The Marquess (21 page)

“Do I have somewhere better to go?” he asked
dryly through the hellish fumes.

Even when she was worried sick about him, she wanted to slap
him. “I can think of an appropriate answer,” she called back, “but
half the town is listening, so I’ll refrain. I’m lowering this
ladder. Watch out that I don’t skewer you with it.”

Someone climbed onto the rickety roof with her, but she
ignored him. No wonder the marquess avoided a town full of superstitious idiots
like these. She wouldn’t blame him if he never darkened their doorsteps
again.

Had she breath enough left to tell them so, she would, but
she was having difficulty breathing. She blamed it on the smoke, but the tears
streaming down her face and the sobs choking her throat didn’t help.

Dillian lowered the ladder through the gaping hole and felt
Effingham grab it on the other end. The man on the roof with her pushed her
aside, holding the upper rungs so it didn’t fall through the weakened
supports. She thought he muttered something about the marquess “ought to
fly through the roof,” but she ignored that also. She didn’t
breathe evenly again until she saw Effingham’s dark hair and
soot-blackened visage appear through the scorched thatch.

He caught sight of her and scowled through his coughing. “You
have no business up here. Get down where you belong.”

“Why, of course, your mighty lordship,” Dillian
replied with all the sarcasm she could summon through waves of relief. “I’ll
go down with all the other peasants waiting to watch you fly through the roof
of your own accord.” And with that retort, she scrambled backward until
her feet reached the new ladder, and she climbed down and out of his sight.

The man holding the first ladder gave his lordship’s
scarred, scowling face a single look and moved backward also. “Reckon
I’ll do the same, your lordship.” As he reached the roof’s
edge and safety, he grew a little bolder and added, “But if that’s
your lady down there, my lord, you’re a braver man than I am if you come
down anytime sooner than dawn. She has a tongue to blister the fur off a cony.”

To the astonishment of those waiting below, the black
scarecrow of a figure on the roof erupted in pealing tones of belly-deep
laughter.

* * * *

“You didn’t have to tell them I was a war hero
recovering from my injuries,” Gavin groused as they rode their mounts
into Arinmede’s stable.

“No, I could have confirmed their fears that
you’re a vampire who walks the night and sucks their blood.”

Gavin shot her an evil look as she climbed from the horse on
her own. The glance showed him how her damp shirt clung to her tempting curves,
and he had to turn away to work on his saddle.

Damn and blast the male reproductive instincts, he cursed as
he slid the saddle off. They surged to the forefront at the most inopportune
times.

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve
ever heard of. Where do they get tales like that?” Their running argument
was the only thing saving his sanity at the moment.

“What should they think?” Dillian asked
indignantly. “You hide up here for months on end. No one but your
servants ever see you, and you barely speak to them. You live in a crumbling
pile already reputed to have ghosts. You don’t introduce yourself to
society. Your only contact with the village is with the money you send down for
supplies. I can’t think of a more effective means of breeding suspicion.”

“As long as it means I’m left alone, I
don’t care what they think,” he answered curtly.

The emotions of the evening had affected him more than he
could wish. The hysterical cries of the young mother, the whimpers of terrified
children, and Miss Whitnell’s frantic screams chased around and around in
his head, and he couldn’t be rid of them.

Her concern had shaken him. No one but Michael had offered
any concern for him in a long time.

“Well, just fine and dandy,” she retorted. “You
keep skulking around this monstrosity, and they’ll keep thinking
you’re a vampire. Some night they’ll march up here with burning
torches and try to put a silver bullet through your heart.”

Gavin watched her savage attempts to groom his horse. He
might do better to save the horse’s hide and drag her out of here. “Leave
the horses. I’ll call Mac to finish up.”

He noticed she didn’t argue with this command. Grooming
horses apparently didn’t come under a lady’s list of
accomplishments. She put the curry comb back and strode off toward the manor,
her hips swinging furiously beneath the damp tunic. Gavin nearly swallowed his
tongue watching the rhythm of the sway.

“You have no reason to worry over my eventual fate,
Miss Whitnell,” he responded catching up with her. He had to end this
madness once and for all. “You and Lady Blanche will be nowhere in sight
should it happen.”

She stomped up the steps and tried opening the massive door.
When it didn’t budge, she beat upon it. Gavin leaned over her head,
wrapped his fingers around the edge, and gave a mighty pull. Ancient oak
creaked and heaved outward. Even the damned doors in this place were backward.

She didn’t thank him for his assistance but glared at
him as he followed her into the darkness of the hall. “I suppose
you’ll insist on throwing us into the streets again. It’s no matter
to you that we’ll all be burned in our beds.”

“No, no more than it is no matter to you if the
citizens of the whole damned town come after me with torches. You have your
problems, I’ll take mine.”

“You are the most impossible, irritating man! We
can’t possibly leave until Blanche is safe. I categorically refuse to
leave. I’ll clean your kitchens, repair your draperies, pacify the
villagers, whatever you want in exchange for our residence here. Make your
choice, but don’t even think about turning us out.”

Gavin wouldn’t have been half so amused had she
pleaded instead of yelling at him. As it was, he found the turn of the
conversation quite stimulating. He had half a mind to tell her what he required
in exchange for her residence here, but a shadow beneath the stairway emerged
before he could voice his lecherous thoughts.

“I wouldn’t answer that one if I were you, my
lord,” the shadow spoke, entering the puddle of light from the candle at
the foot of the stairs. “She’s like to skewer you with her tongue
if you try.”

“Will you quit that ‘my lord’ business,
Michael? It irritates the hell out of me. And what are you doing lurking in the
shadows at this hour? Where is Lady Blanche?”

Light danced off the reddish glints of his brother’s
hair as Michael leaned against the newel post and regarded both of them. “The
two of you look like bats fried in hell. Did they burn down the Grange, too?”

Gavin wiped at his face with his handkerchief while Miss
Whitnell scrubbed hers with the back of her sleeve. She left more smudges than
she removed. He had an overwhelming desire to scrub her face for her, but he
conquered it by concentrating on Michael. “No, just a house in the
village. Miss Whitnell, why don’t you go up and wash and check on Lady
Blanche?”

He could see her eagerness to do so as she took a step
toward the staircase. Something in the atmosphere must have given them away,
however. She shook her head, crossed her arms, and turned her glare on Michael.
“What’s wrong? Why were you waiting for us?”

Michael raised his eyebrows and turned back to Gavin. “What’s
wrong with this picture? You’re supposed to seduce the duchess, not the
she-devil.”

As much as he loved his younger brother, there were times
Gavin could easily strangle him. Actually, he thought he could strangle him
more often than he could love him. He didn’t have to do either at the
moment. Despite her evident exhaustion, his companion practically went up in
flames beside him.

“She’s not a bloody damned duchess, and if I
have any say about it, she never will be! If anyone tries seducing her,
I’ll personally see their throats severed!”

Gavin couldn’t remember being so amused in a long
time. The daring Miss Whitnell barely reached his shoulder. Her thick curls had
fallen in damp ringlets about her very feminine neck, and her monstrous tunic
clung to a figure too slender by half. And she threatened two men twice her
size and strength. Not only did she threaten them, she used damned foul
language in the process.

Idly, without giving his words much thought, he said to
Michael, “Obviously, a military background there, wouldn’t you say?”

To his surprise, she turned white as a sheet and started for
the stairs.

Michael skewered him with a sharp look as Dillian hurried
upward. “I think you just hit her sore toe with a sledgehammer.”

He may have wished upon occasion to silence her quick
tongue, but Gavin had never meant to hurt her. For the first time in a long
time, he felt someone else’s pain, and an awful guilt that he had caused
it.

He remembered Dillian’s anxious, soot-blackened face
peering down from the thatch of a burning cottage as she foolishly tried to
rescue him. He heard her screams of terror as he fell through the roof. Not
once had she ever looked at him as a monster or treated him as anything else
but another human being.

Even his title meant little to her. She’d left him a
rose, for pity’s sake. And he’d done nothing but gripe and complain
and slam her feelings into the ground. He’d kept to himself for so long,
he’d forgotten how to respond to the concerns of others.

He was an ass, but he was helpless to do anything about it.
He didn’t even know what he’d said that had sent her fleeing. With
resignation, Gavin turned back to his brother. “All right, what’s
the bad news?”

His usually overconfident, ebullient brother looked
unusually uncertain as he listened to Miss Whitnell’s footsteps hurry
down the upper hall. It occurred to Gavin that Michael and Miss Whitnell would
make a very good pair. The thought thoroughly depressed him, but he
didn’t stop to consider why.

“I think we’d best discuss it together,”
Michael answered. “The ladies may provide more enlightenment than I can.”

“I don’t suppose it can wait until morning?”
Gavin asked wearily.

Michael shook his head. “You don’t think the
she-devil will wait until morning to see the duchess, do you?”

Of course not. Both women would be awake way into the night
catching up on the wrongs committed by a couple of useless bachelors, scheming
how best to keep the manor as their hiding place.

He must have baked what was left of his brains to let
Michael bring the women here in the first place. They’d be damned lucky
if a couple of fathers didn’t show up with shotguns.

“You
are
going to get them out of here?”
Gavin demanded with suspicion.

Michael looked resigned as he glanced upward. “Not
easily.”

* * * *

Dillian barely knocked at Blanche’s door before
entering. She found Blanche sitting at the table in darkness, her eyes
unbandaged as she stacked a deck of playing cards into a swaying card house. A
gust of air caused by the door opening toppled the cards.

“Drat it, O’Toole! Must you choose now to make a
grand entrance?”

Momentarily amused, Dillian glanced around for Verity. The
maid wasn’t in sight. Frowning again, Dillian answered, “I’m
sorry if my company disappoints you. I left O’Toole downstairs arguing
with the marquess.”

Blanche leapt from her chair and ran to hug her, stopping
only when she caught some glimpse of Dillian’s disarray. “My stars!
What have you done to yourself?”

Immense relief swept through Dillian as she realized Blanche
could see her, even in the darkness. “Your eyes! They’re undamaged,
then?”

“Even if they weren’t, my nose never lost its
sense of smell.” Blanche sniffed and picked fastidiously at the damp
tunic clinging to her companion. “You’d better go wash and find
clean clothes.”

Clothes. She hadn’t packed clean clothes. She’d
been so damned afraid the marquess would leave without her, that she had
completely forgotten anything but a suitable disguise for following him.
Dillian sighed. “I don’t even have my boy’s clothes. I left
them at the Grange. I’ll fetch that dress I found.”

“Let me call Verity for some warm water. You can just
wear one of my robes for now. Tell me all about it. I’m so horribly bored
sitting here like a turnip. Is it safe for us to leave yet?”

“I doubt it.” Dillian watched with interest as
Blanche tapped on the door between hers and the next room. Had Blanche expected
O’Toole and told Verity to leave? That didn’t make good sense. She
didn’t inquire as the maid answered the rap. The idea of warm water and
scented soap wiped all other thoughts from her head.

“Couldn’t we light a lamp in here?”
Dillian inquired as Verity hurried to fetch the requested water.

Blanche drifted toward the window. “O’Toole
thinks I should wait until my eyes have healed more. He makes me bind them in
the daylight, although he’s given me the prettiest scarf to use instead
of those awful bandages.”

All Dillian’s protective instincts reared up, but she
said nothing inflammatory. She would watch and see for herself first. “How
much can you see like this?”

Blanche shrugged. “Probably as much as you can. What do
you see when you look around?”

Dillian hadn’t thought of it that way. The moon shone
faintly through the windows, creating more shadows than it illuminated. She
could see the outlines of the bed, dresser, table, and wardrobe. She could see
Blanche silhouetted against the glass. She could guess at the other odd shapes
scattered across the furniture.

“I see what you mean. If you could see those cards you
were stacking, you’re seeing about everything I am.”

Blanche let out a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. I
worried Michael lied to me. It’s hard to remember how much one can see in
the dark. I felt like I moved through a shadow world.”