The Seduction of Sarah Marks (8 page)

Chapter Eight

Sarah inspected the serviceable-looking walking dress with its blue and brown striped skirt, solid blue sleeves, and brown laced bodice. Upon closer examination, she found the cambric to be finely woven and the tailoring exquisite
.
“This will certainly do, Tildy. Thank you.”

The maid helped Sarah into the outfit. “Miss Marks?”

“Yes?” Sarah twirled in front of the mirror.
A perfect fit.

“Best not wander onto Sir Crocodile’s land whilst yer out an’ about.”

Sarah shot Tildy a questioning frown. “Sir
Crocodile
?”

Tildy laughed. “Sir Robert Garreck. Knighted by the Queen, he was. Everyone calls him that ‘cause he’ll snap yer head clean off if’n ye step so much as a toe on his land. Shot at the gamekeeper fer gettin’ after a loose sheep once. Heard Sir Crocodile ate the poor thing.”

“Oh, dear. How will I know when I’m on his property?”

Tildy handed her the matching bonnet. “Except for the statues of the horses’ arses alongside the road, he marks what’s his with a low stone wall.”

“Then this snapping
Sir Crocodile
would be Lord Eastleigh’s cousin?”

A slow grin captured Tildy’s mouth. “A handful, that one. In more ways than I’d care t’count.”

…

The wild cherry tree Sarah sat beneath was in full bloom. Blossoms, loosened now and then by puffs of wind from the heavens, fell about her like scented snow. Across the small stream lay a field of bluebells looking like azure velvet against Mother Nature’s lush green carpet. Lord, but she loved the outdoors. There was freedom here. No one to tell her yea or nay.
Hmm.
She jotted a note in that regard alongside one of her floral sketches. She’d be certain to apprise Doctor Hemphill of her revelation upon her return.

Now, to find a way across the stream to the bluebells without soaking her boots. Tucking her drawings inside the pouch, she stood, removed her bonnet, and strolled upstream until she spied a small footbridge. She’d have to backtrack. But first, there was a low stone wall to climb over in order to reach the bridge. Heavens, how was there suddenly this barrier?

She glanced about.
Which way to go from here?
Where had the sun gone? And when had the sky turned a stormy gray? She followed the stream, hoping to be headed in the right direction. The distinct
chink
-
chink-chink
of metal hammering against metal caught her attention.
A smithy.
So, she was near the stables? How had she got so turned around?

As the building came into view, the steady, heavy rhythm of the smithy’s pounding grew louder. She rounded the stable’s corner.

And froze in her tracks at the sight of a half-naked man.

She was certain she’d never before seen a man in such a state. The sight made her a bit dizzy. He stood with his back to her, shirtless and wearing nothing more than dirty buckskins over lean hips, a leather apron, and gloves. Dust-covered boots swathed his long legs. Ebony hair hung in a riot of curls and stuck to the perspiration along his neck. His thick arms and broad back glistened with sweat while his muscles bunched and released with every strike of the hammer against glowing metal.

God in heaven! She twitched at every smack of the mallet. She should get away fast. Which way to go? A lump caught in her throat, but she couldn’t move.

He paused, hammer in mid-air, head bent to the side as if listening for a sound behind him.

Oh, dear Lord. Run!

He turned, his face a mask of fury. And then his countenance transformed—softened as his crude regard traveled her length. The arm holding the hammer lowered, and a slow smile loosened his generous mouth. Setting down the mallet, he removed his heavy gloves, tossed them aside, and lifted the leather apron over his head, exposing a flat, muscled stomach and broad chest.

Sarah caught herself staring at a garish scar marring the left side of his body and averted her attention over his shoulder. He grabbed a towel hanging on a hook and took his time wiping perspiration from his face and arms. “Who are you, and did you fall from the sky?” His deep voice split the air between them.

Thankful her skirts hid her shaking knees, she stiffened, shot her chin in the air, and found her voice. “I am Miss Sarah Marks, sir. I’ve got turned around. If you will respectfully direct me toward Easton Park, I’ll be on my way.”

He cocked a brow. “Respectfully?
Humph
. I respect nothing belonging to Eastleigh.”

The nerve.
“I’ll have you know, I am Mum’s ward, sir.”

A chuckle rumbled through his chest. “That’s a rich one. Now I
know
you fell from the sky. And landed on your head.” He reached to another hook, removed a white shirt, and yanked it over his head, leaving it to hang loose.

Lucifer himself wouldn’t have looked so devilish.

“I’ll be off now,” she said. “I’ll find my own way if you choose not to be a gentleman and direct me.” She went to shove her leather pouch under her arm and realized it was the bonnet she held. Oh, dear, she’d left her sketches and journal under the tree. Things weren’t going well at all.

“You just turned pale.” He moved forward with a quizzical frown.

She stepped back.

“I won’t hurt you.” His voice softened, reminding Sarah of how Eastleigh had spoken those very words.

“I…I really must be going now, but I left something under a tree, and I’m afraid I shan’t find it again.”

“You followed the stream?” He strolled toward her, his gait easy and relaxed.

She nodded.

Taking her by the elbow, he turned her around. “Come along, then.”

She yanked her arm away.

He chuckled and dropped his hand. “I’m merely showing you the way. Don’t be a dolt.”

Dolt? How dare he.
“I am nothing of the sort, merely lost.” She scurried to catch up with him, aware that it took her two steps to his long one to maintain his easy pace. Just like Eastleigh. She sized him up. About the same height as well.

He regarded her with amusement. No wonder Tildy said he was a handful. What she wouldn’t give to know what had caused the two cousins to be at odds. Surely it couldn’t be over a fifteen-foot-wide strip of land? “May I inquire as to what you were creating when I happened by?”

A mischievous smile tipped the corners of his mouth. “Do you like my statues at the entry to my property?” They passed a tree, and he casually reached up for a handful of leaves, tearing and tossing them as he strolled along. “I’ll take your silence as a no.”

“I don’t think your purpose in putting them there was because you were especially proud of them.”

“Do tell.” He tossed the remaining leaves in the air and walked under the rain of green. “I thought them rather clever.” He pointed to the pouch propped beneath the cherry tree. “Is that what you’re after?”

She turned in a circle. “Yes, but how did we get onto this side of the wall again?”

“Ah, there’s a tricky bit up a ways where there’s a gap in the wall just as the stream turns.”

“Which you’ve designed on purpose.”

His hand splayed over his heart. “Would thee so wound me with vile accusations, milady?”

When she only glared at him, he shot her a wicked half-smile. “Your pardon while I gather the packet, Miss Marks, and then I’ll point the way for you.”

She watched him retrieve the pouch and return, his gait lazy beneath his thin cambric shirt. Why, he wasn’t frightening at all. “You can’t be what they say—”

“Sir Crocodile?” Humor lit his eyes. “The very one.”

“You know of your nickname?”

He shrugged. “Who doesn’t? You fell out of the sky back there, and already you know what they call me.” He turned his head. “I believe we have company.”

The drumming of hoof beats reached Sarah’s ears. Eastleigh raced into view atop a fine-looking brown beast with a black tail and mane, the ground quaking. He pulled the horse to a halt so hard the animal danced in a circle, clods of grass and dirt flying about. He eyed his cousin’s disheveled appearance, then gave Sarah a thorough once-over, his scowl besting the one Sir Crocodile had given her when first he’d caught sight of her. “Are you all right?”

“Of course.”

“Get off my property, Eastleigh.” Whatever emanated from Sir Robert Garreck just then was powerful, malevolent, and shot right through Sarah like a swallow of acrid vinegar. A chill slithered down her spine.

“I’ve come to get what’s mine,” Eastleigh responded.

What?
Sarah’s back went up. “Yours? I’m Mum’s ward, in case you forgot.”

Laughter, deep and hearty rolled out of Garreck. “She’s Mum’s ward, Augie. Ain’t that something?”

“Shut it, Rob. Come, madam.” He held a hand out to her and glanced upward. “We’ll be fortunate to make it back to the stables before the skies open.”

Sarah didn’t know why, but she suddenly wanted away from this man standing beside her. She scurried to the safety of Eastleigh but halted, and took a step back. Up close, the sheer size of the beast he rode was daunting.

He extended his hand. “Commodore won’t hurt you. Come, step on my boot.”

“You’re certain?”

“Indeed. Hurry, the weather is about to turn.”

She took a cautious step forward and grabbed Eastleigh’s hand.

He swung her up so easily, she was straddled behind him before she had time to think, her skirts skimming the tops of her walking boots. The horse danced a half-circle and back. Sarah yipped and clasped the sides of Eastleigh’s jacket, her heart jumping to her throat. Sitting atop a horse didn’t feel natural. Not at all!

“Steady,” Eastleigh murmured to the horse. “Put your hands around my waist, madam, and hold tight.”

She scooted forward until she was up against his back and could clasp her hands against his hard stomach. His scent caught between her body and his.
Oh, my.
If it weren’t for her bunched skirts, her thighs would be fitted directly against his hips!

Sir Robert’s piercing gaze followed her every move. “Off my property, Eastleigh. Now.” He turned, then paused and glanced over his shoulder with a puckish grin. “But as for you, Miss Marks, you are welcome anytime. And bring Mum along. I haven’t seen my grandmother since her last delivery of apple cider.”

Chapter Nine

The horse took a step forward. Sarah gripped the front of Eastleigh’s shirt and let out a pitiful squeak. No, she definitely did not ride by habit.

Eastleigh halted the beast and slid his gloved hand over hers. “Are you certain you’re all right?”

“The only thing I’m fair…fairly certain of, is that I must have led my father’s horses to the smithy and never rode a one. Furthermore, I feel as though I’m ten feet off the ground and about to tumble beneath this monster’s great hooves, where I shall surely meet my demise. I don’t care for this one bit, Eastleigh.”

“Then you need to ride in front. Sit tight.” Before she knew what he was about, he threw a leg over the neck of the horse and slid to the ground with graceful ease. She slipped a bit in the saddle, and terror washed through her anew.

“Easy, now.” He righted her. “Lean over and grip the pommel.” He stepped to the horse’s head, stroking and murmuring in soothing tones. “Ease yourself all the way forward, then adjust your skirts while I have my back to you.”

After she did as she was told, he mounted behind her in one smooth motion. This time it was
he
who set
his
body against
hers
. It was
his
thighs cradling
her
hips. Oh, my. His one hand slid around her waist, tucking her close to him. He took the reins with the other. She swallowed hard against the tide of emotion washing through her and searched for a decent breath.

“I’ve got hold of you,” he said. “But grab a handful of the horse’s mane. Doing so will help you maintain your balance. There’s a storm nearly upon us, so we’d best pick up speed. Ready?”

She grasped a hank of black mane with both hands and nodded. His words of encouragement were warm and husky in her ear, his hand splayed over her stomach comforting, yet sending shockwaves of…of
pleasure
through her. A squeeze of his legs against the horse, and the beast eased into a walk, then a trot, and soon, a canter. All the while, Sarah bumped about in the saddle.

“Let your hips relax, and you won’t bounce so.” He gripped the side of her waist, and with strong fingers, urged her hips into a back and forth motion that matched the horse’s movements—along with Eastleigh’s. Not only was the difference in the ride immediate, but oh, dear, the graceful cadence of the horse set her and Eastleigh moving together in a manner that one could call provocative. Could he be aware of what she was thinking? Or feeling? Or was this movement so common she would be considered a prig to make note of it?

“That’s it,” he murmured, his words throaty in her ear. “You’ve got things right now. Feel how smooth and natural the three of us move together.” He slid his hand back to her belly. “Settle in and enjoy the ride, I’ve got you.”

But the intimacy of Eastleigh’s hips rolling in cadence with hers did more than allow her to enjoy the ride. Something began to tingle inside her. God help her, she wanted to ride forever in his arms, wanted to delve deep into the erotic feelings shooting through her. She leaned the back of her head against his chest and closed her eyes to everything that was not
him
.

His arm tightened around her, and his breath, hot against her ear, grew heavier. Not at all proper, this, but so inviting, so comforting—and something else so very wicked, she dared not let her mind settle on where such waywardness could lead. What she did have the courage to do, was allow her focus to remain on him. As she let go of all restraint, exquisite currents passed from him into her until she felt as though the two of them were one.

The farther they rode along in silence, the more helpless she became to control what rolled through her. She gave in to the pleasure of their bodies moving in unison to a steady rhythm, gave in to his heady scent surrounding her, to his heated breath against her cheek. A fat raindrop hit her. And then another. “Oh!” She let go of the horse’s mane with one hand and swiped at her cheeks, but the action rocked her in the saddle and she let out a yip.

“Careful.” Eastleigh readjusted his hold, pulling her even closer.

She grabbed at a hank of the beast’s hair again. No amount of wet was worth such a fright. She was nearly crushed against Eastleigh now, he held her so close. More drops assaulted her. Oh, they couldn’t reach the stables fast enough to suit her. She leaned her head against his chest and settled fully into him.

“We’ll not make tea, I’m afraid.” His words, deep in his throat had taken on a raw, primitive tone. “You’ll soon be soaked through since the storm is coming straight at us and not from behind where my body might protect you. Sorry.”

And then the skies opened up.

Sarah tried to blink away the pelting rain, but to no avail. She relented and kept her eyes closed, loving how doing so increased her sensitivity to his penetrating presence. Who would have thought riding atop a horse with a man like Eastleigh could send one’s senses reeling?

Did he just plant a light kiss atop her head? Raw, visceral emotion throbbed down her belly and begged for release.

“Finally, the stables,” he said.

She opened her eyes, just as Eastleigh halted in front of the entry. “Not a moment too soon. I’m soaked through and feeling chilled to the bone.”

“Stay in the saddle, I’ll walk you in.” He slid off the horse while Sarah continued to cling to the animal’s mane.

Once inside, Eastleigh closed the doors to the storm and held his arms open to her. “Let go, I’ll catch you.”

She fell into him, and he scowled. “As I thought. You’re soaked whilst I sat behind you and had your body for protection. Here, put this on.”

He pulled off his coat and tossed it over the rail of an empty stall. Shedding his jacket, he set it over her shoulders. “At least the family will be gathered for tea, so you can slip into the house with them unawares.”

Making short work of his cravat and waistcoat, he whipped off his shirt and began to towel off her face and hair.

Which left him naked from the waist up!

And here she was, mere inches away. Oh, her heart pounded so—surely he must be able to hear it. She closed her eyes in an attempt to obliterate the image of bare skin and rippling muscles while he rubbed his shirt through her hair—hair that had fallen loose at some point.

Nearly naked. Just like Sir Garreck.
While the two bodies were not dissimilar, shock at seeing a half-clad Garreck was one thing, but with Eastleigh? What this man’s near-nudity did to her was an entirely different matter. How she wanted to step into him, desperately wanted to touch his skin.

Wanted him to kiss her.

Helpless to do otherwise, she opened her eyes, and a shockwave rippled through her. There were scars. Multiple scars. Some seemed as though he’d been gouged, while others looked as if he’d been sliced at. She reached out and touched him. “You’ve been hurt,” she whispered.

He sucked in his breath, his skin quivering where her fingers skimmed along his flesh. “My family will be leaving in the morning, and then we need to talk—you, me, and Doctor Hemphill.” His words were strained, hoarse in his throat.

She nodded, focused on her fingers trailing along his stomach and the thrill it gave her.

He paused with his bunched shirt against her cheek. And then he moved it again, this time slowly, as if in a caress.

Her fingers traced one scar, and then another. “From the war?” Her voice sounded as a mere whisper.

When he failed to respond, she glanced up into eyes filled with longing. No matter how naïve she might be, there was no mistaking his desire for her. He turned the shirt until it was the back of his fingers tracing her cheek and not the fabric. “Lord, but you’re beautiful.”

He studied her for a long moment, and then his lips parted, and she knew what was coming. She lifted her chin in silent acquiescence.

His warm lips touched hers, just a brush. “God help me, I should not do this,” he murmured, but it was too late, for his mouth settled on hers, and his arms went around her.

A small groan fell into her mouth. “Forgive me, I cannot stop.”

She pulled away from his kiss and touched her lips to his chest. She licked his heated skin. She heard a soft moan, thinking it was his, but perhaps not?

“Eastleigh,” she whispered and lifted her mouth to his again in a near frantic urge to have him…to have him where? She wound her arms around his neck. His hand found her breast and this time she was certain it was his moan she heard. And then his mouth settled on hers again, and when his tongue found hers and probed, a flame ignited in her so hot it burned.

Suddenly a memory.

An awful memory.

Of a sharp pain between her legs. Of her whimpering, then begging…not wanting to be touched again. By…by her husband.

Her husband!

She jumped back in horror. “Don’t touch me!”

He stepped forward with a quizzical frown, but she managed to wave him off before one of her hands covered her mouth and the other clutched at the pain gripping her stomach. “Oh, dear God, Eastleigh. I am a married woman. We cannot do this.”

He reached out and grabbed her shoulders, his face ashen. “Tell me what you remember?”

She shrugged off his hands and backed away. “Please, no.”

Shivering, she lifted his coat from over the rail and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Leave me be,” she cried. “I cannot. I am married.”

He grabbed her by the shoulders again. “To whom?”

“I…I don’t know. I cannot see him in my mind’s eye. I only know he is cruel.”

“Cruel? How so?”

“Let me go!”

He was shaking her now, a scowl distorting his features. “Tell me, damn it!”

Twisting free from his grasp, she sped from the stable and into the house, ignoring the shocked stares of servants.

As she ran up the stairs to her chamber, Hemphill’s shouts at Eastleigh fell on her ears, a jumble of words to which she paid no heed. Stumbling into her room and locking the door behind her, she leaned back against the hard panel and wept.

Oh God, oh God, why couldn’t she remember anything more? What did he look like, this husband of hers? Had she imagined things? No, she was certain she was married…for how else would an intimate encounter take place with…with someone she knew…but didn’t know?

Could she have been attacked by someone? No. In the flash of memory, when she’d recalled the pain, somehow she
knew
it had been a husband who had done the inflicting. For the first time since she’d awoken in that strange inn beside Eastleigh, she didn’t just weep, she sobbed, great heaping sobs that tore through her with a vengeance until she was spent.

She opened her eyes, expecting to see the maid standing in a corner, watching the spectacle. But she was alone. She spied what looked to be a book lying in the middle of the bed with a note atop. Wiping her eyes, she moved to the four-poster where she read the large letters scrawled across the page.

“Thought you might find this of particular interest. Will.”

Sarah lifted the piece of paper off the book, and seeing the title, gasped.

A Treatise on the English Garden, by Miss Sarah Marks.

Fingers trembling, she lifted the book off the counterpane. Slowly, she turned the pages. And then she pressed the book to her breast and slumped to the floor.

She knew this book. Knew it well. It was her bible—not the Good Book, from which her father forced her to recite every day, but the dearest book she owned, one where she could find any information she needed in order to tend to her beloved garden. Written by one Sarah Marks.

No, she was not the author. She remembered who she was now.

Her name was Lilith Stokes.

And she was a vicar’s daughter.

A very married vicar’s daughter.