The Reckless One (25 page)

She studied his face, saw something there that caused her breath to catch in her scarred old lungs. “Of course, Raine. But where are you going?”

His expression turned hard. “There’s an old debt I have to collect.”

“Wake up!”

Favor rolled onto her side, swatting at the hands pulling her. She blinked owlishly into the dark. It was still night. Her mouth was cottony and rancid, her eyes crusted with the residual salt from countless tears. And she was still half-drunk.

Not that it helped.

She remembered each eternal moment since yesterday when Rafe had left. She must not think of Rafe. He was gone. “Go ’way,” she mumbled.

“Nay!” Muira grabbed her arm and hauled her upright. The sound of a flint strike preceded the flash of a flame as Muira lit a candle. “The priest is here. You’re to be wed in an hour’s time.”

Favor came wide awake, snatching herself out of the old woman’s grip and scooting to the far side of the bed, yards of rumpled and stained pink satin heaped about her. She stared at them uncomprehendingly until she recognized the skirts of last night’s gown. She hadn’t taken it off before falling into her bed last night and no maid had disrobed her.

“No,” she mumbled, tucking her knees to her chest. “Carr is too sick. He’s been abed since yesterday. So sick he hasn’t even come to see his guests off.”

“He must have gotten better,” Muira said, seizing Favor’s ankle and dragging her across the bed. “He sent word a few minutes ago. He’s found a priest but the man won’t stay long, fearing the antipapists at Wanton’s Blush. You must get up!”

“I am cursed then,” Favor said, and as Muira began to drag her farther she reached down and pried her fingers from her ankle. “I’ll come. I said I would marry him and I will, now let me be.”

“Stupid girl! You can’t appear like that! Look at you. I’ve ordered a bath brought up.” She pointed at a tub standing in the center of the room. “You’ll use it and clean yourself.”

Favor’s lip curled back. “If you think to deck me out like some virgin sacrifice, you’ll get no satisfaction, I promise you. I’d sooner go to him dressed in black.”

The old woman’s mouth flattened with impatience. “Ach! Fine, then. Carr isn’t marrying you anyway, he’s marrying Janet.”

She stood back, waiting while Favor pulled herself to the edge of the bed and stood. Her head swam and she closed her eyes against the ache in her temple.

When she opened them she caught sight of herself in a dark mirror on the far wall.

She was ghastly white, her eyes sunk deep and ringed with shadows. Her hair fell in thick black ropes about her face and shoulders, lending her a feral appearance. She glared at her image with satisfaction. A worthy bride for a murderer. With a sharp movement, she gestured Muira ahead of her.

Muttering, Muira led her down empty black halls and long-echoing corridors. Already Wanton’s Blush wore an air of abandonment, her denizens having fled in a steady stream over the last few days.

“They’re in here, waiting,” Muira whispered. “I’ll look over the marriage certificate. You bob your head when the priest bids you do so and then, finally, it will be done.” She opened the door and waited for Favor to enter and followed her in.

The room was small and dark and of indeterminate usage. The few lit candles did little to chase the shadows from the corners. At least it is not a chapel, Favor thought. A priest, sitting on a hardback chair near the doorway, rose as they entered, his gaze darting anxiously. A small man stood beside the priest, his expression closed. Probably a witness.

Favor looked about. No one else was in the room. Certainly not Carr. Relief flooded through her. Perhaps he was, indeed, too sick to leave his room. Perhaps he’d overestimated his strength. Perhaps he wouldn’t come. Hope uncoiled in Favor’s heart.

“Where’s His Lordship?” Muira asked, her honeyed ‘Mrs. Douglas’ tones so unlike her real voice that for a second Favor did not realize who’d spoken.

“His Lordship is too ill to leave his bed.” The small man beside the priest stepped forward.

“Ah!” An involuntary cry, small and quickly smothered, rose from Muira.

“But,” he said, “His Lordship is most anxious, indeed,
most
anxious to wed Miss Donne, and as the priest”—his gaze flickered derisively at the silent man—“is afraid to leave his sanctuary for long, Lord Carr insists we do not delay.”

“I don’t understand,” Muira snapped, in her confusion over this unforeseen turn of events forgetting her harmless mien.

“If it pleases you, he would like to go through with the ceremony by proxy,” the small man continued. “I will stand for him. My name is Rankle. I am His Lordship’s valet.”

“His
valet?
This is most irregular,” Muira exclaimed. “Some would say ridiculous. Why I doubt such a marriage is legal or”—she looked at the priest—“even valid.”

“I can assure you as to its validity, Madame,” the priest said quietly, “and as far as the world is concerned, you know that a simple declaration before witnesses is all that Scottish law requires to marry.”

“I want to see the certificate,” Muira said, holding out her hand.

Wordlessly, Rankle gave it to her. She tilted the paper into the candlelight while Favor held her breath, praying she would find some irregularity, a few more days in which—if God would but show mercy—Rafe’s face would begin to fade from memory.

Muira raised her face, a gloating smirk on her lips. Favor’s hope died.

“It’s legal and it’s clear as day. Aye!” Muira said. She grasped Favor’s elbow and propelled her forward. “Say your piece, priest, and make sure to heed her answer well.”

She could not say what held her upright, Muira’s grasp or her own will. With Muira’s triumph her last bit of hope died. The room faded to a dim stage, the others became caricatures mumbling unintelligible lines in a play in which she had no interest. She stared at the candles’ haloes, heard the priest’s voice drone above the dull throbbing in her temples. Her limbs seemed liquid, her thoughts disjointed. She answered in a faint voice when prodded, nodding in continual agreement while deep inside she chanted his name like an incantation against the devil:
Rafe. Rafe. Rafe.

And then it was done. Rankle wished her well and plopped a purse into the priest’s outstretched hand. Muira, eyes ablaze with triumph, folded the certificate and stuffed it into her bodice.

“I must go at once and show this to those left of the clan.”

“Don’t leave,” Favor whispered, and knew she had finally reached the end of her strength, for she was asking for Muira’s aid. She should have known she wouldn’t receive any.

Muira grasped her chin between her thumb and forefinger and shook it with horrible playfulness.

“Don’t be ridiculous. The village where the last McClairens live is less than a five-hour drive. There’s no reason for you to become all over vaporish, m’girl.” She leaned close, whispering in Favor’s ear, “Carr is too ill to perform his husbandly duties.” She smiled thinly. “If you’re very lucky, he’ll die and never will.”

Favor stared at the old woman as she swept from the room. The priest followed her, his face taut with worry.

“Lady Carr.” Rankle bowed and he, too, left.

She was alone.

She stood until her gaze slowly focused on a dark, oily lock snaking across her bodice. She lifted the tress as one would a dead thing. It filled her with revulsion.

She’d dyed her hair black to ensnare Carr. She’d achieved that goal. Now she wanted only to rid herself of the noxious stain. Rafe had hated it.

She must clean it off now. She
had
to get it off.

She returned to her room and undressed, dropping the foul garments about her feet and peeling stays, chemise, and petticoats from her body. Then, naked, she scooped water from the hipbath Muira had ordered into a smaller basin. She dunked her head.

She began slowly, using the bar of harsh soap Muira had used to clean off her own makeup. With numb fingers, she worked the soap deep into her hair. But as the water grew dark, so grew her eagerness to be rid of the dye. Harder and faster she scrubbed, digging her fingers into the sodden mass, working up a thick lather of gray foam.

Desire became obsession. She dumped the dirty water on the floor and stood in the spreading pool, refilling the basin with clear water. Again and again she washed and rinsed her hair, until finally the lather remained white and the water held no tint of color. Only then did she fall exhausted and trembling to her knees, wrapping her arms around her middle and rocking back and forth. Because though she’d removed the blight from her hair, she still felt unclean.

Warmth flowed over her. Slowly, Favor opened her eyes. A hazy glow filled her room. Dawn had finally come.

“Favor, beloved, wake up.”

She turned her head, certain she was dreaming. She was not.

Rafe stood over her, the gentle sunlight revealing each harsh and beloved feature. No anger remained in his expression, all the rage was gone; he knew he’d lost. They’d lost.

“Your hair,” he murmured, tenderness filling his voice. He reached down and fingered a tress. “ ’Tis as bright as I recall. Brighter.”

“You’re too late,” she whispered.

“Aye,” he answered sadly. “Years too late ’twould seem.”

Reality sliced through the languor binding her. She struggled to rise, heedless of her nakedness beneath the bedsheets. “You must go! If you’re found—”

“Gently, sweet falcon.” He grasped her shoulders, sitting down on the bed beside her and pushing her against the pillows. “There’s no cause for alarm. Your dragon
doyenne
is gone, the servants are otherwise occupied, and Carr is sick in his den.”

Relief flowed through her and hard on its heels, gratitude. She’d never expected to see him again, yet here he was, filled with such poignance, such loss. She turned her head and kissed the back of his hand where it still lightly cupped her shoulder.

Without hesitation he wrapped his long fingers around the back of her head and brought her mouth to his. Surprise briefly touched her; he’d taken this kiss, not courted it, and he was a man not given to taking. But then his lips moved over hers and she couldn’t think beyond the moment. ’Twas her beloved who embraced her, kissed her, caressed her. ’Twas Rafe.

With a sob, she wrapped her arms about his throat, deepening the kiss. His hands moved up and tilted her face, gently urging her mouth to open. She complied and his tongue plundered deep within, finding hers and mating with it. Her head spun, her body burned bright as the sun outside and was just as ignorant of morality.

“You’re mine, Favor,” he whispered against her mouth.

Her body was ignorant, but she was not. “I’m married, Rafe.”

“I know.” His tone was serrated with anguish. He pulled back and stared into her eyes, ferocity flickering to life in the amber depths of his own. “It doesn’t matter. You are mine, Favor. You always will be no matter what name you take or where you flee. I love you.”

Yes,
she thought hopelessly.
Yes.
His words speared her with their essential truth. She could not deny them any more than she could deny her own heart. But she could not acknowledge them either.

Rafe’s she might be, and he her own love, but still she
did
have another name and she
would
soon flee to France…

But not now. Not yet. She’d been granted a few hours’ reprieve, a few hours to make enough memories to last a lifetime. Her embrace tightened.

It was enough of an answer. He eased her onto her back, following her down. His body had been her anchor before, a rock she’d clung to as he’d held her upright, buffeted by a tempest of sensations as he’d pleasured her. Now she learned the weight and breadth of him covering her and gloried in it.

His fingers skated lightly over her collarbone and found the pulse at the base of her throat. He measured the rapid beat with his lips, trailing lower, just above the line of the blanket. She arched upward, wanting more, wanting what he’d given her just a few nights before, wanting what she thought she would never know again. He brushed the linen away, exposing her breasts to his hungry gaze.

He inhaled sharply. “Let me take my shirt off, Favor. Let me feel your skin naked against mine. Please.”

She nodded. She could do nothing else; her voice was lost. He stripped his shirt off over his head, the movement feline and graceful, the muscles cloaking his laddered ribs sliding smoothly beneath velvety skin. His chest and belly were as hard and muscular as her caresses had described them, his arms long and powerful-looking, capped by thick dense muscle.

Dark hair covered his chest and thickened into a dark line that traveled beneath the waist of his breeches. Her gaze traveled lower. She caught her breath. His breeches were tight, too small and old, and the faded cloth hugged the big bulge of his sex closely, clearly revealing his arousal.

Her eyes fluttered shut remembering the feel of him pressed inside her. It had ached. Now that ache had returned but this time it seemed only the instrument that had then caused the ache could now ease it.

“Favor?”

She opened her eyes, swallowed hard. He was watching her intently, his expression taut.

“Is it … can I …” He trailed off and speared a hand through his hair, further rumpling the glossy sable locks. “Favor, I would not frighten you. I swear—”