startled, she stood quickly. The hay was nothing but a facade. She groped about and found she could lift a portion of it. The hay masked a trunk. Inside the trunk were black cloaks and boots.

And black silk masks.

In a frenzy, she looked further.

Her sketchbook was not there.

She went dead still then, hearing voices. Her heart thundered. She crept toward the edge of the loft and looked down.

“There are many men working on the case, and it is a two-way street, Father. Ian takes whatever suggestions I offer and sends officers out on the street to investigate them. He is quite a clever man. You know as well as I do that Lord Wittburg would have been horrified at the arrival of a police officer. He would never have allowed Ian into his chambers.”

“It's a dangerous game you're playing, that much I know very well,” Lord Farrow said. “What frightens me is that despite all that is being done—and I do not doubt Ian has men covering the streets, following every lead—it seems no one is any closer to the truth than before.”

What were they doing in the stables? she wondered. Why couldn't they have stayed in the house with their brandies and cigars?

And how on earth was she going to get back inside?

“What are you doing, prowling about out here?” Mark said suddenly.

Ally nearly gasped, then realized he was talking to the dogs. She heard a woof of pleasure. Mark must be patting one of them on the head.

A moment later she breathed a sigh of relief. “I'm to bed, then, son. I have to leave very early for the city tomorrow morning. I'll ride in. Bertram will stay here. We'll not leave Miss Grayson alone at any time.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Their voices continued, but she no longer heard what they said. She assumed they were heading back to the house. Carefully, though, she waited.

At last she decided enough time had gone by. Looking over the ledge, she saw no one. With all the speed she could summon, she hurried down the ladder.

The hounds were waiting. “Traitors!” she told the pair. They only, good-naturedly, woofed anew, nudging her for affection. “All right, all right,” she murmured, and stroked them both, looking about to see if the Farrow men or Bertram might still be about.

Seeing no one, she sprinted for the lodge and slipped inside.

The house was quiet. She started through the parlor.

“My dear Miss Grayson.”

She froze. Mark Farrow stepped from the shadows, where he had been seated on the divan.

She could see nothing of his face in the dim light.

“Mark…” she murmured.

“Ally. I thought you had gone to bed.”

“I needed a breath of fresh air.”

“I see.”

“It's a lovely night.”

“Indeed.”

“Well…good night.”

“Good night. Oh!” he said suddenly.

“Yes?”

“My father and I will both be out on business most of the day tomorrow. But Bertram will be here, working the grounds. Please, don't go walking or riding anywhere alone. You'll be safe here.”

“Of course,” she said, then turned and hurried toward the hall.

“Ally?”

She froze, then turned back slowly. He still stood in the shadows.

“There's something in your hair.”

“My hair?”

She touched it and winced.

Hay.

“A twig,” she murmured. “Thank you…I've got it. Good night,” she said again, firmly.

She turned. If he called her again, what would she do? Or say?

But he didn't call her back, though she felt his presence…his eyes…as she walked away.

He was watching her all the while.

A
LLY HAD TO ADMIT THAT
she loved the lodge. She would always love the cottage in the woods, and it would forever be home to her, but the lodge was something special. For one thing, there was electricity, which meant there was always light to read by. Her room offered an elaborate bath, with a deep sunken tub, and there was always wonderfully hot water in which to bathe.

Alone when she woke, she found it gratifying to think she had the entire place to herself for an entire day. She would have time to indulge in a leisurely meal, time to explore the loft again and look for her sketchbook, and time to spend in the library—with no chance that prying eyes might want to see what she was typing.

Though she did miss the aunts scurrying about, she couldn't help but luxuriate in her solitude. And she had been gone longer before, she reminded herself, when she had stayed at the castle.

But this time…

This time she was about to marry Mark Farrow. So this time, she was gone…forever.

Not wanting to brood, she finished her meal of fruit, eggs and muffins, and hurried outside. She had to discover where Bertram was before she could really begin to explore, but that proved to be easy. He was busy pruning a hedge in front of the lodge.

She started toward the stables, then hesitated, deciding to return to the house for a scarf so she could tie up her freshly washed hair and keep from accumulating the tell-tale hay that had so nearly given her away the night before.

She entered the parlor and walked down the hall, slipping into the bedroom that had so quickly become her own. She walked to the dresser, opened the top drawer, then caught sight of movement in the mirror.

She nearly screamed.

In the reflection, she saw the highwayman. He was seated comfortably on her bed, mask in place, booted legs stretched out on the quilt.

She spun around.

“What in God's name are you doing here? Are you insane?” she demanded, all the while knowing he lived there, but not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing she had discovered his secret identity.

“Shh,” he said quickly, rising and walking swiftly toward her. “You would not betray me, would you?”

Oh, but this was sweet.

“Never,” she told him solemnly.

“They are gone for the day?” he asked.

“Who?”

“Lord Farrow and his son.”

She nodded. “Yes, yes, they're gone,” she said, sounding distressed. “But this is insane. You shouldn't be here. Bertram is guarding the house. And the dogs—how did you get past the dogs?”

“I've managed to befriend them. The best dog can be slowly won over with the right offerings of scraps and bones. I've been through this area many times, and I have made use of it. The Farrows are not often in residence here, you know.”

“You're still in danger here.”

“Why?”

“Bertram is just outside.”

“But he would never simply enter the house with you here, Ally. He would knock. He would only burst in if you were to scream or to call for help. Do you intend to scream?”

She shook her head.

He was wearing boots, black riding breeches and an unbleached poet's shirt, open at the neck. She noticed that he'd tossed his cape over a chair by the fire. His riding crop and pistol were there, as well. He'd certainly been thorough about creating the pretense.

“I told you,” she said softly. “I would never betray you.”

He smiled beneath the mask. “Yet you are to marry on Saturday.”

“How do you know that?” she asked.

“It's in the newspaper. Lord Stirling called in the announcement, apparently.”

“I see.”

“You intend to go through with it?” he asked.

“A matter of honor,” she told him.

“And do you know the man? Do you think you will be able to spend a lifetime with him? What is he like?”

Oh, she was going to enjoy this, she thought.

“He's extremely arrogant.”

“Hardly sounds like a good match.”

“Abrasive.”

“Really?”

“A man controlled by his own ego.”

“Appalling.”

She smiled, allowing her hand to fall upon his chest. She was glad of the quick little intake of breath that followed. She slid her fingers up to the bare skin at his throat, then down, flicking open one of the buttons of the shirt. Her fingers teased against the flesh of his chest.

“I am to marry such a man on Saturday….”

“Yes?”

“And so, though I fear for your life, I cannot say I am not glad you are here. With me. Alone.”

Again his breath quickened.

She rose on the balls of her feet, her fingers gliding back to his face. She cupped his strong jaw, and slowly set her mouth against his, her tongue sliding over his lips, pressing between them.

As she had expected, she was quickly swept into his arms. She felt the firm pressure of his fingers spanning the small of her back, bringing her flush against him, felt his fingers in her hair, raking through it, cupping her skull. She felt the thrust of his tongue, an erotic sensation that filled her to the depths of her soul.

She wondered briefly just what revenge she might be taking. She was where she wanted to be. And yet…

He shifted, breaking the touch. “You're to be married,” he reminded her.

“I am not married yet.”

“No?”

“And since we have been given such sweet time, I would spend it with you,” she whispered.

She had not known exactly how far she meant to take her charade before telling the truth. But she had first discovered her fascination with this man when he was in his highwayman's disguise, and she wouldn't resist the chance to explore further.

But she would stop, reveal what she knew. She would….

Then his mouth found hers once again. The pressure of his lips was vital and demanding, and she hungered for that touch, for the caress of his tongue, for his hands upon her and hers on him. She laid her palm on his cheek, played her fingers down his skin and slid her hand against his shirt, loosening more of the delicate pearl buttons. She was scarcely aware when he lifted her, when he eased them down together on the softness of the quilt, his weight half atop her. She felt the heat and strength of his hips and thighs, and fire seemed to ripple along his skin. His eyes, gleaming blue-gray through the slits in the mask, were on her. And then he touched her.

He ran a finger over the soft wet swell of her lower lip. His fingers fell to the buttons of her bodice, and she caught her breath and simply stared at him as he progressed slowly, button by button. He laid his palm on her breast, over the sheer material of her silk shift, and sensation seemed to rip through her. She closed her eyes, and his mouth found hers again, with an ever greater passion. Then he moved against her with a sweet, barely leashed savagery, hands sliding down her breasts, midriff, to her hips, his lips and tongue running riot over her throat, then teasing her flesh through the silk, settling upon her nipple in an erotic frenzy. The lightest graze of his teeth sent new fire lapping at her senses. She had no idea when or how he had undone the waistband of her day skirt, how he had tugged the fabric lower, out of his way. She knew only the feel of his hands, burning, gentle, firm…stroking over her hips, over her buttocks. She hadn't realized she was all but tearing at his shirt herself, only that it was suddenly gone, and then his naked chest was against her, against the silk, and even that barrier was too great.

He rose, sweeping away both the skirt and the petticoat beneath it. He caught her feet, removing her delicate shoes, and his fingers slid along her thighs, finding her garters, slowly rolling down her hose, letting them waft to the floor like puffs of cloud. She closed her eyes, realizing on some distant plane that she had taken this too far, yet in the wave of euphoria that had seized her, not caring. When he was beside her again, she realized he was completely naked, bare and blazing, and his hands were on the hem of the shift, and it was meant to disappear, as well.

She opened her mouth at last to form some sound, to speak, to protest…to cry out that this was merely revenge, that it should not go so far.

She never spoke, for he kissed her again. Kissed her with the hard flesh of his body and muscle playing against her, with his hands everywhere, stroking, holding, seeking. The stroke of his tongue seemed to penetrate her very being, and then he left her mouth and it was not imaginary but real, for his lips fell upon her flesh everywhere. She shivered and trembled. She was gold and she burned. She felt the intimacy of his mouth on her abdomen, laving teasing circles there, drawn to the line of her hip, back again, then lower. She touched his flesh, and it was alive. Beneath his skin, muscles flexed and eased, so alive. His fingers skimmed down her hip, slid between her thighs. He touched her, and she gasped just as her lips were once again claimed by the overwhelming passion of his kiss.

She writhed, her fingers threading into his hair, clawing his back. His mouth moved swiftly, lightly touching her throat, her breast…her stomach, thighs…and between. The intimacy was stunning, shocking. She cried out, rocking to elude him…arching to know more of him. The searing sweetness he created seemed to bubble and boil deep within her, radiate to her limbs, constrict and release, then rise, blind her mind and eyes, fill her to a point of near madness…and explode with a volatile, violent pleasure that was ecstasy, insanity….

She was still reeling when she felt the pressure of his body. He held her in his arms, his lips finding hers, fierce and hard, and then…his body was on her. His powerful thighs were between hers, the length of him against her. She felt the tip of his erection first, and then movement, full, thick, good, a pressure that filled a craving and yet cut like a knife.

He cradled her gently, moved slowly. She tightened around him, and he eased her with his touch. She began to cry out, and again his kiss silenced her, the caress of his tongue easing the seconds of sharp torture that came…and then became something else, something painfully pleasurable. Time ticked by and she was aware of nothing but the scent and feel of him, the hardness of him against her, within her. Each nuance of his flesh. Each thrust and ebb, like a tide, like a storm. His body was both thunder and lightning, the rub of flesh against naked flesh ever more erotic, his touch exquisite. Sensation, the rush to completion, built as every thrust grew harder, filling her further. It was impossible, this craving, this desperate wanting, needing. Her breath, too, was thunder, her pulse an avalanche. Her heart careened out of control. Her center, where he thrust and stroked so intimately…

The world took flight. Nothing was real. Only his flesh. Only the firm and searing control of his body…out of control….

Again the shattering burst of climax. The taut craning of the man in the mask…

The world reeled around her. The sense of being filled, draped with honey…warm, so warm, and yet…

He eased to her side. She was stunned. And with their lovemaking over, the splendor known, the ecstasy reached, she was suddenly afraid of what she had done. What if he didn't believe…?

She didn't dare open her eyes. For the longest time she hid in his arms as he smoothed tangles from the wildness of her hair.

He shifted slightly. Unwilling, she opened her eyes.

He was taking off the mask.

“No…wait…”

But the mask was off, and he was staring at her.

“I knew who you were,” she whispered.

“I know,” he told her.

Startled, she sat up. “You did not!”

“I did.” He smiled.

“You're lying.” Suddenly feeling her nakedness, she reached for the wrinkled quilt, drawing it to her breast. “You're a liar. Your ego cannot bear the fact that I might have wanted someone else.”

“So this was all to teach me a lesson?”

“Not exactly, though you certainly deserved such a lesson.”

“You wanted to torment me. Well, I'm sorry, but I knew. There was, after all, that little matter of the fact that you were in the stables, up in the loft, last night.”

“You did not see me there.”

“No, but the dogs betrayed you. And then you came into the house covered in hay. You eavesdropped on my conversation with my father.”

“I was not eavesdropping,” she said indignantly. “I was stuck there.”

“You might have made your presence known.”

“So your father knows of your secret life. Is he a criminal, as well?” she asked, ignoring his point.

“My father? A criminal?”

He stared at her, and he had never looked more the son of an earl. Then he smiled, started to laugh and reached for her. She drew back, suddenly furious. He'd managed to turn the tables again. She had meant to play him, but it seemed that he had played her, instead.

“What? You've developed a sudden shyness?”

“I've discovered that I prefer an outlaw!”

“Why are you angry? You were intent on making me furious, making me believe you would happily bed a highwayman before me.”

“Making you
think?
It was the truth.”

He stood, natural and easy in his nakedness. Rippled muscle from head to toe, and totally unaware of the effect he had on her body or her mind.

“Ally—”

“I'd prefer to be alone.”

“Ally, come now. The joke has been on both of us.”

“This is all a joke?”

He sighed. “Forgive me, then. Will it make you feel better if I tell you that at first I wasn't certain, that you did torture me quite effectively while I was wondering whether you did or didn't know?”

The sudden clanging of a bell caused her to jump and him to frown. “It's the telephone,” he informed her. He reached for the quilt. “May I?”

“No!”

But the quilt was gone even as the words left her mouth. He wrapped it about himself and left the room.