Falling in Love Again (8 page)

“Mallory,” John said in a low voice, “you are getting worked up over very little—”

“Very little? Do you gentlemen still believe you are on the battlefield? That you can just take command of whatever you wish? This is London, sir, not some remote village in Portugal!”

Major Peterson took a step back. “I thought it was an emergency, Lady—”

She whirled to face John. “And you should turn yourself over to the Magistrate. Now, before any more crimes are added to the list.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Have you gone mad?”

“I believe I'm close to it,” Mallory said with perfect frankness. “Please, we can't spend the rest of our lives running all over England. Go to the Magistrate, explain that you will need some time to sort out your affairs…and that we didn't mean to take the undertaker's rig and horses.”

“He'll order me slapped in irons before I get the first sentence out of my mouth. Mallory, in the eyes of the law, my uncle's actions were as good as my own. He had a legal right to act as my agent, and I'm responsible, even if the man stole
all my money. Based upon what you've said about the accounts at Craige Castle, I believe the man has been stealing from me for years, starting from the day I entered the army.”

Mallory felt a rush of relief. “This is even better! The Magistrate will have your uncle arrested—”

“No. If anyone finds Louis, it's going to be me, and it will be
me
he answers to.”

“
You
?” Mallory echoed. “You don't even know where he is!”

John's mouth flattened and his eyes glittered. “I'll find him.”

She turned on her heel, needing to put space between them, and found herself face to face with Major Peterson, who dropped his gaze as if suddenly very interested in the toe of his boot. All of a sudden she realized how shrewish she must sound to him.

She whirled around on one heel and started walking away from the two men.

“Mallory.” John was following her.

“Go away! Please.”

“No.” He caught up with her, took hold of her arm and pulled her around to face him.

She refused to look at him. A terrible sadness suddenly weighed her down. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her wedding ring. She held it out to him, the sapphire black in the moonlight, the diamonds twinkling like stars. “Here.” Her voice sounded dry, hoarse. “Take this and apply it to your debt.”

“Mallory—”

“This marriage is not going to work, John. We are too different.”

John ignored her outstretched hand. “Mallory, believe in me; I will get Craige Castle back for you.”

“It's not the castle!” She turned away from him. “The castle is gone.”

“Then what is it, Mallory?”

“I said take the ring.”

“The ring is yours. I gave it to you.”

“I don't.” want it. Can't you understand—?”

“No! I don't.” He stepped in front of her, forcing her to look at him, and it proved her undoing.

Tears burned in her eyes. She fought to hold them back. “I'm not the person you married.” Her voice was hoarse with pent-up emotion. “Not anymore.”

“Neither of us is.”

“Take it, John.” She pushed the ring toward him.

“Mallory, it is not over between us—”

“John, it never started—”

“You're all I have left. You and the title.”

“I am not a possession, John. I'm a person. A person you don't even know.”

“I'll learn to know you,” he said with confidence.

Mallory frowned at him. He truly believed what he said, that he could erase years of neglect for no other reason than because she was all he had left. “I've met someone else. He wants to marry me after I've obtained a divorce from you.”

Her words seemed to hang in the air between them.

John didn't move. He started at her as if he was
uncertain he'd heard correctly. Surprised by his stunned reaction, Mallory felt a wave of guilt. “John, I…I didn't mean to burst out with it—”

He held a hand up for silence. His jaw tightened and he turned away. For long moments he appeared to study the building across the way.

You're all I have left
.

Dear Lord, what had she done? Nothing, she told herself…she'd only spoken the truth.

Finally he faced her, the hard planes of his face unreadable in the moonlight. “Will he be good to you, Mallory?”

The question caught her by surprise. She drew a deep breath. “I believe so.”

“Better than a husband who runs out on you?”

She didn't answer. What could she say?

John seemed to come to a decision. “All I ask is that you stand beside me until I find my uncle and clear my name. Do this…” He paused a moment. “Do this, and I will not challenge you if you wish to divorce me.”

Mallory opened her mouth in surprise. “You'd agree to a divorce?” she asked, still not certain she'd heard him correctly.

He nodded, his eyes watchful.

Mallory took a step back, dazed by the sudden turn of events—and by her own confused reaction. John was willing to give her a divorce. Wasn't that what she wanted?

After what they'd experienced together this night, he seemed a far cry from the jaded Corinthian she had confronted earlier at Lady Ramsgate's party—but no less devastatingly handsome.

In fact, if anything, she found him more appealing than the cold, distant person she had thought was her husband.

John's voice interrupted her thoughts. “What is his name?”

“Whose name?”

“The man who has taken my wife from me.”

Mallory was glad for the derision in his voice. This was familiar ground. She shook her head. “I was never a wife to you.”

“I disagree, Mallory. According to the laws of man and the church, we are truly married. We have witnesses to that fact.”

Mallory felt her cheeks grow warm at the reminder of their wedding night. “John, there's more to marriage than one night. We haven't been with each other for years.”

“Ah, but during those years, I've been serving my country. In the eyes of the law—”

“In
my
eyes, John. We're talking about what I think. I already
know
what you want. I've been living that life for the last seven years. Well, I want children. I want companionship and someone I can talk to. I want what my parents had.”

He looked confused. “What your parents had?”

Mallory made an exasperated sound. “I want to be loved. Is that so hard to understand?” There, she'd said it, the innermost desire of her heart. And now that the words were out in the open, they didn't sound trite or silly.

They sounded like the truth.

She drew a deep, steadying breath. “I will accept your terms. I will stay with you until your name is clear. I really have no choice. But I want
you to understand that I've made a commitment to another man, one who wants me. Our marriage has been in name only for seven years, and it will remain that way until we are divorced.”

Her words seemed to blaze a path across John's soul. But he had absolutely no intention of relinquishing his hold over her, though every word she spoke was true.

Nor did this proud woman standing before him with her hand fisted tight over her wedding ring bear any resemblance to the frightened young girl he'd left in their marriage bed. Moonlight turned Mallory's wild, wind-tossed hair to silver and highlighted the defiance in her pert, fine-boned features. She looked like a night-sprite, but she was strong and brave. John felt an inordinate pride in this wife of his. A man could do far worse.

“Then we're agreed,” he said curtly. “But I insist upon one more condition.”

Her expressive eyes grew cautions. Did she realize they revealed every emotion passing through her mind? he wondered. “And what condition is that?” she asked warily.

“That you wear my ring.”

She raised the hand holding the ring up to her chest protectively. “What of my conditions? You won't expect me to…” Her voice trailed off, but John knew what she meant.

“Share my bed?”

She blushed so furiously he could almost feel the heat. She nodded.

A surge of anger rose inside him. “I'm not some monster. I won't force myself on you.” He took a
step away from her. “Nor am I asking such a very large thing. After all, you've been wearing it for years. A few more weeks won't matter.”

“Weeks?”

“Or days. However long it takes to track Louis down.”

“And how will you do that?”

“I don't know, Mallory, but I will,” he said, letting his irritation show. “And I promise that the minute I find him, you may give me the ring back and you will be free to go.”

She opened her fist and looked at the ring in her palm.

“It's a small gesture, Mallory. Not really significant.”

She lifted her gaze to meet his. “Yes, it is,” she denied quickly and then looked away, as if embarrassed, before adding softly, “Or it was at one time. I waited for you, John. I wanted to be a wife to you, until finally, I grew tired of waiting.”

A wealth of meaning was contained in those words.

Then, slowly, with deliberate movements, Mallory placed the ring on her finger.

John wanted to give a shout of victory, but he kept his expression solemn. He held out his hand for her.

Mallory looked at his outstretched fingers. Tentatively, she placed her hand in his.

For a swift second, John took solace in this small triumph on a night of many reversals. He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and led her back to the wagon, where Peterson stood waiting.

For the first time, he noticed the graceful length of her fingers and the calluses. His wife was accustomed to hard work. Furthermore, she wasn't soft and round, like so many other women he had known. She was lithely muscular, with tight, high breasts and strong, smooth arms.

He had no intention of letting her divorce him.

Remembering their wedding night, John gently rubbed his finger against the scar on his thumb. He now had a mission, a goal. He silently vowed he would recover his fortune and save his marriage. He would woo and win his wife. His pride demanded it.

Of course, the one thing that could make Mallory angrier than she was now over the loss of her precious Craige Castle would be to learn that after seven years of marriage, she was still a virgin.

John realized he'd set an impossible task for himself, and he wasn't anticipating that one particular moment of truth when she found out what had really happened on their wedding night. Turning himself over to the Magistrate and debtor's prison might prove easier.

M
ajor Peterson drove them a good distance out of London until they came to a small posting inn. By then, it was two in the morning and Mallory was hungry and exhausted. To please her, John roused a groom and paid him good coin to return the undertaker's wagon to one “Frederick Breward, Undertaker.”

While Major Peterson made those arrangements, John escorted Mallory to the inn. “Are you sure Major Peterson won't come to harm because he helped us?” she asked John.

He shook his head. “Peterson's father is the Duke of Tyndale. It's difficult to hang a duke's son, even a disowned one like Victor. The undertaker will be more than pleased to have his wagon
and horses back and will spend the rest of his days telling of his near brush with the wicked Lord and Lady Craige.”

“Either that, or he'll contact the magistrate and add another crime to your growing list.”

He shot her a quick grin before his expression turned to one of concern. “You're limping.”

“I've rubbed a blister on my foot.” Mallory confessed. “Tell me, why did Major Peterson's father disown him?”

“Why?” John repeated blankly.

Mallory looked over her shoulder at the silhouette of the noble major talking to the stable hand. “He seems everything a nobleman should be.”

“And what exactly is that?”

Mallory glanced at her husband. Was it her imagination, or did he sound testy—jealous, even? She smiled, ready to give him a bit of his own back for all his dalliances with women. “Why, he's brave, loyal, manly—”

“
Manly
? Why? Because he stole an undertaker's rig? Believe me, Mallory, any fool can nab an undertaker's wagon. The dead don't run fast.”

She laughed, and he laughed with her. “In all honesty, John, it took a remarkable man to come to our rescue. Why would a father disown such a son?”

“Because Peterson married the wrong person, in his father's eyes.”

“The wrong person?”

“Peterson's wife was a young Spanish woman. Her family was noble but penniless. Upon hear
ing of the impending nuptials, Peterson's father delivered an ultimatum which Victor wisely ignored.”

John's voice held a warmth Mallory hadn't heard in it before. “Did you know his wife?”

“Yes.”

“And you believe he did the right thing by defying his father?”

John didn't hesitate. “Yes.”

It was on the tip of Mallory's tongue to ask if he wished he had defied
his
father over their marriage, but they'd entered the inn and the moment for such confidences had passed.

A servant met them at the door. “We need a light supper, and I'd like it served in a private room,” John said, his tone lordly.

The servant scowled, his glance taking in Mallory's windblown hair and the ripped sleeves in John's jacket. A flash of gold coin between John's fingers brought about an astounding change in the man's attitude.

“It will have to be a cold supper, sir,” the servant said, pocketing the coin. “Will that be all right with ye?”

“That will be fine,” John answered.

A moment later, they were escorted to a private room with a small hearth and a low ceiling. The servant lit two candles while John had a few quiet words with him. Mallory took stock of their surroundings. The room appeared clean enough, although the whitewashed walls were stained with age and the smoke of many fires. A table and four chairs occupied the center area.

She sank gratefully down on a hard seat, her back to the door. She was exhausted. With a sigh of relief, she slipped off her shoes.

John sat in the chair directly next to hers. “Let me see the blister.”

Mallory tucked her toes under the hem of her skirt. “No, I'm not going to let you look at my feet.”

“Why not?”

“Because they are my feet and I don't want you touching them.”

He raised a questioning eyebrow.

Mallory elaborated. “Touching someone's feet is very…well, very
familiar
.”

“Oh.” He drew the syllable out, then smiled, the kind of smile that could rob a woman of all common sense—that was, if she wasn't a practical woman like her. “Mallory, if I wanted to be
familiar
”—he gave the word the same indignant inflection she had used—” it wouldn't be your
feet
I would be trying to touch.”

There was blatant sensuality in his husky tone. He rested his hands on either side of her chair.

Mallory leaned back. She'd never heard the like, or at least, directed toward her. It set her pulse to racing.

“Besides,” he said, “I've practically walked the length of Europe with the army. I know a little something about feet, and I know that if a blister isn't attended to, it can fester—” He made an ominous face before adding sinisterly, “Or worse.”

“Worse?” she managed to croak out.

“Worse,” he said solemnly. “How do you think my butler Sergeant Richards lost his leg?”

“Not from a blister.”

His eyes opened wide, as if he were offended by her doubts. “It started small.” He pinched two fingers in the air to indicate an inch. “But before Richards knew it, the blister grew wider and wider—” He spread both palms apart to signal the size. “—Until it ate up his leg.” His hands reached down for Mallory's foot, pulled it up, and set it in his lap, almost tumbling her off her chair in the process.

Mallory grabbed hold of the seat with both hands to keep her balance. To her horror, the bottom of her foot rested against his well-muscled thigh, her big toe peeking out a hole in her stocking. Her cheeks flamed with color.

He ran a hand over the top of her foot, pressing it against his thigh, then lightly touched her exposed toe. “It seems I need to buy my wife new stockings.” The muscles in his leg tightened beneath her heel.

Her errant pulse beat even faster.

“You don't need to buy me anything,” she denied, her own voice as breathlessly husky as his. She tried to yank her foot back, but his grip was too firm.

“Tsk, tsk,” he cautioned her. “And I need to buy you shoes. Kid slippers are not the best shoes for running through London.”

“I hadn't planned on
running through London
when I put them on.” She forced herself to overcome her initial embarrassment. John would
grow tired of nursing her, just as he had grown tired of her on their wedding night—

Her tart thoughts melted into a sigh of unimaginable Bliss. John was massaging her foot. Her hands gripping the chair seat relaxed their hold. Who would have thought such a simple thing as a foot rub could do this to a woman? Or was the magic in John's hands? Her bones seemed to be turning to jelly.

He raised his eyes to meet hers. “Does it feel better?”

Everything
felt better, Mallory wanted to tell him, but she couldn't speak. She could barely breathe.

“We need to put a plaster on you, too.”

“Plaster?” she repeated dumbly.

“For your blister.”

“Oh, yes.” She found herself smiling at him. “That would be nice.”

The golden glow of the candles created a circle of light around them against the darkness of the room. A lock of his hair had fallen over one eye and he looked relaxed and roguishly disheveled. “I also asked the servant to see if he could arrange a hairbrush and piece of ribbon for your hair. He thought he might.”

“A hairbrush?” Mallory reached a hand up to the tangled mess, genuinely touched by his thoughtfulness. She'd always considered herself immune to male charm—but she was feeling far from unaffected now. However, John's appeal had less to do with his rugged masculinity and startling blue eyes than with his protective nature
and the small considerations of a hairbrush, a piece of ribbon, and this incredible foot massage.

She was quite tired. The day had been the most stressful of her life. For the first time since she'd been evicted from Craige Castle, she allowed herself to relax. She eased down in the chair and closed her eyes—

John's palm ran up her calf, moving up under her skirts to her thigh.

Her eyes flew open. She shot to her feet, snatching her skirts from him. “What are you doing?”

John met her indignant stare with an expression of complete innocence. “I was going to remove your stocking to have a better look at the blister.”

“I'm not about to let you untie my—” She stopped, too modest to mention the word aloud.

“Garters?” he supplied helpfully.

Mallory's face turned hot with outrage. “Oh, don't attempt your rakish ways with me, John. My garters were only the beginning.” Mallory placed her hands on her hips, lifting her chin with pride. “Let me inform you that I'm not like your
other
women. I will not be treated like some milkmaid and tumbled on the floor with little more than a wink from you. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, I do,” John said readily. “And I imagine Peterson and the servant do, too. Isn't that right, gentlemen?”

Mallory whirled around to find Major Peterson and the servant, holding a tray of food, standing in the doorway. She turned on John, furious with him and her own culpability. “Is there no place
around you that is private?” she said between clenched teeth. “Everything,
everything
, between us seems to be played out in front of an audience!”

“I've been the soul of discretion,” John countered amiably. “You're the one who keeps blurting things out.”

Mallory feared she would explode, she was so angry.

“I should have knocked…louder,” Major Peterson said self-consciously.

“Nonsense,” John told him, ignoring the tension radiating from Mallory. “Come in and have a seat. And you,” he said to the servant, “were you able to get the brush and ribbon for my lady?”

“Aye, my lord.” The portly man set the tray on the table and reached around his back where he'd stuck the handle of a brush and a length of black ribbon in his belt. “I hope these will do,” he said, holding them out.

John nodded to Mallory, who stood apart from the men, her fists clenched at her side. “Mallory?”

“Fine, thank you.” She meant the words, too. In spite of her anger, she couldn't wait to straighten her hair.

The servant gave her a short bow. “Then perhaps my lady would like to come with me? There's a small private room for the ladies just down this hall. Or perhaps you would rather eat first?”

“I don't have an appetite,” Mallory said. She shot an angry glance at John to let him know he was the cause. “Let us go now.” She slipped on
her shoes and followed the man from the room, limping from the blister with every other step.

John and Peterson came to their feet as she left the room and watched the door shut behind her. Peterson poured two glasses of ale.

“You know, she's right about one thing,” Peterson said, offering a glass to John.

“And what is that?”

“She is different from any other woman you've known.”

“In what way?” John sat, taking a thoughtful sip of the amber-colored ale.

“She'll not come running just because you crook your finger.” He shook his head. “No, you're going to have to work for this one, John, and I'm going to enjoy every moment of it.”

John pulled a leg off a cold roasted chicken. “I never knew you to be a sadist, Victor.”

Peterson laughed. “Hours ago, I was astounded to learn you were married. Now, after hearing the two of you together, I believe it. Your Mallory reminds me of my Liana.”

John was surprised. Peterson rarely mentioned Liana by name.

Peterson smiled, the expression not reaching his eyes. “I miss her, John. I feel as if I've lost my soul.”

John didn't know what to say in the face of such raw pain. He'd never felt that way for another person, ever.

At that moment, Mallory returned to the room. The gentlemen rose.

The plaster had done the trick and she walked
without limping. She'd also washed the dirt and muck off her face and hands, and her unruly hair was brushed to a high gloss and pulled back into a thick, neat braid tied off by the ribbon.

No one could mistake her breeding now, even in that dowdy dress, John thought. His chest swelled with pride.

He filled a plate for her, selecting the choicest pieces of meat and a thick slice of fresh bread. Peterson offered his chair and sat down on the one next to John.

John envied the easy grace with which Peterson performed the small gallantry. Because of his own history—years of male boarding schools and living with the whispers concerning the scandal of his birth—John felt he lacked the social graces needed to be a true gentleman. He wondered how Mallory would rank him and Peterson if she had to choose between them.

Mallory daintily spread a drop of mustard on a piece of chicken. “Have you decided what we are to do now?” she asked John.

He admired her direct approach. “That's what we must discuss. I've been thinking of what the landlady said. Louis isn't leaving the country.”

“How can you be sure?” she asked. “If I had stolen someone's money, especially someone like yourself, my first action would be to go as far away as possible.”

“No, not my Uncle Louis,” John said. “He detests foreigners and anything that isn't English. He can barely abide even the Scots! He would no sooner bask under an Italian sun that pluck out his right eye.” He leaned his arm on the table.
“What I suspect is that he hoped to force
me
to leave the country.”

“But he's your uncle,” Mallory protested. “Why would he wish to see you ruined?”

“So he could keep my money. I'm certain he has it all. Or at least, I hope he does.” John sat back. “Louis was my father's junior by almost fifteen years. He's a flamboyant man, completely different from my father. I remember overhearing the two of them arguing over Louis's expenses. But Louis and I got along well. I trusted him, especially since the two of us were often at odds with Father, and I paid him a handsome wage to be my man of business. I've been played for a fool.”