Her Protector's Pleasure (23 page)

"My daughter. I want my Rosie back," she sobbed.

The next instant, the storm shattered within her. She flew apart, rent asunder by pleasure, by relief too potent to bear. Kent pounded into her a final time, his muscles bunching, his guttural shout filling her with euphoria. With a sigh, she let herself float gently away on the tide, warm and safe in her lover's arms.

TWENTY-FOUR

Ambrose cradled his lover close in the bed, stroking her hair as she slept. Her breathing had the deep, even quality of a babe's. His arms tightened protectively around her, his chest aching with the knowledge that the woman dozing in his arms had suffered entirely too much.

Marianne has a daughter.

She'd guarded her secret well. From this, he surmised that her little girl had not been the product of her union with the much older Lord Draven. Had Marianne had an extramarital affair? The knot in Ambrose's chest tightened as he recalled her anguished words.

I want my Rosie back.

What kind of blackguard would be so cruel as to separate mother and daughter?

Long silken locks slid against his arm, and Marianne's thick lashes fluttered as she came awake. Her gaze wandered about the room, the drowsy quality fleeing when it encountered him. Her lips parted; roses bloomed in her cheeks.

"How are you feeling?" he said tenderly.

He knew the moment everything returned to her. Her body tensed against his, panic darkening her eyes. She struggled to get up, to flee; he kept her in place by rolling atop her, taking care to leverage his weight on his arms.

"Don't go," he said quietly. "Not yet. Talk to me, sweetheart."

"I've already said too much." Her voice was thick, her breathing quick and fitful as she shoved at his shoulders. "Let me go."

"Not until you tell me about your daughter."

Her tresses spilled across the pillow as she shook her head vehemently. "You don't know what you're asking. Please, just get off of me …"

"You've been carrying this on your own for too long. You need to share your secrets with me." He saw his words hit their mark. She bit down on her trembling lower lip, her chin wobbling. "You know I'll help you, Marianne. Once you tell me everything."

Her chest rose and fell in labored surges. Her eyes slid away. "Let me up first," she said in a small voice. He did, and she sat up, her arms circling her raised knees. With her hair tumbling down her back, she looked young, so very vulnerable. "I—I don't know how to begin."

"Start from the beginning. Who is Rosie's father?" he said gently.

She kept her gaze focused on the coverlet. "A young lad I fancied myself in love with. I'd known him for years, and the summer I turned seventeen, we … acted on our feelings. He and I had planned to marry. But he died." She sighed. "In a carriage accident. Leaving me heartbroken and in an unfortunate condition."

Ambrose's heart squeezed for the girl's pain. Yet he knew the woman well enough to keep any pity from his voice. "Did you have anyone to turn to?" he asked.

"There was no one. Mama died shortly after I was born, and Papa …" She laughed, a scornful sound. "The squire had more interest in cards and horses than his daughter. Out of desperation, I told him about my pregnancy, and he threatened to disown me. To throw me out of the house unless …"

Ambrose took one of her hands, linking her elegant fingers with his own callused digits. He willed her the strength to continue on.

"Papa had a friend. A rich and powerful man," she said.

"Baron Draven."

"Yes," she said hollowly. "He'd offered for me, you see. He'd been willing to overlook my lack of dowry and had promised to pay off Papa's debts in return for my hand. Papa told me to keep my mouth shut, to marry Draven by special license and present an heir eight months hence. Papa said Draven would never know—babes were born prematurely all the time. But I couldn't … I couldn't marry any man under false pretenses."

"Of course you couldn't," Ambrose said, wondering what the hell kind of father would suggest such a deception. "You're a principled little thing."

"You think
I'm
principled?" Her eyes searched his.

"Not in a conventional sense. I won't deny that you're clever and capable of trickery when the occasion merits. But you have your own ethics, including a sense of honor and fierce loyalty to those you care about," he said firmly. "I cannot see you deceiving a man about a matter as vital as his offspring."

"Thank you." He was surprised to see the soft sheen in her eyes. "That is the nicest compliment I've ever received."

"Yes. Well." He cleared his throat. "What happened with Draven?"

The softness in her eyes disappeared. "He listened to my story. At the end, he told me nothing had changed for him. He meant to have me one way or another. He vowed to look after my child as his own; if that child turned out to be a male, Draven said he'd name him his heir. I was stunned, too relieved and grateful to even question his promises.

"We married by special license, and Draven took me to his estate in Yorkshire. Seven months later, I gave birth to a girl. I named her Primrose. She took after me, you see." With a sad smile, Marianne fingered a strand of her blond hair. "For that first year, Rosie was my world. Motherhood brought me joy, a sense of purpose that I had never known before. I would wake excited to see Rosie's sweet face and go to bed dreaming of the adventures we would have together the next day. And then …" Her voice faltered.

"What happened?" Ambrose said softly.

Silence tautened before she replied, "During my pregnancy, Draven hadn't made husbandly demands of me. He'd explained that he wouldn't touch me while I carried another man's bastard, while I was ... dirty. Tainted." Her voice quivered with shame. "I didn't blame him, and, in truth, I was relieved. But after the birth, things changed. He pressed for his marital rights."

Rage simmered in Ambrose's veins. "He forced you?"

"No." Marianne shook her head. "He would not have needed to. After what he had done for me and Rosie, I fully intended to be a good wife in exchange. To do whatever he asked of me. As it turned out, however, he was the one who could not rise to the occasion." She gave a dry, brittle laugh. "He blamed me for his problem. Said I had unmanned him. And from that moment on, my life became a living hell."

Holding his anger in rigid check, Ambrose said, "What did he do to you, Marianne?"

"The name calling, the accusations about my character got worse. I had no defense against any of it." She shrugged, a casual movement that made Ambrose want to punch the wall. Only because the first option—beating Draven to a pulp—was no longer possible. "He was right. I
had
fornicated outside the marriage bed. I
had
given birth to a bastard. In truth, I
was
no better than a whore—"

"Stop it." His sharp tone cut her off, made her blink as if escaping a trance. "Stop repeating the bugger's words. You were seventeen, no more than a girl. You believed yourself in love. Yes, you acted impulsively, unwisely. But you're no whore, and I won't hear you call yourself that again. Is that understood?"

She said nothing, her gaze uncertain.

"Go on, then." Steeling himself, he asked, "Did the abuse go beyond words?"

"On occasion," she whispered.

Red flashed in Ambrose's vision. His muscles trembled in his effort to contain his fury.

Let her finish
.
The poison needs to bleed out.

"Physical cruelty was not Draven's preferred method, however. Whenever he whipped me, he took care not to break the skin. He wanted his possession to appear perfect on the outside." Her pained laugh pierced Ambrose's chest. "In truth, I preferred the beatings to ..."

"What did he do?" Ambrose said tersely.

She hugged her knees to her chest. "Because he blamed me for unmanning him, he said it was up to me to fix the problem. He made me … do things. Humiliating things. Night after night, he made me wear tawdry garments and pose myself, as if I were the lowliest of trollops. With a crop in hand, he made me kneel before him and try to stimulate him by …" Her voice broke.

Ambrose gathered her close. "It was no fault of yours, whatever he made you do. You know that, don't you?" he said roughly against her hair. "You were never to blame for his impotence. The bastard took pleasure in degrading you because he could not face his own failings as a man."

"It never worked, what he made me do," she said tremulously, "and that only enraged him further. He blamed me for dulling his desires, for being distracted and not applying myself to my wifely duties. So finally one day, as punishment, he … he took Rosie away from me."

Tears tracked silently down Marianne's face. Ambrose could do nothing but hold her more tightly, his own eyes stinging with helpless rage.

"He threatened to have Rosie harmed unless I did exactly as he said. For four years, he kept me a prisoner to his whims. I did everything he asked, and in return all I received was the occasional lock of Rosie's hair. A report that she was healthy and, oh God,"—her throat worked—"I never knew if he was lying. But I told myself I'd
know
if ... if …" She scrubbed her eyes with her fists. "I'd know if anything happened to my little girl. A mother's heart would know," she said fiercely, "and I vowed that I would never give up on finding her. No matter where my search leads or compels me to do, I
will
get her back."

"That is what brought you to London," Ambrose said.

In his mind, the pieces fell into place. By Jove, Marianne's visits to the stews, her much gossiped about lascivious behavior—had all of that been smoke and mirrors? A cover she'd created to hide her search for her little girl? It made sense now. The juxtaposition between her jaded exterior and the desperate fragility he'd discovered beneath …

"After Draven's death, I discovered that he'd placed Rosie with a bawd named Kitty Barnes. It has taken me three years to hunt the madam down, only to discover that she'd sold my daughter"—Marianne's voice cracked—"to a gentleman."

Ambrose's hands balled. As a policeman, he'd developed calluses against human evil; one had to in order to survive the job. Yet crimes against children always cut to the core. What good was justice if it failed to protect the innocent and the weak?

"Barnes claimed she'd never met the client herself," Marianne said, "because he'd conducted the transaction via the services of a solicitor."

The hairs rose on Ambrose's neck. "Leach."

She nodded, her lips tightening. "In his office that night, I found three bills of service. Though the receipts did not specify the nature of the transactions, Leach provided those services during the month Rosie was sold. One of those three clients must have my daughter."

"Ashcroft is one of your suspects?"

She shuddered. "He was. But I can take him off the list. Tonight I discovered the nature of his sins; repugnant though they are, they have naught to do with Rosie." She paused. "Which leaves me with two possible culprits: Marquess Boyer and—"

"The Earl of Pendleton," Ambrose said grimly.

She stared at him. "How … how did you know?"

How had things gotten so complicated? Ambrose wished to hell he'd never taken Coyner up on the case; knowing Marianne's secret now, he felt sick with guilt for those handful of days he'd spent tracking her. Monitoring her, for devil's sake, when
she'd
been the victim—when she'd so desperately needed his help.

How would Marianne react to his betrayal?

Self-loathing scorched his insides as he realized the full extent of his dilemma. Upon his honor, he'd sworn confidentiality to Coyner. If he told Marianne about the assignment, he'd be breaking his oath to the magistrate, and Coyner would destroy Ambrose's career if he found out. If it were just him, Ambrose might somehow find a way to deal with those consequences, but what about his family? Where would they live? How would they eat ... survive?

"How did you know?" Marianne repeated sharply.

Ambrose exhaled, hating the position he'd put himself in. "I found one of Leach's clerks and questioned him. He mentioned that Leach had had a recent altercation with Pendleton."

Silence met his words—and he hadn't even got to the confession yet. The next minute, she left the bed, reaching for a robe. When she turned to look at him, her face was a mask of anger.

"What gave you the right to nose into my business?"

Despite his guilt, the accusation stung.

"You wouldn't tell me what was going on between you and the solicitor, so I had to find out for myself. For God's sake, a man was murdered," he bit out. "You were in a precarious situation. I was only trying to help."

"I didn't ask for your help."

"Just like you didn't ask for my help with the cutthroats in the alley or Ashcroft tonight. Christ, Marianne, do you expect me to stand by and watch you risk your neck time and again?"

"I expect you not to do things behind my back. I expect to be able to trust you," she said, her voice frigid. "I expect you not to act like that bloody treacherous Runner!"

Ambrose's brow furrowed. "What Runner?"

"The one I hired to help me find Primrose. Burke Skinner claimed he did contract work for Bow Street, but I engaged him privately—I wanted as much discretion as possible." She gave a scornful laugh, but Ambrose could see the agitated cadence of her breath. "How could I have been such a fool?"

Ambrose went to her, took her chin in his hand. Though her eyes flashed at him, he saw beneath the anger to the fear. The glittering facets of helplessness.

"What did Skinner do, Marianne?" he said.

"He kept me dangling for months. Though I later learned he'd discovered clues to Primrose's disappearance early on, he doled out the information, made me pay through the nose for it. Then one day," she said bitterly, "he wanted more than money."

Skinner had saw fit to make sexual advances upon a desperate, grieving mother? Skinner was going to
pay
. Ambrose vowed to see to it.