What the Marquess Sees (12 page)

“Charmer.” She emphasized sarcasm while she suppressed a sudden pang of hurt. Following on the heels of nervous anticipation, the change in emotion was jarring. It was not like she hadn’t worked hard for his animosity—she knew she’d earned it. And she still didn’t regret it. Much.

“You keeping quiet helps. Less chance of you making me angry. Less chance of me doing something I—you’ll regret.”

Beatryce considered his admission. It didn’t escape her notice that he had started to say “I” before he switched to “You”. How could she use this knowledge to her advantage? He wasn’t the only one with a heightened instinct for self-preservation.

Sure, she’d been aloof and contemplative before—her father had just been murdered. It would have been odd not to be somewhat respectful to his memory. No matter that he was a bastard of the worst kind and everyone knew it. No matter that she was pleased he was dead. Did that make her a bad person? She didn’t think so; he was the devil’s own.

And her silence worked as a way for her to analyze her situation with Dansbury and determine how to handle their enforced proximity. It was a calculated move on her part.

Not to mention that she’d been angry and bitter—life wasn’t fair, especially for her, it seemed.

After a moment’s consideration, she decided to change tactics. “How do you see this all playing out? Are we going to just travel merrily along to our destination, and then remain hidden until someone tells us it is safe to come out? Are you just going to leave me?”

Their eyes locked as she choked out those last words. Her throat tightened and cut off her remaining words, at the thought of him leaving her alone. She couldn’t even swallow. It was an unexpected feeling coming from her. She was stronger than that. She did not need anyone.

His gaze softened for a moment. “I don’t know. Surprisingly, I don’t have all the answers. I only know that justice will prevail in the end.”

“La, how do you know? Sometimes bad guys win.” She looked at her white-knuckled hands, afraid he’d see the sudden fear in her eyes she couldn’t easily hide. Her experiences told her that the bad guys quite often won.

He leaned across and lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “No. They can’t. I won’t allow it. Might makes right. Surely, you of all people hold with that sentiment. You were prepared to do anything to get away from your father. Well. I will do whatever it takes to make sure justice is served. Even…”

He didn’t finish that thought. Beatryce was glad. She didn’t like the sudden look in his eye, and thus, she did not want to know what he was prepared to do to see justice served.

It wasn’t like him. Sure, he looked at her that way, but he wasn’t really thinking of her at the moment, that much was obvious. For the first time, she considered just how formidable a man he could be. He had the potential to be dark. Ferocious. Dangerous. Though she didn’t think he realized it. And she knew nobody else saw it, either. But then, she remembered the cloaked man’s written taunt.
PS: Tell Dansbury, I know his secrets.

What could this man be hiding?

Whatever it was, she suspected it haunted him.

She ignored the voice that screamed how much she might like dark. And she made a mental note not to push him past his limits. She decided to pull him back to the light, out of his shadowy mental hole. Otherwise, he’d make the day long and miserable, and she just wasn’t up to another day like that.

She leaned toward him and placed her hand on his thigh. A well-muscled, surprisingly hot and hard appendage that. “Cliff.”

“Don’t you
dare
call me Cliff!” He swiped her hand away on an unexpected growl. She nearly fell face first into his lap as her support was knocked from beneath her. His voice was a roaring bellow. Gone was the caring, empathetic demeanor from just a moment before.

He rose and reached for her as if he intended to shake her or worse, when the glass of the carriage’s rear window shattered.

“Bea. Get down. Now!” he yelled.

Several more shots were fired into the wooden walls of the carriage as Dansbury dropped to the floor and flipped up the cushion of his seat. Good God, they had a small armory inside that seat.

He grabbed two pistols and peeked out the rear window. Both guns were already primed and ready to fire. Within the trunk lay all manner of additional weapons, including prepared shells and the tools to prime the remaining guns.

Beatryce didn’t think, she grabbed two and readied them, tamping them down so they’d fire correctly. As soon as Dansbury fired his, he dropped them to the floor. She immediately replaced them with her two. He never once looked down. Somehow, someway, she anticipated his needs without direction from him. They worked in concert as if they’d done so for years. As if she read his mind. As if he had confidence in her ability to do so.

Dansbury ducked as a shot nearly clipped his ear and imbedded itself in the front wall of the coach.

Beatryce’s heart leapt in response.

Three more shots followed before Dansbury peeked up, aimed, and let fly his next two. He dropped his guns and grabbed the next two she’d prepped while he took aim. He started to duck down, jerked back up for one last look, and ducked down again.

More shots rang out in rapid succession.

There must be more than one man shooting. Four, if Beatryce had to guess. She didn’t dare look to be sure. Besides, she had a job to do there on the floor.

They continued on this way, shots volleying, guns dropped and replaced, for what felt like hours, but was only a handful of minutes, before Dansbury leaned back against her seat, hands dangling over his raised knees. Finished.

Guns littered the floor; they’d run through half their store.

Dansbury released a breath of relief. “They’re gone. We got one. But the others, three more of them, fled into the woods.”

“Why aren’t we stopping?”

“My man knows not to stop for any reason short of death. It’s too dangerous. We carry on until we reach safety.” He suddenly looked at her. “Are you all right? You’re not hurt?”

“Yes. No. I’m fine.”

He searched her face, for what she didn’t know. She didn’t break the connection.

He smiled then and her gut twisted. He’d never smiled at her before, happy with whatever he’d found in her eyes. Not like that.

“You did well, Lady Beatryce. Thank you.” He reached out as if he were going to caress her cheek, but then jerked his hand back, fist clenched.

No. No. No. No.

She wouldn’t let him back away from that. She launched herself across his lap, straddling his legs. She grabbed his head and kissed him for all she was worth, her adrenaline firing her passion and making her reckless.

He kissed her back. But his hands remained steady and gripping her sides. He nearly hurt her, he was clutching her so fiercely about the waist.

Her dress billowed all around, hiding them from the world. She scrambled for his trousers, intending to unbutton them and free his erection. He wanted her; she wanted him. The danger had passed. They were free to indulge.

But he grabbed her wrists and broke away. “Beatryce, I never become intimate with someone under my protection. I’m funny that way.”

“I can protect myself.” She kissed his face between words.

“Sure, love, then let me put it another way. I don’t fuck people I don’t like.”

That got her attention. She was quick to change strides. “Such language. Seems out of character for you, at least that’s what I hear. Must have touched a sore spot,” she said between kisses.

She was confident in her charms. She nipped at his lips.

He kissed her back despite words to the contrary. “No. Just speaking the truth.”

They continued to kiss. She wanted to climb inside his skin. She would consider the consequences later.

Then he capitulated, for after a moment he said, “Ah, hell,” and he wrapped his arms around her and proceeded to kiss her relentlessly.

Thank God!
Her body all but screamed its agreement with their unspoken plans. She reached for his trousers again, but he stalled her. Again.

“Not here. I’ll not take you on the ground of a cramped and dirty carriage with glass and guns strewn about the place.” He smiled as he touched his forehead to hers. “I have a reputation to consider…”

They burst out laughing.

“What loneliness is more lonely than distrust?”

― George Eliot, Middlemarch

The Sorceress and the Lusty Hound Inn…

Dansbury slammed the door to their shabby room and began tearing at Beatryce’s clothes before the pictures finished rattling on the wall. He refused to think on the wisdom, or not, of their actions. Right now, intelligence and forethought was overrated.

She only wore the oversized dress he had given her. Thank God. He only needed to open a few buttons, and then he was able to pull it over her head and throw it to the floor. He stood back and admired the vision she presented.

She did not hide from him, though her hands were clenched into fists and her pulse beat nervously at her neck. He was pleased, and nearly dropped to his knees and begged his thanks.

Damn. She was striking. Perfect. Firm, high breasts with nipples standing erect and ready to be suckled. She was toned, athletic, unusual for a lady. And he discovered that he no longer like soft and voluptuous. Thick, blonde hair down below hid her treasures from his gaze. God, he was more excited than he’d ever been in his life. His cock twitched and throbbed in anticipation. He wanted her everywhere. In every way. He felt the evidence of pre-cum cooling on his pants. He was beyond ready. He might not last long. This time.

He reached for her and all but tossed her on the bed. She leaned back on her elbows and watched him as he tore off his clothes.

Once naked, he nearly strutted with pride as he noticed her eyes widen as she stared at his cock. His prick bobbed its head in greeting. Yes, he knew he was over-endowed, and he could see that she was pleased with that fact. He all but crowed with delight, and he was thrilled she wasn’t cowed by the sight.

He crawled up the bed toward her, his body temperature climbing with each passing second. He could feel moisture collecting on his back from the heat. She rolled over onto her hands and knees and his mouth turned dry at the sight. If possible, his cock swelled further. She was gorgeous, her ass smooth and firm and high in the air. Begging for him. Inviting him to touch, to dine. Her legs widened in invitation, and her back arched. He could see the moisture coating her woman’s hair. God, he could even smell her excitement. All he had to do was surge forward, and he would be buried to the hilt in her hot, willing sheath.

Mmm…

He moaned at the thought. He couldn’t control the outburst. And he wanted her in this way, on her knees in submission. But not this time. Not their first time. And so despite his cock’s complaints about the delay, he reached out to nudge her back over.

She resisted and spoke over her shoulder. “If you want to fuck me, you’ll have to accept me this way. I don’t do it face to face.”

He was surprised and couldn’t control his lustful response to her vulgar words.
Shite
. He was beginning to like bold over demure, as well. He didn’t think when he asked, “You mean, you’ve never?”

Pain flickered across her face before she shut it down. “Are you going to keep talking?”

The hurt he glimpsed bothered him. She had done it the other way before, that much was plain, but somewhere deep down burned an unpleasant memory. Inexplicable rage surged to the surface. He fought it down.

Fine. He’d do it her way. This time. But he vowed she would never forget the experience. He would claim her and teach her about what sex ought to be, replacing her upsetting remembrance in the process.

He stood on his knees, his cock leading the way and straining toward her wet and waiting core. She was ready. Her woman’s hair was absolutely coated with her moisture, glistening and winking at him in the candlelight. He drew in a slow, deep breath, and her womanly fragrance set every inch of his body to nigh bursting with need.

He lost the last of his control. And without using his hands or his tongue to prepare the way, he gripped his cock and guided it to…

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Mr. Churchmouse?” came the muffled voice.

Shite.

Dansbury leaned back on his heels, knees spread, and dragged his hand down his face. His throbbing cock stood out erect in front of him, rigid and purple and proud. Beatryce flattened herself to the bed, her face buried in the crook of one arm.

“Yes, what is it?” His voice practically growled though he tried to play his role.

“A message for you has arrived downstairs. The runner said it was urgent and that he was to give it only to you. Directly.”

Beatryce crawled out of bed. Dansbury followed her with his eyes.

“I’ll be right down. Thank. You.” He all but bit out the last, not even attempting to hide his irritation.

*

Dansbury pulled on his trousers, his movement jerky in his agitated state. Beatryce watched him through the mirror before her. And as he pulled them over his hips, she caught sight of his cock, semi-hard and not quite relaxed, before he tucked it away.

He hadn’t even put on his drawers.

He left without another word, slamming the door on his way out. Just like earlier, the pictures shook the walls and remained askew.

Beatryce thrust aside her frustration and turned her attention to practical matters: to the fire, or where a fire should be burning bright. In their haste to have at each other, they hadn’t spared the time to light one. And despite their heated passion, the room had turned cool as night fell.

So, she set herself to the task of lighting a fire. She’d seen maids and footmen perform this chore numerous times before, and she understood the mechanics of fire making. How hard could it really be?

Hands on her hips and jaw set with confidence, Bea checked the battered coalscuttle next to the hearth. It was half full, but the lumps within didn’t look quite like the coal she was used to. She reached in and picked one at random; it was lighter in color than coal. Dark, yes, but not quite as black.