So Worthy My Love (21 page)

She waited and listened, but no sound emitted from the lofty rooms, and with careful step she began her ascent. Her heartbeat was far from steady as she left the stairs and tiptoed to the doorway of the master's chamber. Hardly daring to breathe, she peered past the broken planks into the room where shafts of pale wintry light filtered in through the windows and down through the opening in the roof. Beneath the hole a wooden tub had been placed to catch what it could of the snow that drifted in.

A tent of sorts had been hung over the wooden canopy of the bed as protection against the drafts. Apparently it afforded some comfort, for within the huge, ornately carved structure lay her adversary sound asleep and completely at her disposal. His handsome face was turned toward her with darkly lashed eyelids closed in slumber. A fur robe covered him to the waist, leaving his upper torso bare, and even in rest, his strength was evident, for the muscles in his shoulders and arms flowed in lithely bulging lines. Thickly curling wisps of a light brown hair covered his upper chest and narrowed to a thin line that trailed beneath the fur pelt. Several old scars marked his chest and shoulders and gave clear evidence that this was a man who had frequently faced the challenge of his enemies and had lived to speak of it.

For the sake of caution, Elise made sure the path to the doorway was clear, knowing it would be necessary for her to flee unhindered and with all possible haste once she emptied the bucket on him. The pace of her heart began to quicken as the moment approached, and her nerves wavered unsteadily.
Fitch and Spence had shown their dread of the man; was she a fool to rouse his ire?

Stubbornly she resisted the doubts. It was what the rogue deserved—every feeble bit of her revenge. The bed was near and so was the opportunity. She did not waste it. Taking a shaking lip between her teeth and raising the bucket, she let fly the contents.

The icy water came out of the pail in a solid stream to snatch the unsuspecting man brutally awake. Maxim caught the liquid torrent full across his face and shoulders and, with a hoarse gasp, sat bolt upright. An enraged snarl emitted from his lips and increased in volume as he swung his head once to clear his vision and fixed her with those piercing green eyes.

Elise had paused perhaps one second to savor his reaction, but her delay made her question her own wisdom in doing so. She stumbled back as he flung aside the pelts that covered him. The shock of seeing that totally naked and purely masculine form nearly paralyzed her. It was not a sight she had planned on viewing. Indeed, the possibility of glimpsing such manly nudity had never even entered her mind . . . but the vision of a golden Apollo leaping from his bed was instantly and forever forged upon her memory. However, this was no god made of marble; this was a flesh and blood man, living and real, bold and masculine, and he was
enraged
.

Elise whirled in fear of her life and barely heard his feet hit the floor over the loud drumming of her heart. If she did not manage to reach the safety of
her chambers before he seized her, she had grave doubts as to her continued existence. In a desperate attempt to delay him she swung the empty pail behind her, letting go the rope handle. She knew her aim hit true, for the evidence was provided by a pained grunt and an awkward stumbling which ended in an ominous thud and a loudly muttered curse. Elise did not dare glance around to see what damage she had caused, but concentrated every measure of her strength on gaining desperately needed ground in her quest to escape.

Her feet flew as she ran into the hall and, swinging around the balustrade, half-stumbled, half-slid down the stairs. Her heart kept pace, and when the Marquess picked up the chase once again it raced faster still. She could hear him behind her, closing the distance with each running stride he took, and with an anxious gasp she bolted through the door of her bedchamber and whirled, slamming it closed behind her and dropping the bolt into place. Panting for breath, she leaned against the portal, shaking in relief. She was safe! But just barely. With a surprised start she stumbled away as the flat of his hand slapped hard against the planks of her door, and she heard his softly growled threat.

“I'll tear this door from its hinges, wench, if you ever do that again!”

Though grateful to have the barrier between them, Elise did not put much faith in its strength and refrained from giving a retort. It seemed foolish to challenge an irate man when it was highly probable he could accomplish whatever he threatened to do. It was wiser by far to let his temper cool and prick
him again when the element of surprise was in her favor. Whatever transpired, she would be more wary of the man in the future. This one was neither slow of wit nor a stumbling laggard, and she neither enjoyed feeling his breath upon her nape when she had to escape, nor being frightened out of her wits.

It was past the noon hour before Elise finally found enough courage to leave her chambers. She was hoping the Marquess had taken leave of the place and was halfway down the last flight of stairs before she realized he was sitting at the end of the trestle table. A half-filled trencher sat before him, giving evidence that he had been taking his meal before the warmth of the hearth, but when she halted on a step and stealthily began to retreat, his deep voice broke the silence of the hall.

“Come join me, Mistress Radborne,” he bade coldly and held up a hand to indicate the place at the opposite end of the table. “I have a need to see you before me rather than to feel you at my back.”

Reluctantly Elise continued her descent, sure that she could hear the knelling of her approaching doom. His stoic gaze came upon her as she left the stairs, but she refused to betray her trepidation. Regally she went to the table and, receiving no offer of assistance from him, slid stiltedly into the massive armchair that awaited her at the far end. His staid manner attested to his displeasure, and he studied her at great length as the silence filled the hall.

“I understand, Mistress Radborne, that you may be a little vexed with me . . .” he finally stated, but his tone was dark and foreboding, like that of a judge pronouncing sentence upon a felon.

As was her wont, Elise rose to the challenge and laughed scoffingly. “A little? Pray tell me, my lord, what is your understanding of the word? By little, do you actually mean a flood when you say a little water passed through the town? Or perhaps a great calamity when you mention a little problem?”

“I shall correct myself.” Maxim gave her a crisp nod and obliged her by becoming more precise. “I understand you are greatly vexed with me.”

“Even that would be a gross understatement of the facts,” Elise rejoined flippantly. The warming fire seemed to give her courage, and she returned his unwavering stare unflinchingly.

Maxim acknowledged her reply with a bland smile. “I believe I can safely assume that you think I'm a loathsome, despicable beast for having put you in this predicament.”

Her eyelids dipped briefly to convey her partial acceptance of his statement. “Until I can find a more appropriate description of my opinion of you, your statement will have to suffice.”

Again Maxim gave a nod of acquiescence. “ ‘Tis evident that neither of us have any great love for the other, but I fear we are both caught in a trap which cannot be easily resolved. I cannot send you back for obvious reasons, and you are not content to stay. Therefore I would suggest we make the best of this foul predicament and come to terms.”

“The only way I will make a pact with you, my lord, is when you agree to send me back on the next available ship. Otherwise, I shall make no parole.”

Maxim met her gaze squarely. “Nevertheless, I desire to live at peace within the walls of my own house . . .”

“Then let me go!”

“I do not relish the idea of a war raging between us and battles being constantly waged . . .”

“You need not hold me prisoner here!”

“I consider myself a gentleman . . .”

“An opinion held entirely by you, sir, let me assure you.”

“. . . Having regard to the welfare of gentle-born ladies.”

“As you have so appropriately displayed by having me abducted from my home?”

“A mislaid attempt to halt a gentlewoman's marriage to a titled ruffian . . .”

“Tell me, my lord, are you kin to Reland? You bear a strong resemblance to him in both manners and character.”

“And you, Mistress Radborne, bear a strong resemblance to a vexatious twit!” Maxim blurted, then paused in some irritation, angry with himself for allowing her to effectively needle him.

Elise calmly murmured, “You can always let me go.”

“I cannot!” He slapped his hand down upon the table. Why was she so stubborn?

Elise's smile displayed no hint of warmth. “Then we are at war, my lord.”

“Elise . . .” Maxim softened his voice, seeking a different approach through the thick mire of their disagreement. The use of her name made his opponent raise her brows in silent question, but he
pressed on, ignoring the challenge in her stare. “The Elbe is already icing up, and the North Sea is treacherous with the advent of winter. Have a mind for your own safety when you consider leaving here now. Even the best of seamen bide their time until the weather begins to warm.”

“Is not a journey by land to Calais possible? From there I could take passage aboard a ship bound for England.”

“A long and dangerous trek across land this time of year. I can neither take you nor allow you to be taken.”

“So kind of you, Taylor.” She stressed the name to ridicule him for his earlier use of it. To come into her uncle's house in the guise of a servant with the intent of stealing away the squire's daughter was a contemptible act for any man to commit, whether he be rogue or nobleman. She would not let him forget it.

“Maxim, if you please,” he corrected tautly.

A falling log on the fire sent a shower of sparks flying outward onto the stone hearth and gave relief to the tense moment. Maxim rose and went to lay several more pieces of wood on the blazing heap, then turned to her, dusting his hands. Elise avoided meeting his gaze, having taken in the full measure of his appearance as he fed the fire. Though not flamboyantly garbed, he was most attractively groomed in clothes that seemed to accentuate his manliness. The sleeves of his dark green velvet doublet and the puffed trunk hose were adorned with lined slashes, the edges of which were finished with silk cordings. The crisp white ruff of his shirt was
worn close and high about his neck. Similar touches of stiffly starched white showed beneath the silk-corded cuffs of the well-fitting doublet. That garment displayed the width of his shoulders and narrowed along his ribs to fit his trim waist. Though he wore thigh-high boots over dark stockings, she had briefly glimpsed the muscular strength of those long begs and had
found no flaw there.

Elise squirmed in sudden discomfiture. His handsome appearance made her feel very much like a small, dowdy mouse perched on the edge of a huge chair. The frayed woolen garments she wore presented her at a disadvantage, and her resentment overflowed the rim of her pride as his gaze casually perused her. She could well imagine her drab appearance in the cast-off gown, and she came out of her chair in an angry huff.

“I'm sure your apologies would have extended to the ridiculous if Arabella had been here in my stead, though I truly doubt such a faint spirit would have survived the ordeal, and surely if she had she would have hated you forever. Indeed, my lord, your crimes against her might have been far greater had you succeeded in netting the right hare. As ‘tis, you and I have been tied together like a pair of spitting cats and, at present, are unable to get loose one from the other. You stand there like a grand lord of this woeful place, while I must wear this miserable garb”—she flicked a sleeve in repugnance—“and hear you prate about your inability to send me home. I tell you in truth, sir, that you have no more regard for a lady and her feelings than the wood you just tossed into the fire.”

“Surely you must know there's a hue and cry for me in England,” Maxim rejoined. “Should I return now, I would be led straight to the block”

Folding her arms across her breasts, Elise turned her profile to him with her nose lifted in the air while her toe tapped a self-satisfied tattoo on the stone floor. “As you should be,” she chided. Of a sudden she broke the pert stance and, spinning on a heel, continued around with a wide-flung slashing gesture of her hand. As she faced him, a steady flow of subdued frustration and anger showed in her flashing blue eyes and tightlipped snarl. “ ‘Twould be expected of a rudely masked highwayman or a crude barbarian from the north, but here we have”—she measured the length of him with an upflung hand—“a
lord
of the realm, a mannered
gentleman
, no less, and a rightly branded murderer and a traitor to his queen!”

Maxim glowered blackly at his tormentor. He had never known a woman who could so effortlessly set him on edge.

“You would have had your vengeance through the souring of a poor bride's happiest night,” Elise accused, “and through the snatching of that damsel, thus and the same, shaming her rightful groom. Yea, I praise the virtue of justice! Your villainous plans were set awry. Your hired henchmen blundered heavily in the performance of their duties, and thus, ‘tis I who must suffer the stones and arrows of this most outrageous farce.

“Do I humble you overmuch, m'lord?” Elise simpered mockingly as she took note of his darkening scowl. “When I beg for my return to England, do you set my request beyond the range of your perverted
plans? Or will you suffer me to stay forever in this cold and drafty prison?”

Maxim growled beneath his breath, swallowing a most unlordly chain of curses that he was tempted to shower upon this upright and outright example of womanhood and the whole tribe of her sisters. It was bold in his mind that a monk sworn to chastity would never be forced to suffer the bitter sting of this feminine venom. Arabella, on her worst day, seemed only a churlish girl by comparison. Indeed, her fragile beauty was far more favorable in his memory than the bolder hues of this viciously spitting vixen.