Too Wicked to Marry (14 page)

"Harriet, what is going on with you and that man?"

Harriet stood facing the water, her back to the village and to the man who was the main source of her troubles. The rain lashed down hard enough to obscure the view of the mainland across the strait, hard enough to disguise any tears she might shed.

She was glad Gabriel spoke before he had touched her, or she might have lashed out violently at the person behind her. She had never been so on edge before, so ready to do something wild and reckless and out of control. The simple explanation was that Martin Kestrel had finally driven her mad. She'd always suspected he would someday. Four years in the man's charismatic company had taken far more out of her than she'd realized. She'd always thought she'd kept her objectivity intact, but knew now she'd been lying to herself.

She was so angry at Martin she wanted to kill him.

The gall of the man! The arrogant, superior impudence of that rutting stallion to dare suggest she—

"Harriet?"

She whirled to face her brother. "What?" Gabriel took a quick step back. "This is all your blasted twin's fault," she complained.

"Things generally are," he agreed, though she could tell he didn't know what she meant, but was anxious to soothe her. "But what's Michael have to do with you and Lord Martin?"

Everything!

She managed, just barely, not to shout this at Gabriel. It wasn't his fault Michael was young and reckless. It wasn't his fault that Martin Kestrel was an ass. She might possibly lay some of the blame for Martin's behavior at her own door, but that only increased her anger. At herself and at him and at the rainy, gray world in general.

And speaking of reckless—"Did you have to drive like that?"

"You said you were in a hurry."

She reached up and chucked him under the chin. "You're not as mild-mannered a scholar as you like to pretend." That was the problem with her family; none of them was mild-mannered at all, even the ones who desperately tried to be.

He grinned. "Does that mean you're letting me come with you?"

"You're going as far as the train station in Fort William and no farther."

He glanced back at the carriage. "I don't think you should be alone with that man. He has a dissolute look to him."

"And what would you know about being dissolute, my lad?"

His eyes twinkled as he answered, "I do go to school with Michael, lass."

It occurred to Harriet that she might have missed out on vital information she was going to need in dealing with Martin's demand, by being denied a university education.

"You're shaking, Harriet. Come along, we're getting soaked out here."

Gabriel put his arm around her shoulder and led Harriet inside the small building where passengers waited by the ferry dock. There were bare wooden benches where one could perch uncomfortably, and a stove in the center of the small room gave out a bit of welcome heat.

Harriet nodded a greeting to the woman seated stiff and straight on the bench. She was working on a piece of sewing, a trunk and other traveling bags piled beside her. Harriet received a disapproving nod in return. Harriet smiled, having had years to learn to interpret the myriad nuances to be found in Mrs. Swift's disapproval. She was glad to see that her traveling companion had found her own way from Skye Court to the village of Mallaig.

Though Harriet let her brother lead her to a spot near the stove, she didn't tell him that cold had nothing to do with the way her treacherous body was quaking. She dared not tell Gabriel the price Martin demanded for his help. She could imagine several scenarios that could come out of dropping that bit of knowledge in a MacLeod man's ear. They ranged from one to a dozen of her male relatives making Martin Kestrel pay for his salacious effrontery in any number of gruesome, painful ways.

While thoughts of retribution were pleasant, defending her honor at this point would cause a delay they could ill afford. Women had to be the sensible ones.

Harriet stripped off her gloves and held her hands out toward the warmth that radiated up from the stove. "Ah," she said. "How long until the ferry arrives?"

"Momentarily," Gabriel answered. He glanced toward the door. Harriet heard it open, but the shiver that was a mixture of fear, anticipation, and something far more primal told her that Martin Kestrel had walked into the room. She did not turn to face him, but listened as Gabriel went on very softly, "You need someone you can count on." He shot a quick glare at Martin.

Harriet glanced once more at the stern woman minding the trunks. "I'll have Mrs. Swift."

"She's an old woman. And Kestrel doesn't look particularly promising," Gabriel said. "He's not family."

She smiled slightly at Gabriel's assessment of the woman who had been many
things at many times, most recently the housekeeper at Skye Court. Of Martin she
said, "He looks better when his valet takes him in hand. Besides, all he has to do is get me where I need to be. I'll do the rest."

"Let
me
go, disguised as Michael."

"That possibility has been discussed and discarded already. If Michael is in troubleùwhich we do not know to be true but have to assume, then there is possibly a trap waiting at Strake House." Harriet traced a finger down her brother's nose. "If someone holds Michael prisoner and is waiting to intercept the courier, having a man who looks exactly like Michael walk in the door would certainly put a spanner in the works. We'd lose the courier, and more importantly, the chance to find Michael."

"But Michael might not be in trouble."

She knew he said it because he wanted it to be true. "Very likely not," she reassured him. "I'll probably meet him at Strake's, and all will be well." She hoped the rascal had been waylaid or delayed for some inconsequential reason and was even now taking up his assignment. But the way the documents had reached Aunt Phoebe was worrisome. So was the cryptic message scrawled on the bottom of one of the sheets of paper. They didn't know if anything was actually wrong, but they didn't dare take chances. Lives were at stake. Someone had to get into the exclusive house party and find out what was going on.

Alexander had volunteered for the mission, but he didn't have the temperament for playing a gambling, whoring noble. Besides, he was still nursing his injured arm and shoulder. Father had outright said, "No!" when Harriet pointed out that she had a way in. He had declared that they'd wait for Christopher and give the job to him. But Mother had seen the sense of sending Harriet, and had made all the necessary arrangements.

And because they had to assume that Michael MacLeod's life was in danger, Harriet would accede to the payment Kestrel demanded for his help. She would not be a whore for her country; not even patriotism would make her sell herself into a man's bed. But she would do whatever was required to save her brother's life.

And young Michael MacLeod had damned well better be in deep, life-threatening, tortured trouble
, she told herself.
Or I'll kill him myself
.

With that thought, she turned and angrily marched up to where Martin Kestrel leaned with his arms crossed, fuming by the door. His gaze burned into her with every step she took. "Very well," she said when she reached him.

His arm snaked around her waist, drawing her so close that she was intimately aware of his hard body pressing against hers. "Very well, what?" he asked.

"Let me go," she whispered urgently, dizzy with the awareness of Martin's maleness, and of the outrage that would burst out of Gabriel if this embrace went on any longer. She put her hands on Martin's shoulders, and pushed. "I'll do whatever you want once we're away from Skye, but release me before my brother makes a scene. Besides, my da's an elder of the kirk," she added when Martin released her after a moment's hesitation. "If the scandal of your touching me like that got out, you'd have a wife rather than a temporary mistress before you got off the island, my lord. We wouldn't want that, would we?" she added with a grim smile.

Martin was frightened—so frightened that the meaning of her words did not sink in for a moment. Because in the last few minutes he had made the awful discovery that once having Harriet in his arms, he did not want to let her go. He'd even been jealous when he walked in there and found her talking to her brother. A man she
said
was her brother. How could he be sure anything she told him was true?

He told her in no uncertain terms, "I'll make sure you live up to the bargain. Try to play me false and you will regret it."

"The ferry's in," she said in answer. "Let's get started, shall we?"

"You want me to thump him? Your mum said I could if he got out of hand," Mrs. Swift said.

Martin stood behind mem, lounging in the open bedroom doorway.

The journey had been a long and uncomfortable one; from Skye to Fort William by carriage, by train from there to Glasgow, and another train from Glasgow across the border into the north of England. They'd finally ended up at
this inn in the Northumbrian village closest to Sir Anthony Strake's country estate. Tomorrow they would proceed to Strake House. Harriet was all in favor of riding on through the night to their final destination, but there was no available transportation. Martin had dispatched telegraphs from Glasgow, one to his friend Strake announcing his arrival. He'd told Harriet the soonest they could expect a carriage to be sent was the next morning. Besides, Martin had insisted on waiting for the arrival of his valet and his wardrobe. He was correct about the importance of appearances; they couldn't walk into a house party full of the wealthy and the titled looking like a pair of refugees from the windswept Hebrides. One needed style, elegance, and fashion to mingle among the elite if one did not want to raise brows, incite gossip, and call attention to oneself.

Harriet's cover was to be a pretty ornament dangling adoringly on Lord Martin Kestrel's arm. Being an ornament took a great deal of work, and she was nowhere near prepared to assume the role yet. Despite all the hours spent working on the project while they traveled, she and Mrs. Swift still had so much to do.

"He's still there," Mrs. Swift said. She lifted a white brocade dress from the trunk and looked critically at the bodice. "Hmm," she said. "Shall I slam the door on him?"

Harriet sighed. She had been trying to ignore Martin's presence as they sorted through her clothing, "You deal with the dress," she finally told Mrs. Swift. "I'll deal with the—with
Lord Martin." She turned to the man in the doorway and said, "What?"

He held out a hand. "Come have dinner with me. I have a private room for the two of us," he added with a bitter look at Mrs. Swift. He had been quite disgruntled at having the other woman as a chaperone the whole way here. Mrs. Swift had been impervious to his glare, and Harriet had been amused and uncomfortable with his dark, hungry looks by turns. Conversation had been at a rninimum, contact nonexistent, and Harriet had been dreading this confrontation since their arrival at the inn. Still, she faced him with aplomb and stiff courtesy.

"Thank you, my lord, but as you can see, I am rather busy at the moment."

"Doing what?"

"Making myself unpresentable to polite society. One does not become a doxy overnight, you know."

He chuckled. "My dear, I believe that is exactly how it is done."

"Nevertheless—"

"Dinner," he said, coming forward and taking her by the arm. "Now."

He drew her forward, and Harriet went along without further protest. Though his imperious behavior had a great deal to do with her capitulation, the lure of a hot meal had an influence over her as well. "A meat pie would be nice," she said. "And a cup of tea. I'd kill for a good, strong cup of tea."

"Your tastes are plebeian, my dear," he told her. He led her down a flight of stairs and into a small, private dining room. For a country inn the room was quite elegantly appointed, paneled in dark wood, the walls hung with portraits of dogs, horses, and hunting scenes. Silverware, crystal goblets, and china in a blue and red floral design were set out on an embroidered linen tablecloth. A crystal bowl holding fragrant red and white roses adorned the center of the table. A sideboard held silver chafing dishes and several bottles of wine to go with the meal. Candlelight gleamed golden over it all.

"All that's missing is the Gypsy violinist," she said as she looked around.

"You, woman, have no appreciation for the finer things." He gestured her gallantly toward the table.

It was not that she was unfamiliar with the finer things in life, or even with sharing a private meal with Martin Kestrel while on the road, but context was so important, wasn't it? Somehow she doubted this evening's repast would be followed by a companionable game of chess, or a discussion of a book they'd both read.
Well, at least he's willing to feed me
, she thought as she sat in the chair he held out for her.

Perhaps I should simply order her to my bed
, Martin thought as he went to the sideboard. He felt her gaze on him, as real as a caressing touch along his back and shoulders. Odd that he should be so sensitized to her awareness of him. Or perhaps he only imagined he held her attention. She might be making a mental shopping list behind her appraising stare. He'd thought an intimate meal, some excellent wine, and the two of them alone before retiring for the night would have a soothing effect on the situation, ease the awkwardness of the circumstances for her. She was probably thinking that he was serving her now so that he could service her later, which was the sort of rude, cynical thing he'd be thinking in her situation. And they had always thought a great deal alike.

No, we haven't
, Martin sternly reminded himself. He had never known what went on behind that lovely, liar's face, but only thought he had. He didn't know now, wasn't going to ask, and her thoughts on any subject did not matter. The point was not to care what went on behind her serene expression, not to want her opinions or crave a smile or a glance of approval. Her face was for kissing, tasting, touching. What mattered was soft skin and supple, skilled lips.