Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (15 page)

Commanding total obedience certainly had its appeal.

Brand shook away his wandering thoughts. His mysterious lady couldn’t possibly be part of any plan of George Cotter’s. In fact, the New Commonwealth had nothing to do with his affairs other than the fact that they owned an estate next to one he might buy for his brother.

And, of course, the fact that his brother was coming north with the King’s commission to investigate the sect for subversive tendencies.

Brand leaned back to contemplate that. Could word of Bey’s mission have spread? He was ordered to meet his brother in Thirsk tomorrow at noon, which is why his amusement here must end at dawn. No matter where this place was, it must surely be no more than six hours’ ride from Thirsk.

Bey doubtless wanted Brand’s impressions of the north and the New Commonwealth. Once done with that, Brand would have a hectic schedule to catch up with. Including, he thought with sudden interest, visits to various stockbreeding estates. Might he turn up at such an estate and come face to face with a certain mysterious lady … ?

He’d like that.

Very much.

Too much.

He put down the unread book and stood to pace the confining room, fighting the knowledge that, despite her wishes, he couldn’t walk away
from this. He needed to know more, if only to be sure that she suffered no harm from this adventure.

Perhaps he could convince her to trust him. Perhaps he could become a discreet friend. If her husband really was elderly and indifferent, perhaps they could—

He stopped himself. That way lay madness. A man couldn’t become obsessed with a woman whose face he’d never seen, whose name he did not know.

Clearly, he could.

A married woman, he reminded himself, making himself sit down to read the solid book.

Damn, the pages were still uncut.

Damn it all to Hades!

He grabbed the razor-sharp knife and began to slice open pages, wishing he could slice through reality as easily, slice through to a place where his mysterious lady wasn’t married, and wasn’t secretive. To a place where they could enjoy delightful conversations of all kinds, whenever they wished.

For the rest of their lives, before, during, and after delightful lovemaking.

Chapter 10

R
osamunde had halted in the corridor outside the bedroom, fighting a mad urge to rush back—not to her captive lover, but to that dazzling surprise, a man she could talk to. She’d forced her steps on, but in a daze of wonder. A man who shared her interests, who didn’t scoff at or belittle her enthusiasms.

She’d always known even Digby was humoring her. He’d raised no objection to her interest in stockbreeding, nor to her expenses, but it had always been clear that he regarded it as another man might regard his wife’s interest in buying new curtains or bonnets.

Her modest successes merited only a “That’s good, Rosie,” said as he read a newspaper or magazine.

Rosamunde had become so used to this that she’d never dreamed it could be different. She’d certainly never expected a meeting of knowledgeable minds with the charming rogue she’d taken as lover.

Now, out in the garden, she admitted that everyone might be right in their warnings, though profoundly wrong as well. They feared she was in danger of falling in love with a handsome rogue. If she fell in love with Brand Malloren, however, it would be as much with his company as his body. More, in fact. She was too practical to toss her life away for physical delights. But for companionship—for respect, shared interests and laughter … Those were treasures that could last a lifetime, and were precious beyond all.

Nearly all.

Vows, duties, and responsibilities
must
come first.

By the stone arch that led into the kitchen garden, she paused to wonder at herself. Here she went again, weaving ridiculous dreams. There was no meeting ground for them.

Not one scrap.

Except that there was, and they had found it, and she liked him so very, very much.

Standing straighter, she swallowed folly. This was no good, no good at all. He was leaving tomorrow, and for now she had beans and blackberries to pick.

She’d asked Jessie if she needed anything from the garden, and the maid had asked for the beans. Walking to Arradale earlier, Rosamunde had spotted a laden thicket of brambles. Afraid to go upstairs to change or get her cap—afraid she’d weaken—she’d protected her cream colored dress with a kitchen smock, and borrowed a mob cap from Jessie to shield her face.

From the sun, she told herself. It was time to get over this obsession with hiding from strangers, for Diana’s sake if not for her own.

She picked the beans and left them in one basket, ready to collect on her return. Then she went to fight the brambles. Alone in a quiet corner of the estate, however, she found herself fighting insanity as much as thorns.

Even if she were pretty and single, Lord Brand Malloren would never be for her. Never! She might be cousin to the Countess of Arradale, but that was the result of a wild mismatch between the old earl’s younger son and the pretty daughter of a local gentleman farmer.

It didn’t raise the family up high. The Ellingtons were still just solid farming stock. Her own marriage to Sir Digby Overton was more than she’d normally have looked for.

Nor did her friendship with Diana make her a suitable match for a marquess’s son. Certainly, if she wished, she could move in high circles, and perhaps attract a husband there, even with her blemished face. She’d not expect a noble suitor, however. Her portion had been a mere thousand pounds. A man like Brand Malloren could expect ten times that.

She was so distracted that thorns caught her smock and her flesh, digging deep, so by the time she’d freed herself, blood mixed with the purple stains on her fingers. She licked the wounds clean, tasting the mixture of blood and juice, and the salt of tears.

She sucked in a deep breath.
Stop it, Rosa! Stop it right now
. If heaven is kind, you are carrying a child that will be Sir Digby Overton’s heir. Your duty is to the child, your husband, and the estate. Once Brand Malloren leaves, you will not think of him again.

Ever.

Firm in that resolution, she picked the last of the ripe berries and headed back to the dower house.

Firm?

If she were really firm, she wouldn’t keep her tryst tonight. She paused in what she and Diana called their faery glade, a concealed spot in the wilderness where a little stream tumbled over rocks, surrounded by wild-
flowers. They’d always thought faeries must live here, and had whispered wishes into the chuckling water.

They’d come here once to wish that Rosamunde’s scars would heal to smooth skin. Childish folly.

Cleaning her stained and scratched hands in the cold water, Rosamunde wished for the mature strength to do right. She had as much success at washing away her wicked hunger as she did at washing away the stains.

It was beyond her to give up her one last night.

Then she looked at her purple fingers and groaned. A fine wicked woman she was turning out to be! Was she going to have to go to him masked and
gloved?
The stains would fade in a day or two, but for the moment she was an uncorrectable disaster. Her mouth and chin were probably stained, too, since she’d sampled the sweet, juicy fruit.

At least stains on her mouth and chin wouldn’t matter. The mask would hide them. The mask that prevented kisses.

She did so long to kiss him, and to be kissed back.

Oh, but like a child, she wished for impossible things. She wanted to be a beautiful woman. A seductive woman, even, the sort men longed for on sight. But even without scars, she wouldn’t be. She had freckles from being in the sun, and since it didn’t matter, she’d never pampered her skin with creams.

Didn’t crushed strawberries get rid of sunburn and freckles? She eyed the blackberries, then laughed at herself. The only good
they
would do would be to cover her freckles with purple splotches. He’d probably think she had the plague!

Oh, but it was a seductive dream, suitable for a faery glade. Flawless skin, softened by years of creams. This other Rosamunde’s hair would know only rainwater, rainwater in which rosemary had been steeped to bring out the rich colors. For the final rinse some extra perfume, perhaps. She already used gillyflower in her hair rinse, but a seductress would have heavier weapons than that. Rose? Carnation? Mignonette?

And clothes. Smooth, exquisite silken clothes such as Diana wore, with embroidery even on the layers that people would not, should not see.

She remembered being stripped by her captive lover and hid her face in her hands. What had she been thinking of? Her corset was four years old and mended in places. Her shift and petticoat were of plainest, practical style.

Pitiable.

Pitiable.

Could she bear to be taken again out of pity?

She uncovered her face to look up through green leaves to the fathomless blue sky. In truth, yes. In truth, she’d be taken any way it had to be.

She leaped to her feet and fled the place of foolish wishes, trying to escape wicked desires and deep mortification. As she emerged from the wilderness, someone called. Jerking out of her panicked thoughts, Rosamunde saw Diana waving and hurrying along the path to her.

She experienced a painful stab of envy.

Diana had the look of a seductress. She always protected her milk-white complexion with enormous hats. This one was white, tied with wide ribbons of straw-gold. The hat was scattered with silk flowers, and bow and flowers matched the trimming on Diana’s floaty, low-cut muslin gown. Her breasts were a little smaller than Rosamunde’s, but the bodice made the most of them.

That gown, Rosamunde thought rather spitefully, would be ruined in a moment by blackberry picking.

“There you are!” Diana declared, shaking her head with a laugh. “Blackberry juice, grass stains, and a servant’s smock. Really, Rosa.”

“Have one.” Rosamunde offered the full basket, half hoping her cousin would accept and drip juice on herself.

With a twinkling smile, Diana took one gingerly between her fingertips and popped it in her mouth without any mess at all. “Mmmmm. They’re at their best. If Mrs. Yockenthwait’s making her blackberry pie, I’m staying to eat here.”

“She’s off with a niece who’s having a baby.”

“Oh. Who? I could visit. New babies are so special. You should come, too. They say it makes a woman more likely to conceive.”

“That’s an old wives’ tale.” Rosamunde popped a berry into her own mouth, amazed at how plainly she could refer to her wicked enterprise.

Indeed, Diana blinked at her in surprise.

“Well,” she said after a moment, “all right.” She pulled a small, stoppered bottle out of her pocket. “This is from Mistress Naisby. Guaranteed to knock him into a deep sleep. She warns that to keep him unconscious for many hours you’ll have to give him the whole amount, and he’ll not feel too well when he wakes up.”

Rosamunde reluctantly took it. “She didn’t have anything gentler?”

“Not that will last long enough. And this has a taste. She suggests giving it to him in spicy soup or punch.”

“Lud! How am I supposed to do that?”

Diana pointed at the basket. “Blackberry cordial. With all that spice and a healthy shot of brandy, he’d not taste hot pepper.”

Rosamunde looked at the plump berries as if they’d become tools of the devil. “Oh dear, oh dear. You can’t imagine how kind he’s being. Why can’t I just trust him?”

“Well, why can’t you?”

Rosamunde grimaced. “Because it’s not my risk to take. Too many people’s futures depend on this.” She tucked the bottle in her pocket. “Who drinks blackberry cordial at dawn?”

“At dawn? Why at dawn?”

“Because that’s when he insists on leaving.” They strolled on. “I visited the big house and your mother invited me to stay the night.”

Diana rolled her eyes. “How did you get out of that?”

“I didn’t. It will help to deflect suspicion. But you’ll have to help me sneak out.”

“Dinah and Rosie.” Diana chuckled. “We’ve done that a time or two, haven’t we? I’m quite envious of you, you know, slipping out for a naughty tryst.”

Rosamunde stopped and faced her. “Don’t be.”

Laughter faded. “Is it so horrid? You seemed so—”

“It’s not horrid. That,” said Rosamunde, reluctant to say the words, “is the problem.”

“Rosa! I warned you.”

“You can warn me that the sun will rise. It’s not likely to do any good!”

Diana stared at her. “I’m sorry….”

“No, no! I’m sorry. I’ve no call to snap at you. It’s just …”

“Yes, I see. Perhaps later—”

“
Don’t!
” Rosamunde exclaimed. “
Don’t
speak of Digby’s death.”

Diana turned white. “I’m sorry. But really … no! I’m sorry. But …”

Rosamunde hated herself for upsetting her cousin. “But he’s so much older, and will doubtless leave me a widow. I know. But Diana, even so, nothing could ever come of this. He’s a nobleman!”

“My father married Mother.”

“And lambs are sometimes born with two heads. Anyway,” she said sighing, “even if he were mad enough to consider it, it won’t appeal when he comes to his senses. I’m lying to him, I’m using him, and I intend to drug him in order to keep my secret.”

“Rosa—”

“And don’t forget my face. If he could forgive all else, he’d hardly be able to overlook that.”

“Truly, Rosa, it’s not as bad as you—”

With a wild laugh, Rosamunde turned into her cousin’s arms and clung to her. “Oh, I feel so wretched! And from so many confusing wounds.”

Diana held her close. “You’ve done what needs to be done, dearest. You don’t need to do more. I’m sure it won’t make any difference. Look, we’ll—”

Rosamunde pulled free, wiping her cheeks. “But I
want
to! That’s what’s so terrible. I want to. I want it so badly I’m willing to risk my reputation, and Wenscote, and my chance of heaven for it!”

“Oh,” said Diana, stunned. “So it is like that after all, is it?”

Brand watched from the window as two women strolled down a path toward the house. At a greater distance he’d seen them pause, then embrace, almost as if one had given the other bad news. Was one of them his mysterious lady?