The Ruin Of A Rogue (17 page)

“He hates everyone.”

It was raining harder than ever. If the dam broke, the flood could sweep away the bridge and anything else in its path. Jasper might have been coming home just at that moment.

Marcus gave the pot a stir. It smelled good. Practice had improved his cooking, one reason Jasper never missed a meal. “He’s a tough old bird. He can look after himself.” But Jasper was also old and bent from a lifetime of hard labor. “I’m going out to look for him,” he announced.

“You’ll be soaked,” Travis protested.

“It can’t be helped. He could drown in this mess.”

Bundled in his still damp topcoat and guided by a sturdy storm lantern, he headed down the drive, battling wind and rain of biblical force. As he’d feared, the brook had risen to a raging torrent, doubling its width and destroying the bridge. He slogged downstream, straining his eyes in the dying twilight. Of Jasper, gig, and horse there was no sign. He could only pray the old cuss had stayed with his relations in the village.

Why the villa even entered his mind he would never quite know. The Romans knew enough to build away from the danger of flooding, but he thought of Frederick and how upset Anne would be if he was damaged. He wanted to be sure the lion was covered. Postponing his return to the welcoming warmth of his house, he diverted his steps to check on the fruits of her labor. This he could do for her.

By the light of the lantern he surveyed the site through the teeming rain. The canvas was in place, as far as he could tell, and held down by pools of water. When the faint cry penetrated the gale and the roaring of the brook he thought it a trick of the wind.

“Hello there!” he called, feeling a little foolish. No one sane would be out in this weather. He was mad himself.

“Help!” Was that a human word, or a stray cat caught in the ruins? “Help!”

Surely she wouldn’t. He was desperately afraid that she would.

“Anyone there?”

“Here. Help me.” Then some words he couldn’t comprehend.

“Keep talking,” he yelled.

He stumbled over an exposed wall, trying to follow the voice that swirled around in the wind. Where was she? In the rapidly falling darkness, his light illuminated only small areas at a time. Why did the Romans have to build such large houses? Swallowing panic, he forced himself to stop, listen, and think over the howling of the storm and his own beating heart. Once he narrowed down the sound to the vicinity of the hypocaust, he wondered if she’d fallen in and hurt herself. Walking slowly along the edge of the pit he could see nothing. “Where are you?”

“In the furnace.”

Where before there’d been grass and weeds, a jagged hole lay dark and ominous. Mud squelched over his boots as the ground gave way underfoot. He fell to his knees and crawled forward, holding the lantern over the hole. Anne’s upturned face glowed ghostlike a foot down. “Marcus?”

“It’s all right. I’ll get you out. Give me your hand.” Instead she disappeared from view and no longer replied to his calls.

Forcing himself to think clearly, he dismissed the idea of going in after her. Too much danger of them both being stuck. “Anne,” he called, praying she hadn’t fainted. “Stay awake. Can you stand up and reach me again?”

“Can’t.” She was slumped on her behind against the wall of her prison. Water already covered the floor. He needed to get her out fast before she froze to death.

“Try very hard to stand up. Hold up your arms and I’ll pull you out.”

Lying on his stomach, he ignored the mud and rocks piercing his clothing as the rain battered him from above. “Come on, Anne. You can do it.”

She was only a shadow in the dark chamber as his senses strained to follow her movements.

“I can’t move.” Her voice was barely detectable.

“Anne,” he said sternly. “Get up at once.”

His sharp order got through where gentle coaxing failed. He heard her shift and rise. A white hand appeared for a moment, then slipped out of the grasp of his sodden gloves. He stripped them off using his teeth. “Both hands, darling. Now.” This time he caught them, slender and icy cold. “That’s my girl. Keep your arms high. Now I’m going to slide down to your elbows.”

He had to push aside the folds of her waterlogged cloak before he had her in a firm grip and started to work his way backward to pull her out. She managed to contribute to the effort by stepping up onto something. Once he had her half out, balanced precariously on the edge of the hole, he knelt up and half tugged, half rolled her out by the waist. There was no time to ponder his aching muscles. He needed to get her home and dry promptly.

Alas, the struggle to escape had knocked over the lantern, although he’d wedged it next to a rock. Thus began a nightmare journey through the impenetrable dark of the storm, across rough fields rendered lethal by the rain. Sometimes she walked a few steps but mostly he half carried, half dragged her. Unable to speak, she shivered uncontrollably, and he feared for her health and even her life. He could only guess how long she’d been imprisoned but he knew when it had started to rain. She’d been out in the wet in falling temperatures for four or five hours. The last part of the journey, when the terrain was smoother, he scooped her into his arms and made the best possible speed until he staggered through the back door of the manor and into the kitchen.

His valet jumped up, eyebrows flying. “Quick, Travis. Fetch blankets and towels, immediately.”

Anne stood passive and barely conscious. Marcus wanted to warm her in his arms but their clothing was soaked through. Everything must come off before he could get her dry. So he stripped her from bonnet to boots and was fighting the wet laces of her stays when Travis returned.

“My lord!”

“This is no time for prudery.”

“I cannot remain in the room with an undressed lady. Nor should you. Think of her maidenly modesty.”

“Better immodest than dead. If it offends you, turn your back. And fill the bathtub with hot water.”

A knife made quick work of the laces. Stays and shift fell to the floor and she stood naked, unable even to move her arms to protect her small pointed breasts or private area. Marcus enveloped her in a blanket, every inch of her wet and ice cold and shivering, and guided her to the chair next to the fire, where she sat, eyes closed.

“Talk to her, sir,” Travis said. “That’s what you did for me when you saved me. It kept me going when all I wanted to do was sleep and would have died in the snow.”

“I’m going to get you into a bath. That’ll warm you up.” He kept talking as he and Travis carried the cans of hot water to the metal tub beside the stove. “Then we’ll get you into a warm bed.”

“Sleep,” she said.

“You can’t sleep yet. You have to get warm first. Then everything will be well.”

God, he hoped so.

He was still talking soothing nonsense as he lifted her into the hot bath and scooped water over her exposed shoulders and back. Anne crossed her arms over her breasts, for warmth he fancied, not shyness. She was beyond embarrassment or even thought.

“Travis,” he barked at his valet, who was unhappily trying to look away. “Go and stoke the fire in my bedchamber and take the warming pan.”

Once Anne’s cold limbs started to respond to the water, he turned his attention to her hair. Most of the pins had fallen out but her braids were so tight they were almost dry inside. He fingered her hair loose and rubbed it with a towel. This was not the circumstance under which he’d hoped to learn that her locks reached almost to her waist. Finally, he lifted her out, tenderly dried her off, and carried her upstairs.

Since the fire in his room was kept banked all day, Travis already had it blazing. Still, it would take hours to dispel the chill when cold air blasted through the ill-fitting windows. Marcus pulled one of his shirts over Anne’s head, slid her between the warmed sheets, and heaped her with blankets. She hadn’t opened her eyes in an age but continued to shiver. She lay on her back, dark hair spread over the pillow, utterly still. He’d never seen a more beautiful sight than her face, as pale as ivory, nor one that filled him with greater despair.

“Anne,” he whispered. “Can you hear me?” If only her eyes would open and give life to the frozen countenance.

“Cynthia? Maldon?” The voice was a low, husky rasp.

He stroked her forehead. “It’s me, Marcus. You’re safe now.”

Her head moved from side to side. “Grandfather? Felix?”

Who the devil was Felix? Oh yes. Her dead betrothed.

“No,” he said urgently. “It’s Marcus.”

She didn’t seem overly hot but he feared the onset of fever. It was going to be a long night.

“Marcus?” she murmured.

He hadn’t known how tense he was until he felt his muscles relax. “Yes, Marcus. I have you safe. Now sleep.

Leaning over her still, pale body, so frail and lifeless, he realized he still wore his wet clothes. After changing into a dry shirt and breeches, he slipped into bed beside her and gathered her close, her body firm and slender in his arms, willing his heat into her shivering form.

She was his now and he didn’t have to let her go. He wished it was the best thing for her.

Chapter 17

A
nne didn’t think she’d ever be warm again. Sometimes she woke up and thought she was still buried at the villa, despairing of rescue and certain she would die. She tried to call for help but her throat was raw. Soothing words assured her that she was no longer trapped in the hell of icy water. “You’re safe, sweetheart,” the voice said. “You’re warm now and I’ll look after you, darling.” No one had ever called her sweetheart or darling. How lovely. She settled into the embrace of the warm body that had somehow got into her bed. She asked no questions, aloud or to herself, merely reveled in the heat penetrating her frozen bones.

When she woke it was still night. A lamp glowed on a table revealing a room she’d never seen before. Her memory of what happened between her endless hours of captivity and this warm, pleasant awakening was indistinct. She knew only that Marcus had found her. An urgent physical call made her slip gingerly down from the high bed. Glad to find her legs in working order, she tottered across the cold floor and found a chamber pot behind a screen. In the dim light she took in masculine clothing hanging on a row of pegs, a pair of tall boots, and a guitar propped up in one corner. A washstand held a pair of hairbrushes, a razor, and other masculine accoutrements. She must be in Marcus’s own bedchamber. Aware of legs shockingly exposed from the knee down, she hurried back into bed and sat back against the pillows. Good Lord, she was wearing a man’s shirt and nothing else. How she got into it, not to mention out of her own garments, she had no idea. Someone had removed every stitch, down to her stays and shift. Her cheeks burned with shame mixed with an odd excitement.

The door handle rattled and she pulled the covers up to her neck.

Marcus came in.

“You’re awake. How are you?” His eyes were dark with weariness, his hair damp.

“I’m quite well, thank you. Have you been out again, in the middle of the night?”

He drew the curtains. “It’s just past noon. And still raining.”

“Gracious! How long have I been asleep?”

“The best part of a day. It was late afternoon when I found you.” He came over to the bed and felt her forehead. “You don’t have a fever. Amazing after that soaking.”

“I rarely get so much as a sniffle.”

She was alone with a man in a bedroom. His bedroom. Surprisingly she felt no great embarrassment, perhaps because he regarded her with concern rather than desire. She must look a mess. As she raised her arms to push her unruly hair back from her face, the shirt she wore gaped open.

“Is this your shirt?” she blurted out, hastily covering her bosom.

“Your clothes were soaked.”

“Thank you. Thank you for coming to find me.”

“I suppose there’s no point asking you what you were doing at the villa, down a hole, in the worst rainstorm I’ve ever seen.”

“The hole was an accident. I just wanted to clear away the top before I went home and I slipped in the mud and fell through.”

“That was a stupid thing to do,” he said with a frown. “It was only by chance that I found you.”

“I thought Cynthia would send the carriage for me once it started to rain. I don’t know why she didn’t.”

“The brook flooded and swept away the bridge. We’re trapped at the manor until the waters go down.”

“Cynthia will be frantic.”

“I spoke to Jasper this morning. Not much of a conversation with us yelling at each other across a torrent, but I managed to tell him to assure Lady Windermere that you are here and safe.”

She ought to be upset but now that she knew Cynthia wouldn’t worry unduly, except about the impropriety of her staying at the manor alone with Marcus, she felt quite content. Her stomach growled. “I’m starving.”

He grinned, more carefree than he’d been since he entered the room, and wonderfully handsome. She twitched her shoulders in response to an involuntary tingle lower down her body.

“I’m happy to hear it. I’ll bring you some dinner.”

Ten minutes later he returned with a tray bearing bread and butter and a bowl of soup. She filled her spoon and blew on it.

“It was hot when it left the kitchen but I think the journey through the cold house makes caution unnecessary.”

“I’m a cautious person.” He shot a look of disbelief. “Delicious,” she said, tucking in. “Did Travis make this?”

“Remember, valets don’t cook. I did. One of my favorite recipes.”

She giggled. “Really?”

“Not really. I just throw things in a pot and hope they come out well.”

“I’ve never known a man who cooked.”

“You’ve never known a man like me.” There was an undercurrent of wariness in his words.

“True. Meeting you has been an education.” She wasn’t sure what she meant. A few weeks earlier she’d have said he’d confirmed her distrust of the motives of men’s intentions toward her. But she’d also learned to fight for what she wanted, not merely to let life happen to her.

He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to tip over the tray of food laid across her legs. Not long ago she’d have been dead of shock at having a man in her room, sitting on her bed. Now it seemed natural. Besides it was his bed. And she rather thought she’d shared it with him, though her memories of the night were hazy. He clearly had something to say and he seemed troubled.

“I’m sorry, Anne. I didn’t mean this to happen.”

“It’s not your fault. I was foolish to be out in the rain, but in my defense I really didn’t mean to fall down a hole.”

“Not that, though I beg you to be more sensible in the future. I mean our situation. You’ve spent a night under my roof with no chaperone but my valet. Your reputation will be hopelessly compromised. That’s what I didn’t intend.”

“Really,” she said with a little edge, “I would think it suited your purposes perfectly. Wasn’t your goal all along to persuade or trap me into marriage?”

“To my shame, yes. I wondered if you’d guessed. I suppose that’s what those visits to the more fascinating byways of London were about.”

“Oh yes. And my dreadful behavior. I’m not really such a haughty wretch. I quite enjoyed the deception, which you thoroughly deserved.”

“You did it far too well and had
me
fooled.”

“I did do well, didn’t I? There was one time I thought you were going to throw me out of the carriage window.”

“You tempted me. I almost decided you weren’t worth the trouble until you came down to Hinton and played into my hands.”

“Is that what I did?” She couldn’t help a little smile at how wrong he was.

He appeared not to share her humor. “No self-respecting fortune hunter could resist such an opportunity. Forcing you to act as a servant was risky, but I wanted a little revenge and I knew I could maneuver you into a position where you had to accept me. Then I learned the spoiled heiress wasn’t really you and I couldn’t continue to use you and ruin your life. And now look at us. You’re trapped here, there’s bound to be a scandal, and I can’t see any way out other than our marriage. I’m so sorry.” She found his remorse convincing but not terribly flattering. While renouncing his plan to wed an heiress for her fortune was creditable, she supposed, she’d be more pleased if he actually wanted to marry her, for other reasons. “I promise you, Anne. I’ll do my best to be a good husband.”

“Is this a proposal?”

“I suppose it is.”

She pursed her lips.

“You deserve better than this, Anne. You ought to have a man of birth and honor on his knees before you, someone begging to prove he’s worthy of you, someone who loves you. Someone much better than me.”

Marcus seemed so upset she decided to stop teasing. “Marcus, stop.” She rested her hand on his clenched fist. “You don’t have to marry me, and I don’t have to marry you.”

“If only that were true. But you’re ruined.”

“You don’t understand, do you? I came here to cause a scandal, perhaps not quite such a large one, but it’ll suffice. You were pursuing me for your ends and I was doing the same.”

“You’re right. I don’t understand.”

“I’m the most desirable match in all England. Dozens of gentlemen, hundreds even, want to marry me. It’s nothing to do with me personally, of course. Merely because of the property that comes with me. Nothing I do can make me unmarriageable. Ask Lady Ashfield.”

“That old witch!”

“She knows society. And she assures me that no matter how plain or dull I am, or how scandalous, someone will marry me.”

“Any man would be lucky to win you.”

She brushed aside the compliment. “Be that as it may, I’m not sure I want to marry any of them. Especially not Lord Algernon Tiverton.”

“Tiverton! I should think not. I was at Oxford with him.”

“I don’t suppose he was any better back then.”

“You couldn’t possibly want to wed such a self-satisfied bore.”

“Exactly. Since he’s my guardian’s choice I had to render myself unacceptable to him and you were the perfect man to do it. My association with you will get him out of the way and I hope any others of his ilk. I’ve decided I’d just as soon not be married at all. But if I change my mind someone will have me.”

“But . . .” Marcus stared at her, quite flummoxed by the revelation. “What . . .” Then he smiled, his biggest, most devastating grin, his eyes alight with mirth. “My dear Anne, I salute you. You played me perfectly and I didn’t think I could be played. You should be proud of yourself. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, Lord Lithgow.”

“Call me Marcus. I hate the title.”

“Why?”

“Because it means nothing. It’s an obscure peerage that came to me through a cousin of my father’s so distant I had no idea of his existence. It brings me no property, not even a seat in the House of Lords. It has nothing to do with me.”

She could appreciate his point since she’d often felt the same about her wealth. “Why use it then?”

“I’m a rogue and I’ll take advantage of anything that might give me entrée to those who can be of use to me.”

She touched the back of his hand, feeling the elegant bone structure under the rough masculine skin. “I don’t believe you’re as bad as you say.”

“Whatever can have given you that idea? I’ve proven quite the opposite.”

“You saved my life yesterday.”

“Perhaps.”

“Why did you come to the villa in the middle of a storm?”

He averted his eyes. “I was making sure Frederick was covered up and safe.”

“That was a very sweet thing to do.”

Abruptly he stood up and strode across the room. “Here,” he said, handing her a hairbrush.

“Do I look so untidy?”

“It’ll give you something to do.”

“I’d rather get up.”

“Absolutely not. You must stay in bed, at least until tomorrow. Besides, your clothes are still wet.”

“At least give me a book.”

He returned to the dressing table and almost threw a volume at her. “I must go. I have to see about getting that bridge repaired.”

Anne shook her head in puzzlement as the door slammed behind him. What had got into him? He hadn’t seemed upset by the revelation of her ruse. Apparently he really didn’t want to marry her, which was good. It proved he wasn’t a completely mercenary scoundrel. But it would have been more flattering if he’d shown an iota of regret. She found his failure to press his suit unaccountably depressing.

She leafed through the battered volume of Hoyle on
The Game of Whist
. Though interested in the fact that the calculation of odds in card play was such a precise business, she’d never been one for arithmetic and soon grew bored. Which left her hair.

Maldon, who had been her mother’s lady’s maid and stayed on as personal attendant to the orphaned infant, had always brushed her hair. Her mother had lived in an era of huge coiffures, and her maid missed them. Anne hated having her hair about her face, and the difference of opinion was a source of discord between them. The tight plaits were a compromise because Maldon became mutinous when Anne took a fancy to sport a fashionable crop, like Caro. Not that Maldon was opposed to fashion, quite the opposite, except in this one matter. She longed to wield curling papers and hot irons. But her grumpy loyalty to Anne was absolute, despite the latter’s stubborn resistance to coiffed excess.

By the time she’d worked out all the tangles, Anne regretted not being firmer in the matter of the crop. Applying the same determination with which she uncovered a new section of Roman wall, she worked away until she could run her fingers through the almost waist-length locks without a single snag. Curious to see the result of her labor, she got out of bed to the dressing mirror and saw a new Anne Brotherton. Dark hair formed a cloudy halo around her head and shoulders, emphasizing the pale face and making her eyes seem bigger than usual. Clad only in Marcus’s shirt, she looked wild. The prim heiress, neatly dressed to the point of dowdiness, had been replaced by an exotic, wicked creature, a seductress.

That was silly. She wasn’t the type to drive men mad with desire. Still, she wondered what Marcus would think of her like this. Nothing, probably. When they first met he’d appeared to admire her, but that had been a ruse. Since she came to Hinton, he’d shown no sign of being attracted to her. The almost-kiss at the villa had been part of his deception. Rather than stay in her company now, he’d preferred to go out in the rain and look at a bridge, which certainly couldn’t be repaired until the weather and waters calmed down.