Surrender Becomes Her Page 13

  “Who are we waiting for?” she asked, curiosity evident.

  “My cousin Jack.”

  She studied his big form barely visible in the darkness. It was devastating enough that Marcus had found her in Whitley’s bedroom; the thought of someone else, a stranger, learning of it filled her with dismay. “Er, are you sure that’s wise?” she mumbled. “I don’t want anyone else to know about tonight, not even your cousin.”

  “No, it’s probably not wise,” he snapped, “but I don’t have much choice. And I’m no more happy with having you meet Jack this way than you are.” Thinking of all the complications before him, a strong sense of injustice overtook him. Finding Isabel hiding beneath Whitley’s bed had been a direct hit between the eyes. Why had she been there? Why garbed as a boy? Was it because of some kind of perversion practiced by Whitley? His stomach lurched at the thought and bile rose in his throat. He took a deep breath, willing himself to think calmly. The hiding he could understand; if he’d been there and had heard someone else climb in through the window, he’d have hidden beneath the bed himself. There might be a reasonable explanation for all of it—none of which, he was convinced, he would like—but try as he might, he could only think of one reason that Isabel had been hiding in Whitley’s room. Jealous rage clawed at his guts and he slewed around in his saddle and glared at her. “Are you and Whitley lovers?” he demanded.

  Isabel stiffened. “How dare you!” she exclaimed, furious that he would even think such a thing. Her chin at a pugnacious angle, she added hotly, “You are insulting and presumptuous.”

  “You’re my fiancée and I have just found you in another man’s bedroom,” Marcus said acidly. “I think I’m owed an explanation.”

  “What do you think I was doing there?” she taunted, too angry to watch her words. “Suppose I was there to meet Whitley? Suppose we are lovers? What are you going to do about it?” Hating herself for acting this way, she forced a nasty smile on her lips and murmured, “You realize, of course, that if you don’t like the situation, you can call off the engagement.”

  “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Indeed! I never wanted to marry you in the first place.”

  Riled beyond patience, he astonished both of them by grabbing Isabel and jerking her off her horse and onto his. Breathing heavily, holding her squirming body prisoner across the saddle in front of him, he snarled, “You listen to me, woman: you’re mine! I’ll not share you and, by God, we shall be married!” His mouth came down hard on hers and his lips crushed hers as he stamped his possession on her startled mouth.

  This was no sweet kiss between gentle lovers; it was angry and desperate and full of a dark passion that overrode all thought. Marcus kissed her as he had never kissed another woman in his life, demanding that she respond, that she feel the same primitive emotions that lacerated his very being. And she did. After that first stunned second, Isabel no longer sought to escape; she strained against him, her lips as hungry and insistent as his, her hands clutching his shoulders as if she would never let him go. She wanted this. She wanted him.

  Blind with need, Marcus lost himself in the wine-sweet intoxication of her mouth, kissing her again and again, heedless of anything but the woman in his arms and her wild response to him. His hand slipped to her breast and he cupped that small weight, urgent desire flaring through him at Isabel’s soft moan of pleasure.

  The snort and sudden upraised head of his horse ended the moment as if it had never been. Recalled to his senses, Marcus dragged his mouth from Isabel’s and peered through the darkness. Someone was coming.

  Cursing himself, wondering where his wits had gone, he swung Isabel back onto her horse. In the broken light of the moon through the trees, one swift glance revealed that her boy’s hat was wildly askew, strands of her hair tumbling from beneath it to frame her features. She was as aroused as he, her eyes full of sultry promise and her mouth half parted as if waiting for his kiss. Breathing hard they stared at each other, desire swirling thick in the air between them, and it gave Marcus some comfort to know that it was not all on his part.

  The recognizable clink of a bridle nearby jerked his attention away from Isabel and he looked in the direction of the sound, trying to focus his thoughts. A soft whistle carried on the night air and he recognized it as the one he and Jack had agreed upon before they had parted. The person slowly riding toward him through the trees was Jack. How in the devil, he wondered, was he going to explain Isabel to Jack? He smiled grimly. Devil take it! If Jack looked askance at Isabel or breathed a word of tonight, he’d probably just have to shoot him—and he’d really hate to do that.

  Aware that Marcus’s attention was elsewhere, Isabel glanced around, desperately hoping that a way out of this dilemma would present itself. She gasped when she spied the dangling reins of her horse. During their violent embrace the reins had fallen unheeded to the ground and, recovering her senses, her heart banging in her chest, she leaned forward and recaptured them. Her thoughts raced as she considered her next move. She wasn’t a coward and generally didn’t care about the finer nuances of the dictates of the ton, but even she saw no good coming from meeting Marcus’s cousin while she was dressed as a boy and apparently out larking through the countryside alone after dark. There were too many questions that needed answering, questions she couldn’t answer. Gathering her courage, gulping in a deep breath, she kicked her mount into motion. The animal gave a startled leap and, with Isabel’s heels digging into its sides, the horse plunged through the trees. Breaking free of the woods, Isabel pushed her horse into a blazing pace and, by the time the road was reached, the animal was in a full gallop, mane and tail streaming in the air. In moments, the stables, the inn, and Marcus were left behind, and the only sounds she heard were the thudding of her horse’s hooves on the road and the frantic beating of her heart.

  Swearing under his breath, Marcus gave chase and his horse lunged forward, but almost immediately he realized that catching Isabel was only going to create more problems and, though it went badly against the grain, he jerked his horse and let her escape. Blast her! She’d won this time, he thought angrily, but by heaven the next round would be his.

  Jack appeared out of the darkness. He hadn’t missed the noise of the departing horse and, cautiously approaching Marcus, he glanced in the direction of the fading sound and murmured, “Trouble?”

  Marcus’s jaw clenched. “Nothing I can’t handle,” he muttered.

  Jack’s brow rose, but he said nothing as he brought his horse alongside. Together they guided their mounts to the road and Jack asked, “You find anything interesting?”

  Marcus shook his head, disappointment leaking into his voice. “Not a damn thing. And before you ask, yes, I looked at his boot heels and for a false bottom in his valise, but I found nothing.” Grimacing, he added, “The man owns a remarkable amount of jewelry; he has enough fobs and seals and quizzing glasses to open a shop on Bond Street. Sees himself as a bit of a dandy, but beyond that, there was nothing in his room that you wouldn’t expect to find.” Remembering that astounding moment when he’d discovered Isabel beneath the bed, he muttered, “And I looked everywhere—even under the bed—and believe me, I found nothing I was looking for!”

  Jack stared between the ears of his horse, disheartened that Marcus hadn’t found the memorandum or at least a clue of some sort. He’d known that his task wouldn’t be easy and the odds were against them finding the memorandum so easily. But where, he wondered, had Whitley hidden it? His lips quirked. Assuming that Whitley had the dashed thing. It worried him that this might be a sleeveless errand and that Whitley was guilty of nothing more than being an unsavory society hanger-on.

  “I assume that you found Whitley?” Marcus asked, interrupting Jack’s ruminations.

  Jack nodded. “Had a bit of scare, though; he wasn’t present when I first arrived, and I was on the point of bolting to find you when he walked inside.” Jack looked thoughtful. “Our friend the major was in a decided
ly foul mood when he arrived. I gather he’d been gone to an assignation that did not go well. He made some ugly comments about the perfidy of women in general and especially the prime article that failed to keep the, er, appointment. I pity the absent ladylove when he eventually catches up with her—as he no doubt will.”

  Marcus had a very good idea of the lady’s identity and, wishing to change the topic, he asked, “I take it, then, that you had no trouble making yourself agreeable to Whitley?”

  Jack laughed. “Whitley wasn’t quiet about his dashed hopes for the evening and I didn’t have any difficulties in helping him drown his sorrows in several mugs of ale.” Jack frowned. “Thing is, I don’t think that Whitley’s meeting tonight had anything to do with matters of the heart. He didn’t give the impression of a man in the throes of thwarted passion. I could be wrong, but there was a note in his voice ...” He shrugged. “Probably my imagination. At any rate, learning that I was your cousin, the major seemed quite interested in you, I might add.”

  Marcus growled, “Impudent busybody.”

  “He is that,” Jack agreed. “Whether he stole the memorandum or not, I discovered that I don’t care overmuch for Major Whitley. He is a blustering bully and a braggart, as well as an impudent busybody.” He shot Marcus a look. “I’d take damn care to keep Mrs. Manning well away from him; old friendship or not, he’s not a fellow I’d want any wife of mine to know.” His lips thinned. “Any woman for that matter. Fellow’s a damned libertine, the kind that seduces housemaids and boasts of his conquests. Don’t like him.”

  Marcus frowned. “You and I share the same opinion of him, and I wonder what Hugh was at, allowing a bounder like Whitley to run tame through his house—which, from what Isabel had indicated, is precisely what happened.”

  “Your betrothed seems to be surrounded by unsavory characters,” Jack observed idly.

  Marcus sent him a narrow look. “And what precisely do you mean by that?”

  “The major,” Jack said, “wasn’t the only new friend I made tonight. Whitley and I were drinking at a table by ourselves when another gentleman came up and joined us. Just returned from London this afternoon. Fellow’s name is Garrett Manning, lives at a place called Holcombe Manor, claims it is not far from Manning Court. Says he’s Lord Manning’s nephew. That true?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” Marcus sighed. “Garrett is not a bad man but he is a profligate womanizer and a reckless gambler—and believe me, Lord Manning gives thanks daily that it is his own grandson who will inherit the title and not his rakehell nephew.” Marcus half smiled. “Nearly everyone is of the opinion that, should Garrett inherit the estate and title, he would immediately turn Manning Court into a gaming den and brothel.” Marcus’s brow furrowed. “I am surprised that he left London at the height of the Season, though. I wonder why?”

  “Your engagement,” Jack said, “is apparently the reason for his return. I couldn’t decide whether the engagement was agreeable to Manning or not, but the news certainly brought him hotfoot home from the city.” He glanced at Marcus. “I wonder why your engagement to Mrs. Manning interests him so much? It should make no difference to him.”

  Marcus stared ahead into the darkness. “Hugh did well during his years in India, amassing a respectable fortune, and Isabel is an heiress in her own right—not counting the fact that her father-in-law dotes on her and would do anything for her. It is possible that Garrett had his eye on Isabel’s fortune and planned one day, when it suited him, to court her. Since she rarely goes to London and is considered on the shelf, he probably assumed that she was his for the taking—when he got around to it.”

  Jack sent him a look. “He didn’t, uh, consider you competition?”

  Marcus grinned. “No, I’m sure he didn’t. My fiancée and I have a rather tempestuous history and I am the last man Garrett would expect Isabel to marry.”

  Jack looked as if he’d like to ask more questions, but the subject was dropped and the two men turned to a discussion of tonight’s activities. Arriving at Sherbrook Hall, they left their horses at the stables and walked to the house. Inside, they made their way to Marcus’s office.

  After poking the dying fire into life, Marcus threw on more wood and poured them each a brandy. They settled themselves before the fireplace, both contemplating the orange and scarlet flames in silence for several seconds.

  “Perhaps Whitley does not have the memorandum,” Marcus said eventually.

  Jack shrugged. “That has already occurred to me, but it is telling that he departed London the very next day after his visit to the Horse Guards for a part of England where smugglers are known to be quite active.”

  Marcus snorted. “Which, I would remind you, includes nearly half the coast of England. But you are correct: we do have our share of smugglers, although I would have thought that Kent or Sussex would have been better for his purposes.”

  “I agree, but if he is trying to throw us off the scent, Devonshire, while known to be a smuggler haunt, isn’t quite as obvious a location.”

  Marcus nodded. “And his professed longtime friendship with Mrs. Manning would make the destination seem logical.” Silence fell for a few minutes before Marcus asked, “So what is our next step?”

  Jack looked disgusted. “I don’t know, but if he has the memorandum, he has to have it stashed away somewhere nearby. If he is planning on making a run for French-held territory, he’d want it close at hand. I can’t imagine that he’d have left it in London.” He cast a considering glance to Marcus. “Are you positive you searched everywhere in his room tonight?”

  “Yes, I’m positive,” Marcus said dryly. He’d heard the note of doubt in Jack’s voice and didn’t blame him; if their positions were reversed, he’d be doubtful, too. And would want to inspect Whitley’s room himself. Marcus studied Jack and could almost see his brain turning over ways to get inside Whitley’s room to make his own search. Wryly, he asked, “You’re going to take a look yourself, aren’t you?”

  Jack had the grace to look guilty. “It isn’t that I doubt you... .”

  “You won’t find anything,” Marcus said. “And, in the interest of fair play, this time I’ll run interference for you with Whitley and keep him at bay while you’re busy in his room.”

  “Thank you,” Jack said, grateful that Marcus hadn’t cut up rough at having his thoroughness questioned or of having a second search done. Having Marcus keep Whitley distracted while he went through Whitley’s things was another boon, but then he recalled the reason Marcus had been the one to search Whitley’s room in the first place. “Won’t he be suspicious of friendliness from you?” he asked. “You said your only meeting with him was not friendly.”

  “I said I would run interference,” Marcus remarked dryly. “I didn’t say I would be friendly.”

  Aware of Isabel’s habits, Marcus was waiting for her just after seven o’clock the next morning on the narrow bridle path that ran between the two properties. As he waited for her, he realized that he knew far too much about her life and habits than the disinterested party he had believed himself to be should have known. It was, he admitted uneasily, as if a part of him, a part buried deep inside and unacknowledged until now, had always been keenly focused on her, always aware of her even as he kept his distance.

  Riding a fractious black colt, Isabel came into sight and, thrusting his uncomfortable ruminations away, he urged his horse forward.

  Isabel was so busy convincing the young horse she was riding that it would be impolite to unseat her that she wasn’t aware of Marcus’s approach until the colt stopped and half reared at the sight of another horse. She fought to bring the black under control and, once that was accomplished and the colt was content merely to dance and snort, she sent Marcus a wary glance.

  “I’m surprised to see you out and about so early this morning,” she said politely, ignoring the jolt of half pleasure, half panic his presence caused.

  “You shouldn’t be surprised,” he said levelly. “I believe we
have something to discuss.”

  She’d lain awake half the night trying to come up with a logical reason for being in Whitley’s room but absolutely nothing occurred to her. Dreading the next meeting with Marcus, she had hoped to postpone the confrontation with him for as long as she could and intended to keep well away from him. He had, she thought miserably, just put paid to that frail plan.

  She tried to rouse a healthy anger, tried to tell herself that it was none of his business and she didn’t have to tell him anything at all, but even anger failed her this morning. The strain of dealing with the threat Whitley represented, the amount of dogged courage it had taken for her to climb into his room, and the terror she experienced when Marcus had found her had all taken their toll. Exhausted from a restless night, frightened of Whitley and what he might do, she felt as helpless as she ever had in her life. Not even in the horrible days after Hugh’s death, alone in a foreign country with her very young son dependent upon her to bring them safely home, had she felt so alone and vulnerable. She was, she admitted, at her lowest ebb. And like an avenging god, Marcus was waiting for answers she could not give ... dared not give.

  She cast him a quick glance from beneath her lashes, her heart quaking just a little at the sight of those cool gray eyes and taut mouth. She knew that expression of old and she knew that he would not be dissuaded from his chosen path. Her spirits sagged. Until she told him why he had found her in Whitley’s rooms he would be relentless in his demand for an explanation. And he deserves an explanation, she admitted fairly ... but I have none to give him.

  Unaware that Isabel’s expression reflected her inner turmoil, Marcus fought against the insidious urge to comfort her, to let matters rest. He knew in his very bones that, whatever her reasons for being in Whitley’s room, they were of monumental importance to her and it had only been jealous rage that had prompted his accusation last night. His knowledge of her and some quiet reflection dictated that Isabel and Whitley were not lovers, but she was clearly, desperately unhappy ... and frightened. The fright more than anything disturbed him. Isabel could be stubborn, infuriating, and utterly maddening, but she was no coward. He never questioned that unarmed and alone she’d face a pack of ravenous wolves defiant and unafraid, ready to fight to the death. Yet she was frightened now; something, someone had frightened her. Though he tried to hold on to it, the last remnants of his temper faded and a fierce desire to destroy whoever had caused that look in her eyes overrode every other emotion. Except that of comfort, he thought ruefully. At the moment his arms ached to hold her and he wanted to let her know that whatever lay in front of her, she was not alone.