On a Long Ago Night (29 page)

was he making much effort now. How odd, as ministers of his

lowly rank were usually quite skilled at being obsequious. She

might have been pleased with his attitude, as she had little patience

with sycophants, but there was something very disturbing about

this man.

She wanted to tell him to go away. Responsibility required

her to ask, "What is it you seek?"

A glint came into his eyes that was more than a little

disturbing. Where had she seen a look like that before? On

someone older, yes, but…

"It is a delicate matter, concerning the reputation of a lady."

He looked at her secretary, at Huseby, who sat working on a piece

of sewing near the fire, at the footman by the door. "We must speak

alone, my lady." The minister's expression turned earnest, his voice

genuinely pleading. "Please."

"That would be most improper," Honoria reminded him.

"I am a man of the cloth," he reminded in turn. He was

surprisingly persuasive as he continued, "Your spotless reputation

is in no danger from a minister of the Lord, now is it, my child?"

It was late. She wanted desperately to get her duties over with

so she could concentrate on solving her personal problems. Or,

even better, to hide in her room and forget her personal problems.

She'd listened to other peoples' troubles all day and did her best to

be of some help, but now she was tired. "I have very little time,"

she told the Reverend Menzies.

"I will not take up much of it," he promised her. "But we

must speak in private. For the lady's sake," he leaned forward and

whispered.

Honoria still did not like the look in his eyes, but she sighed,

and nodded. Both her secretary and Huseby looked unhappy when

she gestured for them to leave, but they didn't comment. The

footman glared suspiciously at the minister, but slipped out the

door to wait in the hallway in case Honoria should call.

Once they were alone, Honoria stood and moved to one of

the chairs by the fireplace. It seemed to her that if they were going

to discuss some poor young woman's fate, a more intimate setting

might be more conducive to discussing delicate matters. Menzies

did not hesitate to follow close behind her.

In fact, he was quite uncomfortably close when she turned to

say, "I was given to believe you came seeking funding for a home

for young women." She gestured to the chair Huseby had vacated.

"Please be seated."

"No," he said, somehow managing to put a hiss into the

sound. "I think not."

His attitude almost frightened her, and it occurred to her that

perhaps being alone with him was a very bad idea. She reacted to

her uncertainty with a show of arrogance. She turned an imperially

cold look on the Reverend Menzies. "What did you say to me?"

He reached a hand toward her. She backed up a step, her

instinct to slap his hand away, but the door flew open behind him

before she could move. Menzies wheeled around, and she took a

quick step toward the door and the large man who filled the

doorway.

Relief flooded her when James Marbury came striding

briskly into the room. A dark coat highlighted the impressive width

of his shoulders. Buff trousers outlined the long, powerful muscles

of his thighs. He looked strong, competent, and utterly male. He

was carrying an armful of roses. She almost ran to him and threw

herself into his arm as if he was rescuing her from some dire,

wicked fate. But James Marbury
was
the wicked fate.

The roses were white and yellow, her favorites, which

pleased her immensely. She had never much liked red roses, and

pink was not only insipid, but clashed terribly with her hair and

complexion. Fragrance filled the room, much the way James

Marbury's presence did. The library was not a small room, but

James was a large man. Not just in size, but in personality, in

exuberance and charm, and most particularly in spirit.

Honoria shook off the warm feelings with a stern warning to

herself. She was just being fanciful, to think anything but the worst

about the former corsair who so bedeviled her, wasn't she? But then

he smiled at her, and she practically basked in it. She was

unaccountably happy to see him, whether he'd come to her rescue

or not.

Which was why she crossed her arms and said waspishly,

"What the devil are you doing here?"

"Change your dress, Honoria," he replied, ignoring her

tartness. "We're getting married. Do you own anything white?"

"No."

"That's all right. I liked what you wore at the ball. The green-

blue one. You probably never wear the same dress twice, duchess

mine, but if you have a gown like that one, it will do nicely." He

held out the roses. "I even brought your bouquet."

Honoria was frozen in place. "No." After she spoke, she

forgot to breathe.

James hadn't expected her to take it well, even after

yesterday, and she wasn't disappointing him. He knew there was no

use in trying to court her properly. The best thing for them both

was to simply go through with it, before either of them could back

out. Looking at her, pale and perturbed but so very strong, he knew

he didn't want to back out. He just wasn't sure what to do once the

deed was accomplished. He had never thought farther than finding

Honoria Pyne and making her his wife.

He'd think of something, he supposed. Right now, the object

was simply to get them both through the wedding part of the great

scheme to redeem himself in his own, his father's, and God's eyes.

He was going to do the right thing by this woman whether she

wanted him to or not! This time she wasn't getting away. And that

meant moving fast, before she could find some way to worm out of

it. Or before "dear Derrick" could show up to attempt to stake his

own claim.

Jealousy ground into James as he came toward Honoria. She

was still as a statue and pale as marble. It was not until he stood in

front of her that he noticed the man dressed in somber black

standing at her side. It wasn't as if the other man was small and

unobtrusive, or trying to hide. James had simply been far too

focused on Honoria to notice if there was an army in the room. He

only vaguely remembered the footman who had tried to stop his

entrance. Now he glanced at the thin man with the disturbing face,

and grinned as he took in the significance of the man's long

threadbare black coat and stiff white collar.

He clapped a hand on the man's shoulder, and thrust the roses

at Honoria. "A priest," he announced. "Perfect!"

"I'm not a priest," the man announced. He stiffened beneath

James's touch. "Get your hands off me, sir. Have you no respect for

a man of the cloth?"

"Infinite respect," James replied. There was something

familiar about the minister, but James couldn't place where he'd

seen him before. It didn't matter right now, anyway. "And I have a

need for a man of your profession."

"I'm sure you do," the vicar responded dryly, eyeing him with

deep distaste.

"Begone, sir," he said.

"Can't you see that you have disturbed a private meeting?"

"I had to," James replied, tilting his head to one side. "There

was no other choice. The guests are assembled, but the bride was

missing."

"Bride?" the minister asked. He glanced at Honoria, then

back to James. "You are quite mad, aren't you? Or is this some sort

of joke?"

"No joke. I have a ring, too. And her father's permission. And

a special license. All I lacked was a priest. The Bishop of Bath and

Wells was supposed to be here by now, but he sent word he'd be

delayed. That's all right." James clapped the minister on the

shoulder again and the man winced at the force of it. "You'll do,"

James told him. "It's a lucky thing you were here."

The vicar looked stunned. "Lucky…"

James turned to Honoria, whose bright blue eyes were round

behind the lenses of her glasses. She did not look well. "Honoria?"

She turned her head toward him at the sound of his voice, but

he did not think she saw him. She was holding the roses, her face

lovely and pale above the soft white and yellow blossoms. No, not

pale, he realized of a sudden. She was turning blue. She began to

sway and fall forward, roses scattering on the floor all around her.

He had to move swiftly to catch his intended bride in his arms

before she fell unconscious onto the floor.

If it were not for the scent of roses and the feel of wool, linen, and

hard muscle beneath her cheek, Honoria would have thought the

whole incident a particularly detailed farcical nightmare when she

awoke. But she could smell the roses, and she could feel him

breathing, and knew that she was in his arms and that he was—

"James."

"Yes, my love?"

She listened for mockery, but his voice sounded particularly

kind and solicitous. He was in the process of carrying her

somewhere, but she couldn't find the will to open her eyes to find

out where. "Put me down," she ordered, without lifting her head

from where her cheek rested over the strong rhythm of his heart.

"Or you'll do yourself an injury."

"You are a tall girl," he answered easily, "but light as a

feather."

He sounded like he believed it. Well, he was a big man. She

never felt large and awkward standing next to him. Or lying down

beside him, either, come to think of it. This wanton thought finally

caused Honoria to open her eyes and look up at her nemesis.

"We cannot do this," she told him flatly. "I cannot."

He set her down before her bedroom door. She wondered if

anyone along the route had noticed that James Marbury was

familiar with the way to her suite.

He reached past her to open the door, smiled, and kissed her

cheek before stepping back. The chaste brush of his lips sent her

senses reeling in a way no passionate kiss could have managed at

the moment.

Huseby stood just within the sitting room doorway. She

reached out and tugged the flushing and flummoxed Honoria inside

and firmly closed the door in James Marbury's face.

"He kissed me," Honoria announced in the stunned tone of a

woman who had never been kissed before. Part of her knew how

ridiculous this reaction was. Part of her recalled that in his time,

Diego Moresco had certainly done far more than kiss her. But

somehow, this time…

Huseby shook her. "What is the matter with you, Honoria?"

Honoria firmly fought off the pleasant, perplexed numbness.

"It seems Mr. Marbury intends to marry me." She was outraged,

she truly was, but something prevented her from working up the

energy to express it. She suspected it had something to do with the

way he'd held her. The kiss. The roses. She made a frustrated

gesture. Oh, bother! Sometimes she suspected she was no better

than any other soft, squishily sentimental, romantic female. She had

not been sentimental even at eighteen. And especially not over
him
.

"It's worse than that," Huseby told her. "Your father

commands you to marry this very afternoon." She hustled the non-

resisting Honoria across the sitting room. "I've got orders to get you

dressed and down to the music room as quickly as possible. I'm

afraid there's no escape this time, Honoria."

She was naked under the stars. She had never known such freedom

and abandon. The night was beautiful, alive. The tinkling of the

small fountain was the richest music in the world; the scent of

flowers and rich earth were enrapturing. The evening breeze on

her bare skin left a sparkling tang of sensation as it cooled the

sweat of passion. And Diego's tongue was circling the hard tip of

her breast as she leaned over him. They'd taken turns straddling

each other, rolling over and over, laughing and panting as first one

and then the other was on top, joined together, him inside her. She

knelt over him now, her hips rising and falling, taking him with the

slowest, longest thrusts of her hips that she could manage. Her

inner muscles rippled and closed around the solid, hot length of

him. They fit together so well, like a sword into a sheath. No, like a

man and woman who were made for each other! She threw back