Surrender Becomes Her (23 page)

“Because,” Marcus said slowly, “he’s waiting to hear from the French.” At the skeptical looks of the other two men, he added impatiently, “He has something very valuable and he’s not a stupid man. He might have previously met the person he’s dealing with in France and trusts him. It’s even possible
that he has already made arrangements for the transference of the memorandum in exchange for gold, but I doubt it. If he stole the memorandum, it was probably a spur-of-the-moment act. From everything we know, his visit to the Horse Guards that day had nothing sinister about it; he was merely going to visit old acquaintances and listen to gossip. Spying the memorandum on Smithfield’s desk and having the opportunity to whisk it out from under his very nose must have seemed like divine intervention.” He smiled grimly at the other men. “But having the memorandum and making it profitable is another thing. I don’t know about you but, if I were in his position, I wouldn’t just hop on the first smuggler’s ship to France and go traipsing into Paris waving the memorandum under the noses of Napoleon’s generals. I’d want to make certain that, number one, I could get back to England with my head still attached to my neck and, number two, that I was well paid for the memorandum and not cheated.”

“Of course!” Jack exclaimed, his deep blue eyes glittering with excitement. “He has no guarantee that whomever he meets to give the memorandum to won’t just steal it from him and possibly kill him. They have nothing to lose.”

“Don’t forget: having gotten his price, and presumably in gold, he has to get it back to England,” Marcus reminded him.

“So it’s most likely that he’s using Collard as a go-between to work out the exchange and to transport the money back to England,” Garrett muttered. “Which, knowing Collard, would be damn risky. I wouldn’t put it past Collard to murder him and keep the gold.” Glancing at Marcus, he asked, “I wonder if Collard knows what Whitley is up to?”

Marcus shrugged. “Who knows? But while Collard is a smuggler, known to be dangerous and ruthless, and though he might thumb his nose at our Revenuers and trade with the French, in his own fashion, I’d like to think that he’s a loyal Englishman.” Staring at Garrett, he asked, “How well do you know Collard?”

Garrett smiled ruefully. “Probably better than you. In my, ah, wilder moments, I’ve been known to consort with, uh, some characters that would never grace the drawing room of even the least member of the
ton
. I know him and his reputation and I’m aware of a cask or two of truly exceptional French brandy that has found its way to my cellars at Holcombe. And while I’ve shared more than the occasional tankard with him and others at Keating’s inn, we are not bosom friends.”

“Bosom friend or not,” Marcus said, “I think he would trust you, or rather
not
mistrust you. You could join him in a drink at Keating’s place and discreetly direct the conversation toward his recent activities without raising suspicion.” When Garrett nodded, Marcus continued, “What we really need to know is if he has made the crossing to the Channel Islands or France recently. It isn’t something he’d tell just anybody, but he might drop a hint—especially if you plied him with enough liquor. And if he dropped a name or two, so much the better.”

“I might be able to get some information from Keating himself,” Garrett said. He grinned. “Nothing happens in the area that the innkeeper at the Stag Horn doesn’t know about. And if he doesn’t know about it, his wife most certainly will!” Looking thoughtful, Garrett added, “Keating might also be a very good source to find out how Whitley spends his days.” Ruefully, he said, “The various searches of Whitley’s room have not gone unnoticed by the major. He’s complained to Keating that the servants at the inn have been pilfering his belongings and, since most of the servants are related to Keating, the complaints did not sit well with our innkeeper. I think Keating would be quite happy to fill my ear with his own complaints about the major.”

“Very well, then,” Marcus said, rising to his feet. “You find out what you can from Keating and Collard, and you, Jack, will be off to London.”

“What about you?” Jack asked. “Never say that you are bowing out?”

Marcus shook his head. “No. But there doesn’t seem to be much that I can do at the moment that can’t better be done by the pair of you.” He smiled. “I am a newly married man and, for the next few days, at least, I would very much like to concentrate on my bride.”

Returning later that afternoon with Isabel at his side, Marcus considered his next step in the wooing of his recalcitrant bride. Isabel continued to prove damned elusive, and there had been few moments for private conversation—or anything else—since their sudden marriage. Despite the demands Lord Manning’s illness placed on her, he was well aware that she could have found more time for them to be together if she had wished and that she had used the baron’s ill health as a barrier to keep them apart. Marcus didn’t begrudge her the time she had spent with the old man; he’d spent many hours with him also, but that was now at an end. There would be, he thought with anticipation as the curricle swung into the wide, circular driveway in front of Sherbrook Hall, no reason why tonight his bride would not sleep in his bed.

Pulling the horses to a gentle stop, he smiled down at Isabel, who sat beside him in the vehicle. “Your new home awaits you, madame.”

She smiled shyly up at him. “It is not so very new, you know. Have you forgotten? I practically grew up in your house.”

Her breath caught at the intent look in his eyes. “I’ve forgotten nothing,” he murmured in a thickened tone. Then he grinned and said, “Including what a troublesome little hoyden you were.”

Ignoring the stab of disappointment she felt, she forced a light note into her voice and challenged, “Aren’t you afraid that I shall prove an equally troublesome wife?”

Throwing the reins to the waiting groom and alighting from the curricle, he walked around to the other side to help her down. His hands on her waist, he lifted her effortlessly from the vehicle. Holding her next to him for a moment longer than necessary, he bent his head and gently bit her ear. “I’m sure I shall think of enjoyable ways to deal with a vexing wife, ways that would have been totally reprehensible if used on my ward.” Not, he admitted wryly, that from time to time, certain disgraceful thoughts hadn’t crossed his mind—especially in those last few months before she had run away and married Hugh. As he slowly set her down, for a moment he wondered what would have happened if he had given into just one of those thoughts and taken her in his arms and kissed her….

The sensation of that soft bite and his warm breath against her ear sent a tremor through her body and Isabel was embarrassed and astonished to feel her nipples harden beneath her lavender gown. Heat bloomed low in her belly and she stared mesmerized up into that darkly handsome face. The normally cool gray eyes were locked on her mouth and something in their expression both frightened and elated her.

A polite cough behind the couple ended the moment and Marcus turned casually and murmured, “Ah, Thompson, eager to meet your new mistress?”

Thompson bowed, his bald pate gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. “Indeed, I and the entire staff have been waiting eagerly for this moment.” Straightening, he said simply, “It is my very great pleasure to welcome you to Sherbrook Hall, madame.”

“Thank you,” Isabel said, smiling at him. Even as a child she’d liked Thompson, learning that behind his austere features lay a soft heart.

Since her return from India a decade ago, she had stayed away from Sherbrook Hall as much as possible, but the friendship between the Sherbrook family and her father-in-law had made that impossible. To please Lord Manning and to keep
her avoidance of Marcus from becoming too marked, she had attended a few dinners and the occasional soiree hosted by Marcus’s mother, but had been an infrequent visitor. And yet, knowing that this would be her home, when she entered the spacious vestibule with its gold-flecked marble floor and elegant crystal chandelier this time, she was aware of a powerful sense of homecoming. There had been changes over the years to the house, yet it all seemed dearly familiar and all the memories of those days when she had been Marcus’s ward and had treated Sherbrook Hall much as she had her own home came flooding back.

Isabel had always loved Sherbrook Hall, with its ivy-and rose-covered gray stone walls and gleaming bay windows. It was a grand place, grander than Denham Manor, but Barbara Sherbrook had decorated Sherbrook Hall with soft, warm fabric and colors, imparting an elegant yet welcoming décor to even the most formal of rooms.

The staff was waiting to be introduced to the master’s bride and, again, Isabel was struck by how familiar so many of them were. She remembered Cook well, recalling the numerous warm buns and biscuits she’d eaten as a grubby child at the scrubbed oak table in the large, airy kitchens at the rear of the house. The housekeeper, Mrs. Brown, was no stranger either, and Isabel recalled Mrs. Brown’s kind touch as, more than once, scolding all the while, she had cleaned and doctored her numerous small scrapes and cuts. There were new faces, of course, but many of the staff had known her as a child and for someone else what might have an unnerving introduction to a sea of strangers only increased Isabel’s feeling, after a long, turbulent journey, of having finally reached home.

The crowd of servants dispersed to go about their duties and Isabel and Marcus were left standing alone in the vestibule. He grinned down at her and said, “A bit overwhelming, wasn’t it?”

She smiled. “Not too bad. At least I knew half of them.
And since I am familiar with the house,” she said, her eyes not meeting his, “I think we can forgo the formal tour, don’t you?”

“Good God, yes!” He studied her for a moment, noting the slight stiffness of her body and the wariness creeping into her expression. Did she think he was going to pounce on her the moment she stepped foot in the house? He sighed. The thought had crossed his mind, but he wasn’t a rutting boar. He paused. At least he hoped he wasn’t. Reluctantly pushing aside the idea of a lazy afternoon spent making love, he said, “Shall I leave you to settle in? Thompson can show you to your rooms.” It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but the look of relief that crossed her face told him it was exactly what Isabel needed to hear at the moment.

Suddenly tired of being the thoughtful, considerate gentleman instead of the passionate bridegroom he burned to be, Marcus muttered something under his breath and dragged Isabel into his arms and kissed her soundly. He’d meant to kiss her once and leave, but the sweet allure of her mouth destroyed his resolve. He crushed her to him, his lips hard and hungry on hers, his tongue delving deep into her mouth. Consumed with desire, oblivious to anything but the soft, tantalizing body in his arms, Marcus kissed her again and again, each kiss longer and more intimate, more demanding than the last.

Isabel had no defenses against him. She was tired of fighting him, weary of fighting the dictates of her own body. She was his
wife
. Their mating was inevitable and, with a little shudder, she surrendered, forgetting the past, forgetting the secrets….

Dizzy with longing and desire, she kissed him back, her fingers digging into his upper arms as she strained closer, needing, wanting his big, hard body pressed solidly against hers. He was aroused—she could feel the rigid length of him sliding between them as they kissed—and a flood of warmth and dampness surged through her as he cupped her bottom
and held her hard against him. But it wasn’t enough, and he lifted her, fitting her to him so that the swollen rod of flesh was tightly lodged at the junction of her thighs. She trembled as he moved against her, shockingly intimate sensations rocketing through her.

It was the insistent chiming of a small ormolu clock that sat on a nearby marble table that brought Marcus back to his senses. He lifted his head, realized where he was, and thrust Isabel away from him as if she had scalded him.

Breathing hard, he glanced around, his expression wild. Christ! He was in his own vestibule in the middle of the afternoon! A moment or two more and he’d have thrown her down on the floor and taken her there.

Running a shaking hand through his hair, he said thickly, “Ring for Thompson, he will take care of everything.” He brushed past her, spun on his heels, and turned back to jerk her into his arms once more. He pressed one, hot, searing kiss on her lips and then pushed her from him. A febrile glitter in those gray eyes, he said thickly, “I’ll see you later.” There was both a promise and a threat in his voice. Moving as if the hounds of hell were on his heels, he disappeared out the front door, leaving Isabel standing alone in the vestibule.

Dazed, she stood there for several moments, her thoughts and emotions in a jumble. Gradually, her breathing calmed and some semblance of normalcy returned to her. She touched a finger to her lips, astonished it didn’t come away singed.

She might have still been standing there if Thompson, carrying a fresh bouquet of white lilies and pink rosebuds, hadn’t come into the vestibule. He stopped, startled to see her standing there by herself. His expression concerned, he asked, “Madame? Is there something wrong? May I be of service to you?”

Isabel shook herself and smiled blankly. “No. No. Everything is just fine. Marcus, um, just left.” Still half dazed, she groped for words and managed, “He said that you would, um, show me to my rooms.”

“It will be my pleasure,” Thompson said. Setting down the crystal vase of flowers on the marble table and turning back to her, he said, “If you will follow me, madame?”

Marcus learned nothing new from George and Daniel when he interviewed them later that afternoon in his office in the stables. After the two boys darted away, he stared out of the window for several moments, turning the conversation over in his mind. He was inclined to go along with the explanation he had given Thompson earlier: George and Daniel had allowed their imaginations to run wild. The boys were young, both not more than fifteen and, while tall of stature and broad of shoulder, they were still children. He didn’t doubt that they had heard
something,
but it could have been anything—from the wind rattling around a door to the brush of tree limbs against the windows. Relieved to have settled that matter, he considered the matter of Whitley’s original break-in. The sensation of violation rippled through him again and his hand formed into a fist. Whatever the outcome of Whitley and the memorandum, before Whitley was much older Marcus intended to have a private moment with the major. Not only had Whitley invaded his home, he had dared to threaten Isabel, and Marcus discovered that he could not tolerate either act. A fierce smile crossed his handsome face. Yes. He would have a moment or two alone with Whitley before this ended. A moment the major would remember for the rest of his life….