Borrowed Vows (9 page)

“When was it last done?”

“Er, the early eighteen hundreds. 1815, I believe. Yes, it was, for the then lord of Marchwood ordered a Napoleonic cannon to be carved into the lintel, to commemorate his presence at Waterloo. He captured some cannon on the battlefield, you know. They stand by the gatehouse now.”

“Yes, I know,” she murmured. God, this was getting more and more bewildering. Last night she’d crossed this very hall and seen those original repairs in progress. She had to be Rosalind’s reincarnation, what other answer was there?

The tour continued. Footsteps echoed on the stone flags, and the guide’s voice reverberated around the hammerbeam roof as he began to describe various points of interest in the hall. But Kathryn no longer listened to what he said, for her attention was drawn inexorably to the staircase, and the portrait on the half-landing.

She went slowly toward it, drinking in every feature of her beloved Dane. Sir Thomas Lawrence richly deserved his status as Regency England’s finest portrait artist, for the likeness was so accurate it might almost have been a photograph. It so captured the essence of its subject that Dane seemed to breathe as he gazed at her from the canvas. He was the epitome of the dashing Regency gentleman, in an indigo coat and tight-fitting white trousers that vanished into gleaming top boots. A lacy neckcloth blossomed at his throat, and more lace pushed through his partially buttoned gray-and-white striped waistcoat. A faint smile played on his lips, and his eyes seemed to mock her a little, as if he were amused at her expense.

She was transfixed. She’d somehow spent last night making passionate love with this long-dead Englishman... Her body tingled as she thought of those wonderfully erotic hours, and fresh desire awakened in her. God, how she wished she were with him again! How she wished he were standing behind her now, and that at any moment she’d feel his arms around her waist and his lips against the tender skin where her neck and shoulder met. Oh, the delicious thrill she’d feel if that were to happen...

The great hall was suddenly quiet, but then a man spoke coldly. “The portrait was delivered an hour ago, and, I fancy, looks well enough, but I hardly dare ask what you think of Lawrence’s little daub. No doubt your opinion on this will be as baffling as everything else about you at the moment.”

She turned with a gasp, for it was Dane.

Chapter Ten

She was in Regency clothes again, this time a pink muslin gown embroidered with white daisies. Her golden hair was piled up on her head, with heavy ringlets tumbling down to the nape of her neck, and her white silk shawl trailed carelessly along the floor. She wasn’t asleep now, so it couldn’t be a dream, and she no longer thought an old movie or book had anything to do with it. Was this what happened in reincarnation? Was the modern person plagued by strangely real memories without warning any time of night or day?

For a split second the unanswered questions gripped her, but then she dashed them aside. If she was honest, right now she no longer cared about explanations. Night or day, asleep or not, her wish to be with Dane again had been granted, and happiness sang through her as she looked down to where he stood at the foot of the staircase.

He wore a bottle-green riding coat and skintight gray breeches, and his neckcloth and the top fastenings of his shirt were undone, affording her a fleeting glimpse of the golden chain. His hair was windswept and he’d tossed his top hat and gloves on the long table in the center of the hall behind him. But as she saw the dark shadow in his eyes, her happiness began to subside. He was angry with her. Had they quarreled?

She knew he’d just returned from a ride, a wild ride to give vent to the fury coursing almost visibly through, but that was all she knew. Everything else that had happened in the hours since dawn was being withheld from her. One thing was only too clear, though, and that was that the warm, passionate man of the previous night was now cold and mistrustful again. At least... A new thought struck her. She was only presuming he’d returned to being cold and mistrustful. Maybe this memory was from before last night! Who’s to say things like this happened in chronological order? They might dodge about haphazardly for all she knew.

“Another enigmatic silence?” he observed sarcastically as he came up the staircase to where she stood.

“You startled me. I... I didn’t realize you were there,” she explained weakly, trying to collect herself.

“Clearly my approach went undetected because you were so rapt by my likeness.” His tone was heavy with irony.

“Yes, I was.”

“Oh, come, Rosalind, let’s not start all that again. I don’t pretend to know why you sought to seduce me last night, I only know it was clearly a fleeting aberration.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Well, at least she now knew this was happening after last night’s events. So why had he changed? What had occurred in the few hours since she’d last been with him?

“Oh, yes, it was, Rosalind.”

“I don’t understand, Dane. Why have you changed so?”

They both became aware of a discreet tap-tapping sound from across the hall, and he turned irritably toward it. A stonemason and his apprentice were at work on the fireplace, applying hammer and chisel carefully to an intricate corner of stone. They were endeavoring to appear as if they weren’t aware of the scene on the staircase, but clearly they could hear every word.

Dane called sharply across to them. “Leave us!”

Without a word, the two put down their tools and hurried away. The moment they’d gone, Dane returned his attention to her. “Why have
I
changed? By God, madam, I have to admire your nerve. You step brazenly from my bed to send a
billet doux
to your lover, and now look me in the eyes again as if you wish to step back into that same bed!”

A love letter? She stared at him. “I... I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dane. How can I send something to a lover I don’t have?”

But as she spoke, the information she so desperately sought came flooding into her head. Thomas had sent Rosalind a note informing her he
would be able to attend the Cheltenham ball that night after all. Dane didn’t know about this, but had somehow found out about the response Rosalind dispatched with Josie, asking Thomas to meet her at midnight on the bridge by the Well Walk. The walk was a famous two hundred yard avenue of elm and lime trees that led from the edge of Cheltenham to the Royal Spa, where the ball was being held.

The knowledge tumbled so dizzily through her that it was all she could do to remain outwardly composed. For a few moments she thought it was the end of the marital road for unfaithful Rosalind, but then knew that although Dane had found out about the reply to Thomas’s note, he still didn’t know what either message contained. Rosalind had gotten away with it by the skin of her teeth!

Oh, surely all this had to be caused by reincarnation! What other possible explanation could there be? She knew everything the real Rosalind had done—well, nearly everything— and knowledge like that had to come from memories hidden deep in modern-day Kathryn Vansomeren. She wasn’t inventing anything; these were actual events. And she knew about things that were yet to happen in 1815. Like the fourth duel. On Lammas Day, August first, Dane was going to kill Thomas Denham. August first was the day after tomorrow! Right now Rosalind only had a temporary reprieve, for her infidelity was about to be exposed no matter what.

Something of her unease must have shown after all, for Dane’s eyes sharpened. “You seem rattled, madam; could it be you aren’t quite as audacious as I first thought?”

“Dane, I’m not rattled or audacious, I’m upset, and, after last night, I’m also deeply hurt you should think ill of me again this morning.” She felt driven to persist with the pretense. Everything Alice had said last night had come true. By persuading him of her love and fidelity, she’d been granted a few hours of exquisite pleasure and happiness. Such happiness was addictive, as was the man himself...

“I don’t merely
think
ill, Rosalind, I know it. You dispatched your maid with a note you had the gall to scribble in the very room where I was supposedly still asleep! But I wasn’t asleep, I watched you write it and give it to Josie. I then had her followed to the Gloucester carrier, to whom she gave both the note and a coin for his trouble. Would that I’d gone so far as to instruct my man to retrieve the note at all costs, but I didn’t. Not that it makes any difference, for the fact remains that it was clearly for Denham.”

He was right on every count! Rosalind had done all he said. Kathryn’s thoughts were in chaos again, for she didn’t know how to explain it away.

Suddenly he seized her arms and shook her slightly. “Admit that it was for Denham, damn you!”

Inspiration came from thin air. “Dane, you’re entirely wrong about this. It wasn’t a love letter, but an instruction for Mrs. Fowler.”

He looked blankly at her. “The dressmaker?”

“Yes. The last time I visited her I told her to put silver lace on my new ball gown, but when I awoke this morning I suddenly knew it would look better without it, and since she’ll be delivering the gown in time for Cheltenham tonight, I thought it best to send a message without delay. I often use the carrier like that because he’s very reliable.” Encouraged by the uncertainty that crept into his eyes, she moved closer and linked her arms around his neck. “Oh, Dane, it was an innocent note, truly it was.”

“You think you can so easily gull me?” He disengaged her arms.

“I’m not trying to gull you, I’m telling the truth.”

“If it was a message for the dressmaker, why were you so secretive?”

She met his gaze a little accusingly. “I thought you were asleep. Would you have me wake you up simply to tell you I’d decided I didn’t want silver lace on my ball gown? I can well imagine your response to that!” She smiled then. “Maybe you’d prefer me to do that in future? When I next choose to change pink ribbons to peach, I’ll be sure to seek you out particularly.”

He searched her eyes. “Either you’re telling the truth, or you’re the most accomplished liar since Ananias,” he murmured.

“Shall I send for Mrs. Fowler?” she offered.

“No, there’s no need.”

“Does that mean you believe me?”

He met her gaze. “Yes,” he said after a moment.

She didn’t dare give in to relief. Not yet. “Are you quite sure?”

He smiled a little then. “Of course.”

Relief had its way. She linked her arms around his neck again, and looked earnestly into his eyes. “I don’t know what’s been the matter with me lately, Dane. I know I’ve been contrary, but I’m trying not to be now. I do love you so, surely you knew that last night?” Touching him excited her. He felt so warm and strong, and the faint camphor-like scent of the southernwood plant clinging to his clothes was oddly arousing, like an expensive modern aftershave.

He put his arms around her slender waist. “Rosalind, you must understand how confused I am where you’re concerned. I knew you wanted me last night, but not necessarily that you loved me. As you say, contrariness has been your mark of late.”

Again she was conscious of his vulnerability, and of the powerful effect it had upon her. Everything about him touched a chord in her. She only had to be near him for her whole being to tingle with awareness, and already she felt closer to him than she’d ever felt to Richard. She’d known this man for less than twenty-four hours, but it was as if she’d drawn her first breath at his side.

“Trust me, Dane,” she whispered.

“Trust must be earned, Rosalind,” he said softly.

“Then I will earn it.” She pressed close, moving her hips seductively against his, and her reward was the way his hands moved down from her waist to enclose her buttocks and hold her to him.

Confidence suddenly carried her away. She was the siren now, luring him into the delights of the flesh. Seduction was uppermost in her mind again; she wanted him to make love to her again as he had during the night, and she was determined to have her way. She raised her lips to meet his, and sank against him as he returned the kiss.

Her breath caught as she felt his potency swell swiftly against her, and her body yielded to his masculine contours. Her lips parted as she drew his tongue into her mouth. His hold tightened and he pushed her against the wall, caressing her breasts as he kissed her again. Desire began to pound irresistibly through them both. He moved a hand to her thigh, caressing her through the daisy-sprinkled muslin as he pressed his hips forward. His arousal pounded against her, and waves of pleasure began to carry her away. Just feeling his hardness was sufficient to raise her to a peak of ecstasy, and he willingly gave her enjoyment without demanding his own release.

As the intense gratification ebbed sweetly away, she clung weakly to him. Her cheeks were flushed, and she closed her eyes as she rested her forehead against his shoulder. Her heart was beating swiftly, and her skin felt damp and relaxed.

He put his hand to her chin and raised her lips to his again, brushing them softly with a tender kiss. “I must wait yet, my darling, but I swear I’ll soon take my own measure of delight.”

“We can go upstairs now,” she whispered, slipping her arms around his waist. In a moment of sharp insight, she knew she loved him. It wasn’t a passing fancy, but a strong, vibrant emotion that struck from her very soul. She, Kathryn Vansomeren, was in love with Sir Dane Marchwood, a long-dead English nobleman! Long dead? No, he was very much alive, and in her arms now, but the day after tomorrow he’d discover how Rosalind deceived him, and he’d face her lover at dawn.

Her arms tightened protectively around his waist. It was Thomas Denham who was going to die, but it was this man she wished to shield from hurt. She wanted to be the wife he needed, the faithful, loving, passionate wife he believed her to be right now. “Please come upstairs now,” she pleaded again.

“Madam, when I take you upstairs, it will be for an hour or so, not a hasty few minutes before Jeremiah Pendle arrives.”

Her thoughts scattered as loving desire was replaced with sudden guardedness. The banker? But why would he come here? He was no friend of Dane’s, not since William Denham’s death. “You expect Pendle?” she asked.