Angelina (30 page)

He gave a small sigh and managed to retrieve some shred of his former self. “My proposal is sincere. I’d be honoured if you would marry me.”

“Why? You’re under no obligation to do so.”

Rafe hadn’t expected to be questioned on his motives. Nettled, he spluttered. “Because you need to be wed, and I need a wife with the means to restore Ravenswood and provide me with heirs. Why else do people wed?”

The expression in her eyes became a storm of furies as she hissed. “You could try asking James that. And who decided I need to be wed?”

“But, Angelina  –”

“How dare you presume I need to be wed! How dare you presume I’d want to provide you with heirs and the wherewithal to restore Ravenswood. Damn you, Rafe Daventry! Take your proposal to Caroline Pallister, she can provide you with exactly the things you desire.” 

Faced with her lashing fury, he found her a paradox. One minute she was childlike and innocent, the next a women magnificent in her anger. He deserved the tongue-lashing. He should have wooed her with sweet words and tenderness, now he was faced with a spitting she-cat who needed to be tamed. She excited him thus.

“You have the temper of a vixen,” he said, trying not to laugh when she stamped her bare foot upon the rock they were standing on. The action made her wince and served to increase her anger.

 “And you are an arrogant rake who thinks he only has to smile to have women

drop at his feet.”

“Arrogant rake?” His hackles began to rise. “I doubt if an innocent child like you knows the meaning of the word.”

The dark irises cradled in the green depths of her eyes narrowed, her voice became silky soft. “Chose your words with more care, sir. I’ve heard more gossip about you than is good for you.” She took a step towards him. “I’ve learned much about the ways of men since I left the confines of Aunt Alexandra’s estate, yet despite your reputation I cannot believe you’re the type of man who would seek to wed someone you perceived as a child. You’re too much the man for that.”

Her perfume drifted to his nostrils. Beneath its provocative fragrance was a deeper more sensual note, an essence of what lay beneath her surface. His mouth dried a little as his eyes were drawn to the depths of hers. The sparks of light in them mesmerised him, the surge of desire he experienced was unprecedented. 

At that moment he wanted to take her sweet, innocent body and bend it to his will. He wanted to watch her eyes charge with excitement and desire, wanted her mouth swollen with his kisses, her breasts ripe and thrusting to his mouth, and her body quivering with both passion and acquiescence. His fingers circled the two gleaming locks of hair lying against her creamy shoulders. Gently, he pulled her to him.

Her mouth quivered in outrage for a second, then parted under his. He could

Feel her heart beating against his chest as he gently explored the soft curve of her mouth. She was giving and tender, and so damned trusting.

He couldn’t bear to think of someone else kissing her like this. Angelina was his, had been from the moment he set eyes on her. Why hadn’t he recognised that fact before? 

His kiss became a passionate embrace as he pulled her hard against him. He ignored the hands that pushed ineffectually against his chest, ignored the sound of protest that quivered in the confines of her throat. He was staking his claim, and wanted her to know it.

She stiffened a little, as if fighting what she was feeling, then she became passive in his arms. Damn, damn, damn!  he thought. Carefully he withdrew from her. Tears trembled under her closed lids, and her lips were moistly sensuous.

“I deserve to be horsewhipped,” he muttered.

Her eyes fluttered open, overflowing with awareness of him, of herself. Her voice was almost a sigh. “It was partly my fault. I provoked you.” She laid her head against his chest. “I care for you more than I’m at liberty to say, Rafe, but I’ll not wed you. I cannot.”

Her words were a crushing blow to his pride. He’d not considered she’d reject him. When he realised why his face darkened, his voice became menacingly soft. He pushed her to arm’s length and stared at her. “I refuse to let Nicholas Snelling have you.”

Her eyes closed for a few moments. When she opened them again they were strangely calm and remote. “I intend to do whatever it takes to save Frey’s life.”

“The boy is a cretin, his mother a common...” Shame shafted through him when pain came into her eyes. So, he mused, someone has seen fit to inform her of my liaison with Constance. “I was once acquainted with her,” he said honestly. “She’s not the type of person you should be related to. She rules her son with an iron hand and will make your life a misery. So will he.”

“Nothing matters but Frey’s life.” He wanted to shake the martyrdom from her mind when she added. “If I’m obliged to wed Nicholas to save Frey, then so be it.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I’m perfectly aware of what I’m saying.” His hands dropped to his side when she took a step back, her face strong with resolve. “You must promise me you will not broach the subject of marriage again, unless...” Colour rose to her face and she stammered. “I must go now, James will be wondering what has happened to me.”

He closed in on her again, his eyes blazing. “Unless what…unless Frey is found innocent by other means? Are you telling me I must take second place to another, wait for the outcome of the trial for an answer?”

“No...yes...I don’t know.” She covered her face with her hands. “You’re confusing me, Rafe.”

“Damn you, Angelina! You insult me. Have you any idea what you’re asking?”

“Nothing,” she cried out in distress. “I’m asking nothing. Forgive me, Rafe, I don’t deserve you as a friend.”

   Her gasping sob wrenched at the very foundations of his heart. She was a stubborn, loyal, lovable little idiot who didn’t deserve the unhappiness, which was surely her future if she married the wrong man.

When he drew her into his arms, the empathy flowed so strongly and tenderly between them, he wanted to cry himself. Right then and there he knew he’d wait for ever if she commanded it.

“It’s all right, Angel,” he whispered into the fragrant silk of her hair. “Stop crying, my dearest love. Whatever happens, I’ll never desert you.”

   After a while her sobs lessened, then stopped altogether. They sat quietly for a while whilst she collected herself, then he led her back to where the others sat.

Rafe shook his head slightly when James and Celine gave him expectant smiles. Their expressions turn to disappointment. It was a subdued party who left the grounds of Ravenswood later on. Angelina gave only a faint smile when he presented her with a parting gift of a wildflower posy, and she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Watching them go, Rafe took the path to Tewsbury Manor. His emotions were raw as he admitted to himself he’d fallen in love. There was no question now of marriage to Caroline Pallister. If he couldn’t have Angelina, he would never marry.

* * * *

William stayed within the tree line as he followed the rider up ahead. The rider had a bundle attached to the saddle, and made no attempt at concealment until the horse reached a cottage situated at the near boundary of the village he leased from his father. The rider dismounted, leading the horse inside the cottage shell.

Tying his horse to a tree he watched and waited. In a little while the figure, enveloped in a flowing black cloak, came from the cottage and headed directly towards the tack room. When the figure emerged carrying a saddle, he slipped from his place of concealment and took a roundabout route to the meadow where his two stallions were usually kept.

It was nearly dusk, the long shadows from the forest’s edge clutched at the meadow with dark fingers. Concealing himself in the long grass, he smiled he watched the two horses move amongst the shadows.

He didn’t have long to wait. He watched as the saddle was placed upon the gate. Joining it, the figure placed fingers to lips and softly whistled. One of the two horses pricked its ears and gave an answering whinny. A muffled thud of hooves brought it walking towards the sound.

“Where’s Midnight?” the figure whispered, hand going to the folds of the cloak and bringing out a treat for the horse. There was another whistle. The second horse, curious now, ambled quietly to join its companion.

The person didn’t bother checking the second horse. It was the gelding purchased for Frey by the earl, its markings obliterated by a simple application of soot.

It stood quietly and was quickly saddled. Mounting from the top of the gate, the rider wheeled the horse about and cantered towards the hedge at the other side of meadow.

“Reckless fool,” William fumed as horse and rider cleared the hedge.

Anger growing in him, he returned to his own mount and was soon following after the gelding. The rider in front knew the forest trails well, and William had no trouble guessing the direction in which he was being led. They’d emerge at the other side of the village, between the inn where Nicholas Snelling resided, and the town of Lyndhurst.

Ten minutes later he took up station in the shadows, keeping the other rider plainly in his view. As he heard the sound of single hoof-beats upon the dry packed earth of the road, he edged his horse forward.

A black scarf was pulled hastily across the other rider’s face, the cowl adjusted for concealment. The gelding stood perfectly still, perfectly quiet. It was an obedient horse, trained for an army officer who’d cheated at cards and been drummed from the service before he could take possession of it.

The rider took a pistol from the pocket of the coat as the hoof-beats got louder. It was not cocked, and William breathed a sigh of relief. When the traveller was almost upon them he crossed the remaining few inches between them and brought his hand down swiftly and hard upon the rider’s arm. The pistol dropped on the ground.

   The highwayman’s cry of pain was lost in the drumming of the traveller’s horse as it galloped swiftly past. The man seemed to be in a hell of a hurry if his mount’s laboured breathing was any indication. His horse was nigh on spent.

   Grabbing the highwayman’s reins with one hand, he stripped the concealing bandanna away from the rider’s face. Staring into furious, black eyes, he chuckled. “I thought it might be you.”

“You jackanapes. You could have killed me.”

“Well now,” he drawled, trying not to laugh at the sight of his sister dressed in his cast off clothing. “This puts me in a bit of a quandary. Shall it be Frey Mellor who dances at the end of a rope, or shall it be Rosabelle Wrey?”

Chapter Seventeen

Rafe was enjoying a nightcap in the library when he heard the hoof-beats approaching the house. It was not his first nightcap, and he was enjoying the warm buzz of mild intoxication, a state he didn’t usually indulge in. The rider seemed in a devil of a hurry. Rafe frowned as he noticed the lateness of the hour.

He’d been thinking about Angelina, remembering the way she held her head when she listened to him speak, the way she smiled and the light of mischief in her eyes. Rafe couldn’t remember what his life had been before she’d brightened it with her freshness, nor could he imagine what his future would be without her. Being in love had rendered him incapable of thinking of anything but her.

He gave a faintly ironic smile. Love seemed to be a melancholy affair when it was not reciprocated. If it was not reciprocated, he amended. Angelina had admitted she cared for him. Hope flamed in his breast. If Frey was proved innocent...”

“My Lord?” When a footman appeared at his elbow, Rafe jumped. Thrusting thoughts of Angelina aside Rafe frowned at him. “What is it?”

“Mr. John Masterson is here to see you.” The footman’s face puckered disapprovingly. “He said he’s a former employee from Monkscroft Hall.”

“John Masterson?” He straightened in his chair. John had been Monkscroft’s steward before his father had unfairly dismissed him in a drunken rage. John had taught Rafe to ride when he’d been small. “Show him in at once,” he said with a smile.

“Yes, sir.” The servant hesitated. “He’s dusty from the road, My Lord.”

Made aware this was not his house, Rafe bit back the urge to snap at the servant. He was, after all, only protecting his master’s furniture with his irritating show of efficiency. “Send one of the housemaids in with a dust cover for the chair, then show him in.”

John was not kept waiting long. Within five minutes the chair was covered and he was hesitating in the doorway.

“Come in, John,” he said, touched by a cold finger of dread as he observed the gravity of the man’s face. “You’ve made a long journey to seek me out, so your news must be of the utmost urgency.” He turned to the footman who was hovering anxiously nearby. “Prepare accommodation for Mr. Masterson and tell the groom to attend to his horse. He will not be travelling on tonight.”

“My Lord,” John said, as soon as the footman had departed. “I’m the bearer of bad news. Monkscroft Hall has burned to the ground.”

“I see.” Rafe smiled slightly. “You must know I had sworn never to set foot on  Monkscroft soil again. Its loss causes me no pain.”

“There is worst news.” The man hesitated for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Your father... “

“Speak out man,” Rafe said sharply. “What of the Marquis?”

“He’s dead, My Lord. He and Lady Mercy have perished in the fire. It was terrible, My Lord. The Marquis became insane from the drink. He locked Lady Mercy in an upstairs chamber with him and set the place alight himself. He was raving, My Lord; the servants couldn’t stop him.”

Rafe’s face drained of all its colour. Crossing to the decanter he poured himself a stiff brandy and drained it. As an afterthought, he poured himself another and offered one to John.

“I’m sorry, My Lord,” John mumbled, accepting the brandy with a grateful look on his face. “You are now the Marquis of Gillingborn.”

To John’s surprise, the new Marquis slumped in a chair and began to laugh.

“My Lord?” he murmured, half-shocked and half-amused. He was well aware of Rafe’s relationship with his father, but decorum should be maintained on such an occasion.