He captured her hand and held it. "Yes. But as I said, it was no more than I deserved. Isabella—" His voice changed. "Why did you run away? Was it because of what happened between us?"
Isabella swallowed hard. She felt a wrench of mingled hope and despair.
"Marcus," she said. "I would not wish you to think. . ."
She stopped. This was very difficult but honesty compelled her to tell the truth. "I wanted you, too," she said at last, very simply. "I wanted you so much that I almost forgot all that lay between. us. But then I remembered and—" she shrugged tiredly "—I realized it was too late for us. It did not feel right. It can never be right again."
Marcus looked at her. His eyes were very clear. "I am glad," he said. "Not glad that you think it too late for us, but glad that I was not pressing my attentions on an unwilling lady."
Isabella freed her hand. This was becoming too difficult and too dangerous. The intimacy that she had wanted the previous night was creeping into the candlelit room, but it was too late. He had not said one word about believing her explanation of what had happened all those years ago. He had not asked for forgiveness of his suspicions or for his behavior. He had not said that he loved her and for her the restoration of trust was more important than any physical intimacy.
"It must surely have been clear to you that I was not exactly unwilling," she said.
Marcus smiled. "I thought not at the time, but when I woke and found you gone. . ." He shook his head.
"I left because that was what we had agreed," Isabella said starkly. "You had what you wanted and in return you agreed to give me Salterton—and a legal separation. We made a bargain, you and I. I expect you to keep it."
Marcus's gaze was searching, examining her face in minute detail. Isabella was very afraid that he would read the truth in her heart.
"Did you make love with me merely to keep your half of the bargain?" There was an odd tone in his voice.
"No," Isabella said reluctantly, "but that is not the point, Marcus. The things I want from you—" She stopped. Love. Trust They carried with them their own risks and she had been hurt so much she was not sure she could face that pain again.
"We agreed," she said finally.
"Do you really want a legal separation, Isabella?" Marcus was quiet but very determined.
Isabella refused to meet his eyes. "It is what we agreed."
"That is not what I asked."
Isabella let go a painful breath. "It is the only way." She threw out one hand in a gesture of despair. "What else can we do, Marcus? We cannot go back. We cannot change the past. It will always lie between us."
Marcus was silent for a moment. "We will not go back," he said at last, "but we can go on." His tone softened. "I do not want to leave you, Isabella, and I do not want you to leave me. I cannot allow that—not now."
Isabella felt trapped and frustrated. "Twice now you have broken your word to me."
"You might be carrying my child."
The words fell into silence. Isabella closed her eyes briefly. In the heat of the moment she had not really considered it. It was a very long time since she had had to think of such matters. Now she thought of Emma and her heart was wrenched with so much pain that she gasped.
"No! Oh, no."
She saw something change in Marcus's expression and knew he was hurt at the implication of her words. He did not understand. He could not.
She waited for his bitter rejoinder but instead he touched her hand where it was clenched on the bedclothes. "I am sorry, Isabella. I know it would not be what you wanted. But I assume it must be a possibility, and until we know. . ."
When she did not reply, he sighed.
"We will talk on this again in the morning. Now is not the right time. You look exhausted and so am I, for I have ridden hard to find you." He bent to pull his boots off.
Isabella nervously drew the bedclothes up to her chin, a more pressing concern taking the place of the anguish inside her.
"What are you doing?"
Marcus smiled at her, a warm and wicked smile that lit his dark eyes. "I am coming to bed, of course."
Isabella gulped. "But. . . Have you not heard what I have been saying? There is no going back for us, Marcus, and that begins now. Surely the brothers have some alternative accommodation for you?"
Marcus looked at her. His expression was unreadable in the candlelight. He was still rubbing his head and the dark hair stood up in rather endearing spikes. Isabella ignored the urge to reach out and smooth it down.
"There is no room at the inn, Isabella," he said. "When Brother Jerome heard that I was your husband, the monks suggested that we share this chamber."
"They are very trusting," Isabella said. "Anyone might have made that claim. Are they to usher them all into my chamber?"
"I imagine that they did not think I would lie to a man of God," Marcus said virtuously, pulling his shirt over his head.
"Pshaw!" Isabella pulled the covers tighter. "The room is scarcely big enough for one, let alone two," she said. The thought of sharing so enclosed a space with Marcus made her throat close with nervousness. "You will have to sleep in the carriage."
Marcus grinned. The candlelight slid over the firm contours of his chest and shoulders turning his skin to bronze. Isabella knew she was staring. She could not seem to help herself.
"Have a heart, Isabella," Marcus said. "I am worn out with riding and it would be damned uncomfortable. There is nowhere else to go. All the inns are full since it is the Festival of St. Columba."
"I do not care if it is Christmas!" Isabella argued, thoroughly rattled now. "You cannot stay here!"
Marcus put out a hand and touched her cheek. It was a thoroughly disarming gesture. Isabella blinked, suddenly feeling vulnerable.
"You look like a shy schoolgirl," he said. "I had no notion that you would be so nervous of me." The amusement fled his voice. "I did hear what you said, Isabella. You have no need to be afraid of me."
"I am not," Isabella argued valiantly. "But this bed is tiny."
"We may sleep in each other's arms. That saves space." Marcus spoke reasonably and without emotion. Isabella gulped. She had never slept in a man's arms. Last night Marcus had held her close but she had been too upset to relax into his warmth. Now she could feel the temptation curl within her. To be held and comfort-
ed
and not to be afraid. . .
Marcus bent again to pull off his boots as though the decision was made. Isabella watched him disrobe in the candlelight, feeling mightily relieved and equally mightily disappointed that he did not remove his breeches. She lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes, tensing as Marcus slid into the narrow space beside her. She tried to move as far away as possible from him, which was not very far given the confines of the bed. Rolling over, she almost fell out and was only saved by Marcus grabbing a fold of her voluminous nightgown.
"Did you ask one of the monks to lend you a habit in which to sleep?" Marcus inquired. "You need have no fears of ravishment, Isabella. I doubt I could find you in there even if I had not given you my word."
Isabella could feel him, even through all the layers of material. It made her feel oddly tense.
"Relax. You are like a trap about to spring," Marcus said.
"I have never—"
"What?"
"Never slept in a man's arms before " Isabella said in a rush.
"But what about Ernest?"
"We had separate palaces, let alone bedrooms."
Marcus laughed. "How very extravagant. But surely he must have stayed with you sometimes?"
"Only if he was too drunk to get out of bed," Isabella said truthfully, "and then I would be the one to leave with all
despatch
."
The memories of her previous marriage were making her feel anxious again. She had been trapped; forced into a role that had bent her out of shape. She could not permit that to happen again.
She sat up against the bolster and drew her knees up to her chin.
"Must you do that?" Marcus inquired. "You have pulled all the covers off me."
With a sigh, Isabella slipped beneath the sheets again.
"Your married life is full of surprises for me," Marcus said. He slid an arm about her and drew her head down to rest against his shoulder. "There now." He sounded as though he were talking to a child. "Relax."
It was amazingly comfortable. Isabella breathed in the scent of his skin and found herself nuzzling closer. His throat was warm and strong against her lips and she could hear the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. From outside in the street came the sound of voices and the chink of harness, but for a little while, she was wrapped in peace.
"Bella?" Marcus's voice was sleepy. "Was it very important for you to claim Salterton Hall?"
Isabella sighed. "Yes."
"Because by rights it belongs to you?"
It was frightening how well he understood her.
"Because it
did
belong to me before I was foolish enough to give it to you through this hasty marriage." Isabella shifted slightly. She thought again of Ernest, and tried to explain. "I consider myself to be Isabella Standish as well as the Countess of Stockhaven, Marcus. I do not wish all that is me and mine to be subsumed into someone else's personality."
"Is that what happened before?"
"Yes." Isabella thought of Ernest and the pattern-card princess that he had required.
"I am not sure," Marcus said slowly, "that I would wish you to be like that."
"Most men would," Isabella said.
"Then," Marcus said, "perhaps I am not like most men."
That was undoubtedly true. Isabella smiled a little wryly. "Perhaps you are not, Marcus." She rubbed her cheek softly against his shoulder. She knew she should not but it was there and it was tempting and just for once. . . .
"Go to sleep." Marcus kissed her hair.
Isabella could feel herself already beginning to drift in a warm cocoon of contentment. The real danger, she recognized, came not from any physical intimacy with Marcus but from this seductive closeness. It lulled her into believing that everything could be good between them, as good as it had once been. She closed her mind to the doubts and conflicts and allowed herself to dream. And as she was falling asleep she thought she heard Marcus say again:
"Go to sleep. I will never let you go."
F
reddie
S
tandish was partaking
of breakfast when the message arrived. He was still rather cast adrift from the previous night's drinking and so was picking at a piece of toast and trying to disguise from Pen the fact that he felt distinctly liverish. It was this that he later blamed for his inattention when the maid brought in the note. The girl had only been with them two weeks and was quite hopeless, but the woman at the employment agency had indicated that that was all they could expect for the wages they were paying. Instead of handing the message directly to him, she put it into Pen's imperiously outstretched hand. Freddie suspected that she could not read the direction on it.
The crackle of the paper unfolding mingled with the crunching of Pen indulging her hearty appetite on her third piece of toast and honey. Freddie felt vaguely sick.
"
Mmm
," Pen said on a vague note of surprise, through the crumbs. "There is a rather odd note here for you, Freddie." Her gaze dropped to the bottom of the page. "From a gentleman called Warwick."
The shock galvanized Freddie into action. He dropped his mangled toast, leaped to his feet and grabbed the paper from Pen's hand.
"Freddie!" Pen exclaimed, as his sleeve overturned her teacup.
Freddie did not pause to apologize. He took the stairs two at a time, reading as he went.
"Dear Lord Standish . . . require to see you
immed-iately
. . .
Wigmore
Street. . . This morning. . . Brook no delay. . ."
When he came back downstairs, having dragged on his coat without the aid of his valet, Pen was standing in the hall, a determined expression on her face.