Читать книгу Mary and the Marquis - Janice Preston, Janice Preston - Страница 10

Chapter Four

Lucas opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. His head hurt, his shoulder ached, his leg throbbed, his mouth tasted foul and his throat was as dry and rough as the bark of a tree. With an effort, he moved his head on the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain that speared through his temple.

When he opened his eyes again, she was there.

In the chair, by the bed. His bed.

She was familiar, but a stranger. How could that be? Where had she come from?

The south. But how did he know that?

He studied her, allowing her restful presence, her alluring features, to distract him from his aches and pains. She might not be a classic beauty, but she was enchanting. Her skin was smooth and creamy, with a smattering of freckles across her small, tip-tilted nose. The colour of her eyes was hidden, but he knew they were the deep blue of cornflowers. Her long, pale lashes rested on cheeks as lush and inviting as sun-ripened peaches. Her lips—soft pink, full and tempting—were parted and, as rotten as he felt, still his loins stirred at the thought of tasting them. He frowned, a memory floating a fraction beyond his reach.

Her lips. He could feel them, he knew their taste—silky as rose petals, sweet as honey. But how? He licked his own lips, paper-dry and sour. The answer eluded him as he continued his perusal of the woman by his bed.

Her hair. He paused, feeling his forehead pucker. Why had he thought her hair to be guinea-gold? It was not. It was more beautiful by far—the soft golden colour of corn ripening in the August sunshine. Not brassy, not a mass of curls, but soft waves where it escaped from its pins. He wanted to see it loose, flowing down her back.

He frowned again as he watched her sleep, striving to remember, fragments of memories teasing at his mind: the woods, a child’s cry, Sultan, with a woman—this woman—astride, leaving him, deserting him. And something else. What else?

A pistol shot! Reivers! Stealing his sheep, his livelihood, his future!

Galvanised, he threw back the covers and made to rise. His torso barely cleared the mattress before he collapsed back in exhaustion, panting with the effort, as the pains racking his body intensified tenfold. He heard himself groan and stifled it, but it was enough to rouse the woman.

‘Shh,’ she whispered as she rose to her feet and leant over him, a smile on her lips. ‘Lie still. You’re still very weak.’ She placed a cool hand on his brow; it was familiar, comforting. He looked up into her eyes—cornflower-blue, as he had known they would be—compassion shining from their tranquil depths.

‘How...how long...?’ His voice was croaky, as though it hadn’t been used for a long time.

‘It is five days now, since you were shot,’ she said, pulling up the bedclothes, smoothing them. ‘Do you remember?’ He nodded. The faint scent of lavender assailed his senses. ‘You have been in a fever. You have been very ill, my lord. You will need to rest, to recoup your strength.’ She went to a table set up at the foot of the bed and returned with a glass. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘You must be thirsty. Let me help. Drink this.’

She slipped her hand behind his head and supported him as she placed the glass against his dry lips.

He gulped the cool liquid, but she removed the glass before he had drunk his fill, saying, ‘You shouldn’t have too much all at once. Give your stomach time to settle. You may have some more in a while.’

He watched her, drinking in every detail of her as she replaced the glass. She wore a blue dress that matched her eyes and showed her figure to perfection, as it clung to the roundness of her breasts and her hips. Her manner and her movements spoke of neatness and restraint, calmness and competence. But her face and her body! He studied her with appreciation: her satiny skin, her eyes, her soft, lush lips, the thrust of her breasts, the sway of her hips. They proclaimed the exact opposite: wild abandon, passion, excitement.

He turned his head on the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut against the unexpected hurt that surfaced. He had known another such a woman. Her beauty had promised so much, yet it had been an illusion. Julia! How weak he must be, to allow that witch to affect him after all this time.

Had he really been so befuddled by his vice-ridden lifestyle? Had his senses been so dulled by the opium he had once blithely consumed, not to see through her looks to the reality? Not to see her for what she was—a greedy, grasping widow on the prowl, targeting naïve young bucks to fleece? He had fallen in love with an illusion of his own making.

Why think of her now, after so many years? He had thought all memory of her long buried. He conjured up the image of her face: her white skin, guinea-gold hair and large cornflower-blue eyes. Of course! No wonder she had been on his mind—Mary’s eyes were the exact same shade of blue as Julia’s...

Mary!

Sensible Mary! He remembered. He frowned again. At least, I remember some of it.

He kept his eyes closed, struggling to recall. The quiet sound of her moving around the room brought him back to the present from time to time, even as, bit by bit, pieces of the puzzle fit into place. The sheep! The men and the dogs, driving them up the hill; the wild gallop after them; the shouts; the shots; the searing pain. His gut twisted and the fear that had plagued him for months reasserted itself as he realised the implications of losing those sheep. The estate simply could not afford...

‘Shorey.’ His voice, still weak, sounded no louder than a whisper. ‘I remember...you promised...’

She returned to his side and lifted his hand, murmuring, ‘Hush. Do not worry. I gave him your message and he and Hooper rounded up the sheep. They also brought the cattle closer to the Hall, in case the thieves try again. There are none missing and they are keeping a close watch on them until it’s time to take them to market.’

He relaxed. The fear subsided but it did not disappear. It would not leave him, he knew, until he was free of his father’s legacy of debt. He curled his fingers around Mary’s hand, relishing the touch of her skin. He frowned. The skin on her palm and fingertips was roughened. She acted, and spoke, as a lady. But her hands—they spoke of work. He studied her face as she stood by the side of the bed, gazing down at him, her expression serious.

‘All is well, my lord,’ she said, releasing his hand and smoothing his brow. ‘There is no need to fret. I am sure you will be up and about in no time.’

Her gaze was direct and reassuring. He was comforted by her presence. He closed his eyes, all at once exhausted.

The sound of the door opening caught his attention and he forced his eyes open. Mary was at the door, speaking in hushed tones to someone outside. Lucas strained his ears, but could not make out what was being said.

‘What is it?’

Mary glanced back into the room. ‘It’s nothing, my lord.’

Was it his imagination, or did she sound furtive? He struggled to raise himself on one elbow.

‘Go and ask Susan to come and sit with his lordship,’ he heard her hiss. ‘I shall be there as soon as I can.’

Lucas frowned. Who on earth was she speaking to? He didn’t want Susan to care for him. He wanted Mary. He opened his mouth to object, but remained silent as he heard Mary’s words. ‘I know, lovey. I love you, too. Go on, quickly now.’

Lucas, an unexpected feeling of betrayal in his heart, fell back to his pillow. The words that had sprung to his lips remained unspoken.

It’s you I want, Mary.

* * *

‘Who is she?’

Lucas watched Trant as the valet finished putting his clothes away in the wardrobe later that day. Mary had not returned to his bedchamber since Susan had come to relieve her that morning and he was curious to discover more about her. He’d had little else to occupy his mind, trapped in his bed as he was.

‘Who is who, my lord?’

‘Mary Vale, of course. Who is she? Where did she come from?’

‘I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir.’ Trant regarded Lucas with an impassive countenance. ‘She has been a great help to the staff, though. She barely left your side whilst you were ill.’

‘Come now, Trant. I’m sure you can tell me more than that.’

‘I am not one to listen to the tittle-tattle of others, my lord.’

Lucas eyed Trant with exasperation. Was he being deliberately obtuse? Lucas had received a similar response from Ellen earlier and even young Susan had been no more forthcoming. Why were they all so reticent? Or perhaps it was Mary who was being secretive? All he knew for certain was that she was a widow who had been passing through his woods. And that she tasted divine—he could recall every detail of their kiss and it had awoken within him a hunger he’d been at pains to deny since his return to the Hall.

He’d been weak enough once to allow a woman to get under his skin. Julia’s scornful rejection of him still galled him and the rage that had consumed him when he walked in on her and Henson still filled him with shame. No, Lucas would never again trust a woman. He would never wed, nor would he ever have children. In fact, it was safer not to have any children around him: he would not wish on any child the misery and the fear he had endured in his childhood. His attack on Henson had fuelled his fear that he was, as he had so often been told, just like his father, who had been unpredictable, with rage and violence constantly simmering just beneath the surface.

No, he must resist Mary. He had kissed her at a time when he was not himself, when he was weakened. Although...he recalled her assertion his kiss had been ‘pleasant’. That rankled. Pleasant? Pleasant wasn’t the word he would use to describe it. She was clearly too strait-laced to appreciate the sheer sensuality of such a kiss. He recalled the soft sweetness of her mouth with a silent groan and he knew he must taste her again.

One more kiss. It won’t mean anything. What could be the harm?

After all, Mary Vale was not his type—far too sensible, except in her luscious looks, of course, but he had learned the hard way beauty was skin deep. He would not step into that trap again.

In the meantime he must be patient. There was no help for it—he would have to wait for the lady herself to return to his bedchamber before his curiosity could be assuaged.

His hunger, he had to admit, might have to wait a bit longer.

* * *

It was the following day before he saw Mary again. He was mentally alert, although physically still weak, and he chafed at his confinement.

Mary entered, carrying a covered bowl he suspected contained more of that disgusting gruel Mrs Lindley deemed suitable for invalids. He scanned her figure with appreciation as she walked towards him.

‘I have decided,’ he announced, in his loftiest tone of voice—specifically designed to needle her— ‘to take no further action over your attempted theft of my horse.’

Then he lay back to see what sort of reaction he provoked. He was bored and he was frustrated that Mary had been nowhere near him since the day before, when he had awoken. The servants were all too busy to pay him much attention and he was in desperate need of entertainment. He had decided teasing Mary would prove an enjoyable way to while away the time. He would prod at her self-control and goad her into revealing the real Mary Vale.

Mary’s step faltered at his words. Then she straightened her shoulders and smiled.

‘How very magnanimous of you, my lord,’ she said, her tone one of warm honey, although her eyes flashed.

Lucas bit back his smile and continued to regard her, straight-faced. ‘If, that is, you satisfy my curiosity. I have not forgotten you owe me satisfaction on several points.’

Not the least of which will be another kiss.

‘Satisfaction, my lord? How so?’ She eyed him coolly, chin in the air.

‘For a start, I want to know who you are. Yes—’ he added as she opened her mouth, ‘—I know you are Mary Vale, widow—although not of this parish—but knowing your name tells me nothing about you. Where have you come from? Where are you going? Why were you in my woods? Indeed, why were you stealing my horse? I am afraid, Mrs Vale, you owe me answers that are long overdue.’

‘Goodness.’ She laughed, although her expression was wary. ‘So many questions.’

She walked to the table at the foot of the bed to place the tray upon it, before facing him again. ‘You will have to sit up, I think, if you are not to make a mess with your food.’

She approached the bed and slid her arm behind his back, helping him to sit. A wave of desire crashed over him as her lavender scent enveloped him and her warm breath caressed his skin. She pulled at his pillows, plumping them behind him. He wanted nothing more this minute than to drag her down beside him and steal the kiss he had promised himself, to feast on those lush, provocative lips until she begged for more.

How could her mere presence provoke such a longing within him when he had sworn to never again fall under any woman’s spell? He cursed his weakness—it must have affected his mind as well as his body. He focused on the window opposite the bed, willing his mind and body back under his control, before looking at her again.

‘Prevaricating will not prevent me from pursuing answers to my questions, Mary,’ he said. His voice sounded strained, even to his ears. ‘I shall have my satisfaction sooner or later, you know.’

She coloured, her blue eyes falling before his steady regard, and her pearly teeth bit into her lower lip, sending his pulse rate soaring once more. It had been an unfortunate choice of phrase under the circumstances. All he had to amuse himself at the moment was his imagination and it was sending his thoughts in a very uncomfortable direction. He deliberately flexed his injured shoulder, using the stab of pain to remind himself that women could not be trusted. He was lusting after Mary and yet he knew next to nothing about her.

He thought back to that day in the woods: the bone-jolting fall from Sultan’s back; the damp, peaty scent of the earth in his nostrils as he lay, winded, amongst the trees; drifting...so very tired...until he had been roused by a sudden sound. He had lifted his head to see Sultan being ridden away from him. He had—somehow—gained his feet; had found enough breath to shout. The rest was a blur. But...that sound...

‘There was a cry.’

‘A cry?’

‘That day, in the woods. It sounded like a child.’

‘Are you certain?’ Mary turned away, walking to the end of the bed.

Lucas hesitated. Was he certain? ‘I thought...I seem to recall something...’

‘Might it have been a local child, playing in the woods?’

Lucas stiffened. ‘No children are permitted on my property,’ he growled.

Mary stared at him, her eyes wide. ‘Why so vehement?’

He shrugged. It was nobody else’s business.

Mary carried the tray to his bedside. ‘But what harm...?’

‘The matter is not up for debate. It does not concern you.’ Lucas was not about to discuss his reasons for banning children with a virtual stranger, particularly one as adept as Mary at keeping her own secrets. ‘Where have you been, Mary?’

Mary stilled, her eyes guarded. ‘What do you mean—where have I been?’

She placed the tray on Lucas’s lap.

‘Aaarrrgh!’ Pain speared his thigh. ‘Mary!’

The crockery clattered as Mary snatched the tray away. ‘Oh, no! I am so sorry! I didn’t think.’

As the pain subsided to a throb, Lucas smiled ruefully. ‘I cannot blame you, Mary, for I didn’t anticipate that either. A lesson for us both, I think?’

‘Yes, indeed. I shall take more care in future.’ Mary placed the tray gently on the bed. ‘There, although I fear it might prove more awkward for you.’

‘I have you to help with what I cannot manage for myself, though, do I not?’ Lucas grinned at the easily construed suspicion in Mary’s eyes. ‘So, I shall ask again, Mary. Where have you been, since yesterday, when I awoke.’

‘Oh, since yesterday. Sleeping, for the most part,’ she said.

‘All day? Until now?’

‘Well, not quite until now. I did eat. Speaking of which—’ she removed the cover from the bowl on the tray ‘—you should eat this before it gets cold.’

Lucas peered at the contents of the bowl and grimaced. ‘You must have been very tired.’ He picked up the spoon with little enthusiasm.

‘I cannot deny it was a relief to sleep in a bed again.’ Mary cast a meaningful look at the chair by the side of his bed.

Remorse nudged Lucas. Hadn’t Trant said that Mary had barely left his side whilst he had been ill? He had been lying here, frustrated by her absence, without a thought as to what she and the rest of his household had been through.

‘How often did you sit with me, Mary?’

‘Every night, my lord.’

‘For pity’s sake, stop “my lord”-ing me. You are not a servant.’

‘What should I call you then, my l...sir?’

‘I should prefer Lucas, but I have no doubt you will deem it improper, Sensible Mary. And, in that case, sir will do.’

‘Yes...sir,’ she said, her lids lowering, but not before he glimpsed her expression. She clearly didn’t appreciate the nickname as it wasn’t the first time she had shown resentment at his use of it. But he had more pressing issues on his mind.

‘You stayed here for four nights running? All night? With no relief?’ he growled, vexed to think his servants would take such advantage.

‘It was my idea to sit with you during the night,’ she blurted out, with an anxious glance that piqued his curiosity.

Why was she suddenly on edge? Was she worried about his reaction to her answers? He knew she was not timid. What had he said to prompt this change?

As he watched she visibly took control of her emotions, drawing an audible breath before saying in a firm voice: ‘It was the least I could do, with everyone else so busy every day. You are not to blame Mrs Lindley or the others, for I insisted.’

He raised a brow. Come, this is a bit more feisty. Good for you, Mary.

‘And did you not sleep—in a bed—during the day?’

‘I find it impossible to sleep in the daytime.’

Her lids drooped, concealing her thoughts again. Lucas suppressed his frustration. He could not fathom her lightning changes in mood. Why was she so guarded?

He turned his attention to his food. ‘Do I really have to eat this...this...stuff?’ He poked at the gruel with the spoon.

‘The doctor said gruel is all you’re allowed. For now,’ she added quickly as she sent another anxious glance in his direction.

Why did she react as though she expected him to fly into a rage at any moment? What, or who, had caused her to view him with such trepidation? Had the servants warned her that his mood was, at times, on a knife’s edge?

And can I blame them if they have? He was aware his temper had been unpredictable of late, despite his best efforts to conceal his worries.

Lucas forced the scowl from his brow and relaxed his jaw, determined to coax Mary into a more relaxed frame of mind.

He eyed the bowl of gruel again, then looked at Mary, raising a brow as he smiled his best winning smile. Mary returned his look, her suspicion again clear.

‘It is too difficult to feed myself. I haven’t enough strength,’ he said, his voice a weak croak. ‘Please help me, dearest Mary.’

Mary pursed her lips, regarding him with narrowed eyes, then huffed a sigh as she sat on the edge of the bed and took the spoon from his slack grasp. Her wariness had vanished. His strategy had worked.

She dipped the spoon into the gruel and lifted it towards his mouth. Swiftly, he captured her hand, registering the tremor of her slender fingers as he did so.

‘Take care, Mary,’ he chided. ‘You almost spilt some. I will steady your hand.’

He retained his hold as he guided the spoon to his mouth, relishing the sensation. As his lips closed around the bowl of the spoon, he looked at her, pleased with the success of his strategy as he saw the hint of a blush stain her cheeks and a smile hover on those luscious lips, although he still read caution in her beautiful blue eyes: caution and the merest hint of desire that promptly set his pulse soaring. He forced the gruel down, tearing his eyes from hers in an attempt to dampen his wayward urges once more.