Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (11 page)

They were quite alike in height and build, but Diana carried herself higher, as if being a peeress added inches. Of course, she also favored high heels, even on her riding boots. She headed autocratically out of the kitchen, heels clicking, assuming Rosamunde would follow. With a wry look at the maid, she did. She was about to be given a stinging lecture on cowardice.

In the drawing room, Diana tossed her glittering gloves onto a sofa. Her mannish tricorn followed, revealing hair of a more reddish brown than Rosamunde’s, neatly pinned up in a complex arrangement. “You ran away!”

“Yes,” Rosamunde said meekly.

“How could you! It would have been perfect. At least two men were desperately seeking the Columbine.”

Yesterday, Rosamunde would have felt justly crushed by this, but now she was having to suppress a smile.

Diana was no fool. She gave Rosamunde a sharp look and sat down. “What have you been up to?”

Rosamunde swallowed. “Getting a baby. I hope.”

“What? You left
with
someone? Who?”

Rosamunde sat opposite. “Not
with
someone,” she whispered. “I found him on the road.” She quickly gave her cousin the story.

Diana’s jaw dropped in shock. “And you think
this
specimen safer than my guests? Really, Rosa! How feather-witted can you be? He’ll probably strangle you and steal the silver!”

“No! Really. He’s a gentleman and has excellent manners.”

“So do some highwaymen.” She rose sharply. “I’d better see him—”

“No.”

Diana halted, then subsided with a questioning look.

“I don’t want you interfering, Diana.”

“This
is
my house, you know.”

Rosamunde had forgotten that detail, so she switched to petitioner. “Please?”

Diana’s blue eyes narrowed. “You’re up to something.”

“Of course I’m up to something! I’m up to”—she found it hard to say the word—“adultery.”

It hadn’t felt like adultery.

“But it’s so dangerous. You’re bound to be found out.”

“No, I’m not. Why would anyone think I’d … do that with a sick man I rescued?”

“Is he sick?”

“Not anymore. But I’m keeping him in his room as if he is.” She bit her lip. “He’s my secret love-slave.”

Diana’s eyes widened, then she burst into laughter. Rosamunde joined her in a wild storm of healing laughter that reminded her of their younger years.

When they sobered, however, Diana shook her head. “
He
knows, dearest. That was always the blessing of the masquerade, that the man wouldn’t be able to tell anyone, or make trouble.”

“I know. But I think it will be all right. I’ve been wearing the mask, and I hope to get him away from here without his knowing where he’s been or who he’s been with.”

“How? Where does he think he is?”

“Gillsett.”

“Where the Misses Gillsett live? You wicked, clever scoundrel! If he goes there looking for his masked lover, he’ll get a shock. So, have you done it yet?”

Rosamunde jerked under that blunt question, coloring. But she nodded.

Diana swirled over to hug her. “Brave girl! I hope it wasn’t too unpleasant.”

Rosamunde bit her lip. It almost seemed too precious to speak of, but it was too great a treasure to keep from her cousin. “Diana, it was the most remarkable … I never knew …”

“Rosa! You haven’t been so foolish as to fall in love with this wretch, have you?”

“Of course not. And he’s not a wretch. He’s a gentleman.”

“Ha!”

“He is.” Diana’s meaning had sunk in, however, giving her a qualm. “I’m not in love. That would be ridiculous. I hardly know the man.” She had to wonder, however, just what it was, this tender feeling that made her want to smile and smile, and share things with him. “It’s just the act,” she said, as much to herself as to her cousin. “I finally understand why some people plunge into folly over it.”

Diana’s brow wrinkled. “You do? Can you explain it to me?”

But at this point Rosamunde ran out of words. “It’s special. A physical feeling … that …”

“Not the same as with Sir Digby?”

“No.” But that seemed terribly disloyal. “Not that … I mean—”

She was saved by Jessie knocking and peeping in. “The tray’s ready, milady. Should I take it up?”

Rosamunde leaped to her feet. “I’ll do it.”

Diana rose, too. “Don’t think you’re escaping, Rosa, leaving me with such a string of mysteries and teases! Do you at least know his name?”

Rosamunde halted, tray in hand, knowing she’d look the lowest sort of trull to have been romping in bed with a man without even knowing his name. “It’s Malloren,” she said. “Mr. Brand Malloren.”

She hurried out, but heard: “
What
?”

Oh no.

As Diana cried, “Rosa! Come back here!” she fled upstairs, plates sliding, liquid sloshing from the spout of the pot. She didn’t want to know what had made Diana shriek like that. She didn’t want to know!

Was he really a highwayman? Were wanted posters stuck up all over England blazoning his name?

After the briefest pause to tie on her hated mask, she flipped the key in the lock and dashed into the room, slamming the door closed with her behind.

“What is it?” he asked, instantly alert despite only having a sheet wrapped around him like a toga. He was by the window again, but had kept the curtains drawn, and was peering out through a chink.

“Are you wanted?” she gasped, tray still clutched before her.

“Wanted?”

“By the law.”

“Not to my knowledge.” He came over and took the disordered tray from her, placing it on a small table, and tidying it. “Since my recent activities aren’t completely clear yet, I can’t swear to it. Ah, pork pie. Thank you.” He took a big bite and swallowed it before adding, “So? What’s to do?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He took another bite, clearly not convinced. “Then won’t you sit with me while I eat?”

After a struggle with herself, she sat down opposite, touching her mask to make sure it was in place. She wanted to stay. She also wanted to put off hearing Diana’s bad news. Just for a little while.

“It’s hard to tell with that damned mask, but I’d say you look shaken. Did your mother give you trouble?”

Rosamunde stopped twisting her hands together and smoothed her skirt. “No. Of course not.”

“She seemed a pleasant lady. I’m glad you have her.”

“So am I.” She wasn’t sure it was right to ask personal questions, but after a moment, she did. “Do you?”

“I did. She died when I was quite young.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I missed her. I still do, I suppose. She was a wonderful person. Joyous, loving, strong. It would be precious to be able to visit, to share things, to do things for her.”

It touched her deeply because he said it simply as he ate, as if this were something taken for granted between sons and mothers. Her instincts weren’t wrong. Highwayman or not, he was a good man.

He swallowed the last of the pie and looked up, eyes twinkling. “And the other lady is assured I’m not an angel?”

“My sister Sukey.” Rosamunde knew her eyes were twinkling, too. “She took my word for it.”

“So they’ll not make trouble?”

“No.”

He poured some thick chocolate and sipped, considering her. “Do you want to change our arrangement now your mother is on the scene?”

“No.”

“I’m charmed to think I’m such a wonderful lover that you are ready to take risks over me, but why?”

Rosamunde ran a finger down the rough heat of the chased-silver chocolate pot, wondering how much truth was wise. She wanted to give him as much as she could. “I’ve never had a lover before, and I doubt I will again.”

“You’re young still.”

“And married.”

After a pause, he said, “Forgive me for being crude, but to an elderly man.”

“He’s only fifty-five.” She hoped it didn’t sound like a complaint. She didn’t wish Digby dead, but honesty said that she wished she’d never married him. It lay bitter on her soul, the ingratitude of that. More bitter still, however, was the loss of what she might have been if she hadn’t been such a coward after the accident.

“Fifty-five to your what?”

She jerked out of her thoughts. “Twenty-four.”

“How old were you when you wed?”

“Sixteen.”

“’Struth, my dear. Why?”

Rosamunde had never questioned it before, that desperate need for a safe haven—away from her smothering family, but also away from the world, from the need to meet strangers. Now she did, but it was too raw to poke at.

“Why not?” she replied briskly. “Many ladies marry young, and some prefer an older man. The point is that I
am
married and to a good man. I can’t risk this again.”

She thought he might argue the point, but then he leaned back, sipping his chocolate. “I won’t tattle. My word on it. So, do you regret it?”

“Not at all.”

“Good.” He drank the last of his chocolate. “Then what do you command?”

For a moment she didn’t understand him. Then she blushed. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? I warn you, my dear, charming though you are, my duty ends at dawn. I’ve remembered my affairs and have an appointment I must keep. If you try to hold me here, you’ll have an enemy, not a willing slave.”

“I won’t hold you.”
But you won’t like my way of letting you go, alas
. However she arranged it, he would be an enemy then, and it would be better so.

She stood and picked up the tray. “I have someone in the house and must spend time with her. And it’s important, in case your presence gets out, that I very obviously am not spending much time up here.”

He grinned. “It’s all the fault of my angelic good looks. No one would believe your innocence.”

“Quite. If you were homely, it would be a great deal easier.”

“I can cross my eyes,” he said, proving it. “Unfortunately, I can’t hold it for long.”

Rosamunde just shook her head. No wonder he’d ended up drunk in a ditch. He didn’t have a serious bone in his beautiful body, and doubtless was a feckless wastrel. It seemed a terrible shame.

“May I at least have my clothes?” he asked. “The Roman look is out this year.”

“Shame,” she said, allowing herself a brief, appreciative study of the Roman look. When he laughed, she added, “Your clothes are definitely the worse for their adventure, but I’ll send my maid up with them.”

“So, when do I get to serve you again?”

Rosamunde grasped the tray tightly, almost like a shield. She had a well-developed sense of right and wrong, and she knew that further encounters with this man would be wrong. She could argue that it increased the chance of a child, but she knew in her heart that if she gave herself to him again, it would not be for that. It would not be for Wenscote. It would be from raw desire, and a hunger to store up warm nourishment for the coming barren years.

She should tell him that there would be no more service, that he’d be attended entirely by Millie from now on….

“Tonight,” she whispered. “Once everyone is in bed.” After a moment, she added, “They go to bed early.”

“Good. More hours until dawn.”

The whole night? Was it possible?

She backed for the door as if leaving a dangerous animal. When she balanced the tray on her hip to manage the knob, he came quickly to help her, astonishingly elegant in his toga-sheet.

The question that seethed in her burst free. “Why would your name alarm someone?”

He paused, his hand on the knob. “Whom did it alarm?”

He stood so close that one bare arm and shoulder brushed her. An urge to lean toward him almost defeated her will, to lean and rest her cheek against his smooth skin, to draw in the remembered warmth and comfort of his body.

Oh, this was wrong! She mustn’t allow herself a
lover
.

“Never mind,” she said and swept through the doorway. She locked the door, though it was pointless now. The danger was free, and was in her.

Chapter 8

B
efore Rosamunde had time to collect her thoughts, Diana popped out of her bedroom, snatched the tray to place it on a table, then dragged her into the room. “Brand Malloren!” she whispered.

“Yes.” Rosamunde’s mind was still dazed from her encounter.
Why
couldn’t she allow herself a lover, just once in her life? Wasn’t it every woman’s right?

Diana was staring at her. “You have no idea, do you?”

“About what?”

“About the Mallorens!”

Rosamunde slumped on the window seat and prepared to face the truth. “What has he done?”

“Done?” Diana’s fine brows tangled. “I’d think you’d know that better than I.”

“Away from here, I mean.”

Diana shook her head and settled elegantly on the other end of the cushioned seat. “Lud, I forget that you never go anywhere. I don’t suppose you read newspapers either, do you?”

“He was in the newspapers?” Rosamunde felt rather sick. She’d never been inclined to think of highwaymen as romantic. They were, after all, just thieves, and often murderers. But perhaps if he was the dashing kind of highwayman it wouldn’t be too bad. “What crime did he commit?”

“Crime?” Diana came close to gaping. “Rosa … ! No, as far as I know Brand Malloren hasn’t been in the papers. But his brother has. Often. You must have heard of Rothgar.”

“What’s Rothgar?”

“Not
what
. Who. The Marquess of Rothgar.”

Rosamunde stared at her. “Are you trying to tell me that he,”—she waved in the direction of her prisoner’s room—“is a
marquess
?”

“I dread to think where your brain is.” Diana leaned forward. “Pay attention. If he’s Brand Malloren, his
brother
is the Marquess of Rothgar. His oldest brother, of course.”

“Of course,” echoed Rosamunde. “But his clothes are so simple. I don’t understand….”

“Nor do I. But the Mallorens are famous. Or infamous. Lord Bryght—”

“
Lord
?” Rosamunde exclaimed.

“Lady Elf is a very pleasant lady,” Diana rattled on. “She’s the only one I’ve actually met—”

“Diana!” Rosamunde shouted to get her attention, then lowered her voice. “Are you saying I have a
lord
in that room?”