Jo Beverley (34 page)

“You truly are the most delightful creature,” he whispered against her skin and gently suckled first one breast then the other. “Do you think Susie would like rubies, emeralds, or diamonds?”

“Tankards and pots,” Meg said unsteadily. Would it be completely outrageous to beg him to go faster?

“Tush, tush. How can you be so prosaic at a time like this. Which do you prefer, my lovely wife? Rubies, emeralds, or diamonds?”

As his lips settled to delighting her again, she said, “I don't know. I don't care. . . .”

“Well?” he asked after a dizzy while.

“Well, what?” Nothing seemed important except her own astonishing body.

“Jewels.”

“Surprise me.”

And he laughed, shifted, and guiding himself with one hand, pushed into her.

She held her breath. She only realized that when she gasped at the pain. For the first time she wondered at the inconvenient design of woman. Head nestled against her neck, he lifted and spread her, then conquered her.

Meg lay frozen, impaled.

He shifted again, rising up on his arms to look at her.

Answering an unspoken concern, she whispered, “It's all right.” She smiled for him, raising a hand to touch his cheek, and the smile became true. “It's all right,” she repeated, strongly.

He turned his head to kiss her hand, and began to move, still reared above her, watching her, something more than a smile in his intent face.

And she watched him, mind split between sight—how wonderful he looked when not glossy at all—and sensation down below—the powerful joining, and a stirring desire similar to what he had done before, similar to the
sheelagh.

Yet different.

Wonderful.

He didn't speak and nor did she. She suspected he could tell how she felt. Certainly, concealing anything was the last thing on her mind. She spoke with her hands, perhaps, restlessly rubbing them up and down his taut arms.

She did recognize, however, with a part of her mind that stayed crystal clear, that this was the power of sex, the danger of it, this complete openness of body and mind, one to the other.

And that more was needed.

She was supposed to surrender herself. To let go of even that last, fragile bit of reason, the bit that still watched and thought.

And she couldn't.

It was too like the
sheelagh,
like death.

She bit her lip, tensing, fighting even, staring into his eyes as if he were an opponent.

“Let it,” he whispered, and she suddenly realized that he was hovering desperately in the same dangerous place, holding back only for her. “Trust me, Meg. Let go. Come with me. . . .”

So she closed her eyes and fell, tumbled down and down with him, whirling together like straw figures in an ecstatic hurricane. . . .

Back down to the lumpy, oven-hot bed.

He rolled to his side, still in her, arms tight, then kissed her in a way she had never imagined being kissed, a continuation of the bonding of that perilous wonder.

Eventually, she had to break free. “Believe it or not, I'm too hot!”

And they laughed together as they wrestled her out of her outer clothing, stripping her down to her shift. When he would have thrown them out onto the floor, however, she seized them and tucked them between blanket and eiderdown. “They'll be warm in the morning,” she explained.

“My, the things I don't know.” And he leaned out of the bed enough to grasp his clothing and pop it under the covers.

Then, he in his shirt, she in shift and drawers, they cuddled together beneath the mound of covers, and kissed each other to sleep.

 

“I did what you wanted. As always.”

The Dowager Duchess of Daingerfield glared at the big man in front of her. He was useful. He was dangerous. “I wanted the chit behind bars.”

He leaned insolently against the fireplace. “If we'd been lucky, the mob would've grabbed her, and that would have been that. Didn't think she'd be so nippy. The law'll find her sooner or later, Duchess. Dead or alive. Likely dead. It's bloody perishing out there, and you said she didn't have a cloak.”

“Don't use coarse language in my presence, Stafford.”

He just grinned. “ 'Course,” he added, “it would have been better if you'd kept her here once you had her.”

Fifteen years. Fifteen years she'd put up with this man because she couldn't have him speak of certain things. And because he was clever, clever enough not to be intolerable.

“She had help to escape here, Stafford. Who?”

“Best I can tell, a potboy took a note for her to the earl's house. The boy's disappeared. The earl probably sent a servant to get her out, but she's not gone back there. I've had people watching the house since before she slipped your leash.”

“If you hadn't acted on impulse, we would have been better prepared!”

He shrugged. “You sent me there to find out what I could. Was I supposed to miss a chance like that? Her in the house without an escort? Him tupping that silly little maid. It was perfect.”

“Not unless she's caught.”

“Or freezes to death. Or flees the country.”

“No, not that! Saxonhurst must be
free
of her.” She thumped at her knee, then winced as her gnarled hand complained. How had she grown old? How dare her body betray her? “He must be free to marry Daphne. I will have my plan.”

“And there's Lady Daphne run off, too,” he said in spurious sympathy. “Losing your touch, Your Grace?”

“One day, Stafford, you will push me too far.” He just quirked a brow, so she added, “I could turn you in for this murder.”

“And lose your chance at the earl's bride?”

Anger was building in her, like a flow of fire, but she didn't let it loose. Her doctors had warned her against it, and she had to live. Had to live to see her plan work. Had to win Helen back.

“Could Saxonhurst get his wife off at a trial?” she asked.

“It'd be touch and go. After a talk with me, the servants are convinced she did it. They even remember blood on her hands. The housekeeper's sure I didn't have time to kill them. She doesn't realize how quick and easy it can be. And anyway, Hattie's not about to
tell the world what we were up to, is she? She'll even say that she heard screams back before the countess left the house. People come to believe what they're told to believe, Duchess, especially if it suits them.”

“Some people do.” Her damnable, intractable grandson hadn't. How could she have imagined such a pale, sad child would fight so hard, resist so adamantly?

He was like her.

It came to her now and then these days, in the sleepless nights that seemed all she had, that she might have made a wrong move somewhere.

“So,” she demanded, pushing weakness aside, “where is she? None of this will do me any good if she can't be found and hanged! She has family, doesn't she?”

“Two sisters, two brothers.”

“Ages?”

“A brother and sister are young. The sister's about sixteen. Pretty thing, too. According to Hattie, old Sir Arthur had his eyes on her, the miserable lecher. The brother's a bit older. Goes to a tutor every day.”

“They might know where she is.”

“They might, but they're not likely to tell, are they?”

“There are ways.” She glared up at the man. “Never threaten directly. Threaten something they love. What do they love?”

“Their sister, likely. Look, Duchess, be patient. We won't get our hands on the young ones now. They won't be going anywhere these days without an army of servants—”

“I don't have time to be patient. I want it now!”

She choked back other words, hearing how childish she sounded. She'd seen other old people become like peevish children. She wouldn't. She
wouldn't.
She was the Dowager Duchess of Daingerfield. All her life, she'd had her way. Nearly all her life . . .

She would have her plan!

She shouldn't have waited the five years, but she'd had his promise, so she'd been sure of success in the end. Sweet success, gained through his feckless inattention to details.

She shouldn't have waited ten years the other time, either. She should have acted immediately, but she'd
hoped. She'd hoped her daughter would realize her folly on her own.

Damn the Torrances and their evil charm. Bewitched her, he had. Stolen her daughter. He deserved to die. But not—

“Find her,” she commanded. “Kill her.” She wouldn't delay this time. She was old, and panicked urgency beat in her like a drum. “Did you hear me?” Why was he looking at her like that? He was nothing. A hired ruffian she'd had to keep around.

“You're an old woman, Duchess. Perhaps your reign has ended.”

“How dare you!” The fires started licking in her again. Anger. Dangerous anger. “You're scum, Stafford. Gallows bait.”

“Then you want me to go? Tell the world about our long association . . .”

“You wouldn't dare!”

He grinned. “Wouldn't I? Truth is, Duchess, you're on your last legs, and a man has to look to his future. I'm thinking the little Countess of Saxonhurst might offer a better future. So I will find her. Whether I kill her or not, though, that depends.”

“I'll see you out,” she snarled. “I'll see you hang! I'm the Duchess of Daingerfield, damn your black heart. . . .” What was that sneering threat in his eyes? What was building in her? She fumbled for her golden bell.

He calmly moved it out of reach.

The twins had gone to bed, but Laura and Jeremy were still up, waiting desperately for word of Meg. Laura looked over to where her brother sat reading, wishing she could concentrate enough to disappear into a book. Instead, she was playing Casino with Lady Daphne.

In silence.

At least Lady Daphne was someone who knew when everything possible had been said. She'd spoken more earlier, however, and Laura did feel sorry for her. Though Daphne was too polite to say much about her personal affairs, it was clear that her home life had not been pleasant, and that the duchess was a tyrant. It was clear, too, that Daphne was one of those people who was deeply unhappy without any idea of how to break the pattern of her life.

Laura played her last card, gathered the ones on the table, and tallied up her score. As Daphne began to deal the next hand, Laura wondered if something could be done for her. Though she was thin and pale, perhaps she would plump up a little if less put upon. Her skin was excellent, her features even, and her pale blond hair could be pretty if styled.

She played a card. Back before her parents' deaths, the Gillingham household had been a healing place. People had enjoyed it and seemed cheered by it. Perhaps the remaining Gillinghams could create the same magic for Daphne.

And Saxonhurst. Laura adored her brother-in-law, but she didn't think he was truly happy. Look at that silly business of smashing things in his room. She'd had the whole story from the servants, who seemed to think it just an amusing foible.

It didn't amuse her.

It worried her. It needed dealing with.

If, that was, Meg came home safe, and this ghastly business about Sir Arthur's death was sorted out. She glanced at the mantel clock. Nearly ten, and no news.

The door opened, and they all looked up. It was only Pringle, but he was bearing his heavy silver platter with a note upon it. Brak pushed in behind and went whining to Jeremy.

“What's the matter with the dog?” Jeremy asked.

The butler just shrugged. “The animal is often distressed if his lordship is absent for any length of time.” He presented his tray to Lady Daphne.

“For me?” She dropped her cards, some spilling onto the floor, and grabbed the folded, sealed paper.

“From Cousin Sax?” Laura asked, but realized immediately that he wouldn't send a message to Daphne.

Daphne was studying the folded paper. “It doesn't say. Where did it come from, Pringle?”

“From Quiller's Hotel, my lady.”

Daphne dropped the letter as if it were red hot. “I won't read it!”

Laura seized it and offered it back. “Daphne! It could be important.”

“It's the duchess. I know it is.”

“Even if it is, she can't do you any harm here. Open it. What if it's about Meg?”

Jeremy had come over. He took the letter from Laura, then thrust it at Daphne. Laura was startled and impressed by this hint of manly authority from her scholarly brother. Daphne responded. Though her lips quivered, she took it and broke the seal. After a moment, she put her hand to her mouth.

“What?” Laura almost shrieked, fighting not to snatch the letter from her limp hand.

“The duchess,” Daphne whispered. “She's . . . she's dying!”

“What?” Daphne ended Laura's dilemma by giving the letter to Jeremy who, being a good brother, brought it around to Laura so they could both read it.

It was signed “Waterman.”

“Who's Waterman?” Laura demanded.

Daphne had found a small handkerchief and was dabbing her eyes. “The duchess's dresser.”

“I regret to inform you,” Jeremy read aloud, “that Her Grace, plagued and put upon by alarms and undutiful behavior, has suffered another of her seizures, this time a most grievous one. The doctor is in attendance, but holds out little hope. Her Grace's speech is weak, but she has managed to make clear that she wishes her family, no matter how ungrateful they have been, to be beside her at the last. The duke and his family have been sent for. It is her dearest wish that the two grandchildren who are in London at this time, will put aside their cruelty and come to her.”

“I wasn't cruel,” Daphne whispered. “Not really. It was she . . . Oh!” She fell into deep tears.

Laura went to hold her. “Don't! I'm sure you had reason to leave her. Just because she's dying doesn't make her a saint.”

Daphne looked up at that, tears fading. “She's isn't a kind-hearted woman.”

“But she's dying, and—”

“And she has been kind to me from time to time. . . .” She blew her nose.

“So you want to go to her now. That's understandable.”

“Wait,” said Jeremy. “What if it's a trap?”

Laura and Daphne turned to him. “Trap?” Laura asked.

“Suppose she wanted to get Daphne back. Might she not try something like this?”

“Oh, surely not!”

“She might,” said Daphne, torturing her handkerchief. “Nothing is beyond her.”

The butler cleared his throat. “If I may be so bold, perhaps a servant might be sent to Quiller's to ascertain the exact situation.”

“Perfect,” said Jeremy. As Pringle left, he added, “I'll bet it does all turn out to be a ruse. Won't she be furious that you didn't fall for it, Lady Daphne!”

“Then she probably will have a seizure. She's had two already. And it will all be my fault.”

“Nonsense. I think we all need tea. Ring the bell, Laura.”

Laura did so, thinking how wonderful it was to have a bell, servants, and tea. If only . . . “I do wish we would hear something from Cousin Sax or Meg, though.”

Jeremy gave her a firm hug. “We will. And Cousin Sax is up to anything. After all, that potboy took Sax there, so he must have rescued her.”

 

Meg awoke to warm, cocoony darkness. She was in her own bed, with Laura close beside, and she had had some most extraordinary dreams.

Then she realized she was half off the edge of the bed, because Laura had taken the center. Annoyed, she wriggled and pushed, trying to ease her sister back onto her own side—

That leg didn't belong to Laura!

She froze. She hadn't been dreaming. A new smell all around, a sensitivity between her legs—not exactly soreness, but close to that—all reminded her of who was in her bed, and what had happened.

Typical of the Earl of Saxonhurst to treat the whole bed as his territory! She wriggled a bit more toward the center, trying to get away from the chill seeping under the covers. Under pressure, his leg moved a bit, but then her progress brought her closer to his big, hot body sprawled majestically in the very middle of the bed.

Meg smothered a laugh. How romantic! She was very tempted to jab him with her elbow and make him move, but she also wanted a bit of time to think. After all, this symbolized her life. He'd taken it over, taken her over, so that only a narrow strip of Meg Gillingham remained.

She'd taken over his life, however, in a far more absolute way, using the
sheelagh
to command. And despite the terrible stings in the magic's tail, she wasn't the tiniest bit sorry. She could no longer imagine life without this big, impossible, demanding, wonderful man.

Tentatively, she worked a hand across the small expanse of sheet between them, aware inch by inch of a growing heat. Then, with just a fingertip, she touched his body. One body dressed in cotton should feel much like another, and yet this could never be Laura. Perhaps
it was not touch, but other senses. Smell, sound, the quiet but firm exhalation of each breath.

What a torrent of emotions and dramas she'd swirled through these past days. And despite the delicious wonder of Sax, of Sax and her, the dramas weren't over yet. She was still accused of murder. And somewhere, the
sheelagh
was beyond her control, perhaps able to be used for evil by others.

But, incredibly, here was the scintillating Earl of Saxonhurst, glossy ruler of his exalted world, endearingly confused about day-to-day life, here beside her, trustingly asleep.

Recently inside her, creating magic.

Hers.

Astonishingly, wonderfully, hers.

Irresistibly, her hand crept out again, and she dared to stroke him—his bare arm. She was Sax's bride. Sax's lover. She might, at this very moment, be carrying his child within her, which meant—

He said quietly, “You awake?”

She snatched her hand back. “Yes.”

“What's the matter?”

“Nothing.”

He drew her against his body. “Sorry we made love?”

At just this closeness, desire leaped. “The very opposite.”

“Wonderful lady.” He nuzzled warmly at her neck. “So, why did you sound as if something was the matter?”

After a moment, she said, “I was thinking I might already be with child. And that they don't hang pregnant women.”

He nipped her neck, making her start. “Don't be foolish. No one will touch the Countess of Saxonhurst.”

She knew better than to suggest that some things might be beyond the power of rank.

He settled her more comfortably against him—against his strength and heat. “All right. Time to talk.”

“You just said no one would—”

“I need to know the whole tale. Start with the magic statue.”

“I don't think that's a good place to start.”

“Silly Meg. Where then?”

“Believe me, there's nothing silly about the
sheelagh.
”

“When we get it back, you can show me how it works. Then I'll believe you.”

“They should have called you Thomas. And I'm never using the
sheelagh
again. Why don't I tell you what went on at Sir Arthur's?”

“Very well. But you went there to find the magic statue.”

Meg sighed. He was right. She couldn't leave the
sheelagh
out of this entirely and still tell the true story. She stirred uneasily against him. “Promise not to be too angry with me?”

He kissed her temple. “I won't be angry with you. Even if you killed Sir Arthur.”

“I didn't!”

“I'm sure he deserved to die. A very slimy customer. So I won't be angry, no matter what you've done.”

“Ha! You turn into a monster every time you're crossed. You tear rooms apart.”

He shifted slightly and kissed her lips. “No, Meg, no. Don't think that of me. I'd never hurt you. I've never hurt anyone. I don't even box. For sport I fence and aim my pistols at targets.” After a moment, he added, “I suppose I'd better explain.”

He'd never hurt anyone? She remember someone saying he only broke things. She put her hand to the side of his face, feeling the roughness of whiskers there. What did he look like, unkempt and unshaven? Wonderful, she was sure. “Go on, then.”

He kissed her palm. “The only person who has ever made me really angry is the Dowager Duchess of Daingerfield. The mere thought of her, however, enrages me.”

She heard it in his voice, and wanted to argue again that such feelings were wrong. She knew better than to raise that problem at the moment, however.

“I don't like my anger,” he said. “But it feels worse if I bottle it up. So I let it out.” He laughed. “Now, it's mostly an act for the servants. They put ugly items in my room, and I obligingly smash them. But I also get rid of the rage, and I think that's wise.”

It was a strange concept to her. “But it means you live surrounded by ugly things. That's enough to turn anyone sour.”

“Customs die hard. We all have to play our parts on the stage of life. To fulfill the expectations of others.” He turned his head sensuously against her palm. “I was hoping to spend a great deal of time in my wife's apartments. Especially as she has one of my favorite paintings on her wall.”

“Which one?” she asked, but she knew.

“The Vermeer.”

“It is lovely. So calm and tranquil.” She had to add, “I didn't think you'd like it.”

“Don't forget, I like Turner, too. And Fuseli.”

She laughed. Mr. Chancellor had been right. Sax was Sax.

And he was nuzzling her palm with wicked intent.

Meg flexed her hand against his mouth, but said, “Don't seduce me again, Sax. We do need to talk.” As if in warning, St. Margaret's church clock began to chime. She counted ten strokes. It felt more like the middle of the night.

He licked her palm. “I can talk while seducing.”

“I'm not sure I can hear, though.”

He laughed, and separated them. “Very well. Let's lie apart and make sense of it all. But Meg”—and he caught her hand for one last kiss—“I promise I won't be angry. No matter what you've done. I promise.”