What the Marquess Sees (11 page)

“What’s wrong with him?” Mrs. Chase asked Dansbury as she jerked her head at MacLeod. Then, without waiting for a response, she turned to the red-faced Scot. “What’s wrong with you? Got a burr up your kilt? You shouldn’t scowl so much, it’ll freeze your face that way.” She lowered her voice like a man’s, mimicking his Scot’s accent. “Och, as you Scots say, too late for that!” She laughed again, almost a giggle, but not quite. Heartier. Happier. More real.

She nudged MacLeod. “Come on, laugh it up. Life’s too short to be so angry.”

MacLeod didn’t respond, of course, but continued to frown at Mrs. Chase.

“So, Mrs. Chase from America, are you traveling with your husband?” asked Dansbury.

“No,” her voice cracked on the word. It was her first hint of any underlying sorrow in her otherwise bright personality. “Alas, I’m a widow.” Mrs. Chase twisted her fingers and looked away, briefly, as she visibly pulled together her composure. Then she faced the men again, her cheery countenance restored.

“My apologies…” Dansbury began.

“No, please, no apology is necessary. You couldn’t have known,” she interrupted. She squeezed his arm and offered him a direct smile of reassurance. Still, a moment of awkward silence followed, until Kelly broke the silence.

“Dansbury, weren’t you…” Kelly began. His voice trailed off when both Dansbury and MacLeod scowled at him for the obvious lapse. It was an odd mistake for someone of Kelly’s experience to make. Dansbury was supposed to be Mr. Churchmouse. They’d just established that fact not two minutes before during the introductions. Fortunately, Mrs. Chase missed their twin expressions of ire as she was facing Kelly.

“D-Dansbury?” Mrs. Chase noticed the slip, of course. She turned to look at Dansbury, a curious expression on her face.

“Aye. We call him Dansbury because Churchmouse is just plain odd. And since he used to work fer the Dansbury estate, we took to calling him that.” Kelly tried desperately to make up a story to explain away his gaffe.

Mrs. Chase acknowledged the reasoning with a slow nod of her head, but all the while, she stared at Dansbury as if he were some heretofore-unknown specimen of science.

After a few tense moments, Mrs. Chase finally asked, “You worked for the Dansbury estate? Do you know the marquess well then? Are they…are they nice…people?”

Mrs. Chase seemed oddly hesitant to ask her last question. Dansbury was more than a little curious over her interest in his family. He looked briefly at MacLeod over her shoulder. MacLeod was frowning…more than usual.

“Fairly well, I’d say.” He tried not to chuckle at that understatement. “They are extremely nice people. Very giving. And you? Do you know the marquess?”

“I’m a…his…No…”

Interesting. Clearly she’d started to say something else, but changed her mind. Twice. He studied the woman before him. She was brown-haired with striking blonde and caramel streaks. She had wide brown eyes. And she did seem vaguely familiar, but he knew he hadn’t met her. He’d remember. Who could forget such a vibrant personality?

“…but I look forward to meeting him some time. I’ve heard great things.”

“Asking about him, are you?” He turned on his infamous charm.

“The name’s come up a time or two.” She smiled in return and batted her lashes.

Ah, she was a master at the game, too.

“Really?” He smiled—a wide open tell-me-all-your-secrets-you-can-trust-me kind of smile. He thought he heard MacLeod growl from behind her.

Mrs. Chase didn’t take the bait. Instead she turned back to MacLeod—perhaps he had growled—where she attempted to find some good humor in his dark depths.

After a few moments, she seemed to give up trying to pull MacLeod out of his foul mood. She asked questions about the country and about places to visit. General chit chat. Every once in a while, she tried again—with a surprising amount of frequency—to tease MacLeod into relaxing his guard, to no avail. After an hour, she gave that up to the lost cause it was and took her leave with a: “It’s nice to meet you, Dansbury or Churchmouse, or whatever it is I should call you. It’s been very informative.”

Dansbury looked at MacLeod after she left. “I like her.”

“As do I,” Kelly chimed in.

MacLeod just chugged the remainder of his drink, his fifth since the American had joined them. His friend wasn’t known to drink so heavily, must be Mrs. Chase. But he wouldn’t call the man on it.

“Well, gentlemen. I’d best be headed upstairs.” Dansbury knew it would look odd if he left Lady Beatryce waiting too long. She was supposed to be his new bride after all. He was not anticipating seeing her. In bed. Not at all.

“Aye, ye do that. I hope ye can find her beneath that tent.” Kelly’s laughed chased him up the stairs.

* * * *

Nearby…

A fire crackled in the hearth, the only light source in the small barren room. The bulk of the space remained hidden in the shadows, but there was only a table, a chair, and a small cot in the corner to be seen anyway. The table was covered with guns and steel. A veritable weapons cache.

The chimney leaked and smoke clouded and stunk up the tiny space, but the cloaked man paid it no mind. He tilted the note in his hand toward the flames and read.

They’re staying at The Quiet Witch Pub and Inn. We’ll take them tomorrow on the road.

He smiled.
Ah, yes. Excellent. Himself will be pleased
. The shrouded man threw the missive in the fire and returned to the nearby table. He took up his blade. He began to sharpen it, as if it were dull and unused. It wasn’t. It was as sharp as the day it was made. It’d cut through flesh like butter.

He leered as he relished the thought of finally confronting his foe. Of seeing recognition dawn across his enemy’s face. The sound of steel scraping steel echoed around the walls. The only other sound besides the crackling fire.

Soon. It would happen. Everything was falling into place as planned. And this time, he would not be denied his revenge.

“The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence.”

― Marianne Moore

He stood at the door to her room. Their room. It had a deep, dark scratch at eye level. And a reasonably sized crack. And dust. Lots of dust. A tiny spider worked its way in and out of the crack, busy and oblivious to his continued regard. Ten minutes must have passed as he watched that spider work—if not twenty.

Aw, hell. What was he waiting for? He turned the handle.

It was locked?

She’d locked him out. The idea was laughable.

He could slip in and out of anywhere undetected, despite his oversized shoulders and soaring height. He pulled a knife out of his boot. It was a matter of seconds before he was standing in the middle of their room. He hadn’t made a sound to alert her to his presence.

And now he couldn’t make a sound if his life depended on it.

She was mostly covered. Mostly being the key word here. The covers had shifted with her restless sleep…And she was naked.

One hundred percent naked-as-the-day-she-was-born naked.

He could tell because her side was exposed from her toes to the top of her ice-blonde head. Alabaster skin, looking as soft as newly spun silk glowed, uninterrupted, back at him.

He wished he’d been incapable of picking the damn lock.

He wanted to go to her; he wanted to stay utterly still. A dichotomy to be sure. He locked his knees to keep from moving. But he couldn’t look away. It was as if he’d never seen a naked woman before now.

One long, trim leg was sprawled out from under the covers, seeking to cool her overheated body. The dim light cast by the fire settled over the contours of her leg, highlighting defined muscles. Her leg was athletic, slim, and strong, unusual for a woman.

Had he mentioned that he liked unusual before?

And she must be burning up under the covers, for the room was surely aflame.

He pulled at his cravat. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he wondered why the room was suddenly quite warm despite the chill outside. He wanted nothing more than to bury his head in a bucket of snow.

She shifted in her sleep. The covers slid a little more. And he grew envious of the bedclothes, draped so languidly over her naked curves.

But that wasn’t what really captivated him. Held his attention as sure as chains tied to his eyeballs. Now. Oh, hell, now, one perfectly shaped breast was exposed to the air; one tight nipple puckered and pointing. At him. Begging him to sup.

His legs buckled. Thank God there was a chair behind him or he’d be sprawled on the floor. And how would he explain that? For the sound of his massive body hitting the floor would certainly wake her…and everyone else in the inn for that matter. He wiped a hand down his face.

She whimpered in her sleep. He couldn’t tell if it was a whine of distress or a lusty moan. In his sex-addled brain, he went with the latter.

And before he knew what he was about, he was crawling on the bed, zeroed in on her nipple. He leaned in, and his tongue tingled, ready to flick the tip. What would one taste hurt? Or one quick suckle? He could feel it now, soft and pebbled on his tongue. Would she taste sweet like chocolate? Or earthy, like her natural scent.

Hell…He. Knew. Her. Scent.

He closed his eyes and froze. He was afraid to breathe lest he lose his remaining self-control. His shaft throbbed in his trousers. Pulsated and ached. He wanted more than anything to take himself in hand to relieve the pressure. It wouldn’t take long. He’d been up and down in lust today, an emotional whirlwind. He opened his eyes and without conscious thought, homed in on her exposed breast. Hell, he wouldn’t need to touch himself; he was going to explode just by staring at her nipple, tight and erect and begging for his attentions.

What the hell was he doing? He fisted the sheet and used every bit of his self-control to rein in his unwanted desire. It wasn’t easy.
Ha, an understatement that
. He was on the edge. He fought and kicked his way back from the brink.

He searched his brain for a memory, any thought to put things in perspective. He found one, the memory of when he first saw her. The one where Middlebury had touched her intimately on the terrace for all the world to see. The one where she and Middlebury had discussed ruining an innocent woman as casually as if they were discussing the weather.

That did it. He reaffirmed his vow. He refused to be taken in by her. No matter how sexy…

He didn’t finish the thought. He just backed off the bed with cautious intent. It wouldn’t do to wake her now. He stood and embraced his disgust. It made him ill to know such an unconscionable person lived in such a beautiful package. What a load of rubbish, vile and smelly.

He turned on his heel and stormed out the door, slamming it behind him…no longer bothering to be silent.

Lady Beatryce opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling.

“The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together. Our virtues would be proud if our faults whipt them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherish'd by our virtues.”

― Shakespeare, All’s Well That Ends Well

On the Road Again…

The Next Morning…

Beatryce looked over at her traveling companion. They had left behind The Quiet Witch Inn early that morning, before the sun rose and the rooster crowed. It was freezing out and she wrapped herself within the spacious confines of her oversized dress. It actually provided a surprising measure of warmth. It was cozy, once her nose got used to the smell. She didn’t think she’d ever forget the memory of the stench for as long as she lived.

Dansbury glared out the window as she considered his profile, their roles reversed from their journey the day before. His arms were folded across his chest and his legs were stretched out and crossed at his booted feet. He was angry, that much was obvious, and contemplative. His blond hair was disheveled and partially covering his face, enhancing his agitated look.

“You’re angry,” she said. It wasn’t a question, but an observation. And she didn’t understand her reasoning behind why she felt the need to say it out loud which was quite unlike her.

“I’m not used to being around the same person, day in and day out, twenty-four hours a day. And it’s you. Of course, I’m irritated. Why aren’t you?” He wasted no time responding. As if he’d been waiting for her to break the silence. As if he was eager to inform her of how much she annoyed him.

She ignored his question, braced herself as their carriage dipped over another pothole, and asked one of her own. “Where is the charming man everyone raves about? I never see him.”

The coach windows rattled their panes.

He snorted. “I lock him away when you’re around. It’s called self-preservation.”

“Self-preservation? Ha. You, my friend, are afraid. What are you afraid of, Dansbury?”

“You…” He winced. It looked as if he meant to say more, but chose not to. Clearly, he hadn’t wanted to admit that much.

She was surprised by his confession. Her heart picked up its pace, and she felt anxious of a sudden, but she hid it well. She twisted her hands in the folds of her overgrown dress, a nervous gesture that wasn’t hers by habit.

She attempted to sound light-hearted and unconcerned when she teased, “La, Dansbury, that is the most honest thing you’ve said to me since we started out on this misbegotten adventure. I’m flattered.”

She didn’t think he noticed the slight tremble to her voice. For some unknown reason, she was on the verge of laughing like a nervous bedlamite. A strange quagmire of emotions entangled her mind and her normally well-ordered thoughts.

“Yea, and what happened to the silent ice queen I started out with—I want her back.”

“Why? Scared I’ll make you confess your darkest secrets…your innermost desires?” She added a sultry twist to the end of that question. God, she was discovering just how much she loved to bait him. She relished it.

“No. I just don’t like the man I am when I’m with you.”