Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (35 page)

“There’s no harm in that! As it was, she didn’t like it—”

“So she says.”

“She came back early, I tell you!”

“Then where was she when George Cotter was here?”

“Spending a few days with her cousin, that’s all, and me well aware of it! I’ll not have you casting stones at Rosie, Edward. She’s the best, truest wife a man could have.”

“Sometimes, Uncle, I think you are willfully blind.”

Brand sank back in his seat and imagined a comfortable hole opening up, one he could slip into and pull a lid down on top of while the fire blasted overhead.

“With her cousin, indeed!” Edward Overton ranted on. “As if the sinful countess was any sort of companion for a decent woman.”

Brand took more interest.

“Sinful?” Sir Digby echoed. “You can’t go saying things like that!”

“I speak the truth! Her very nature sins. She does not accept the true place of woman. She apes the man. She wears breeches under her skirts and rides astride.”

“Been looking under her skirts, nevvy?”

Edward Overton braced his hands on the table and leaned toward his uncle. “God knows what she does, she and your wife, at that dower house. And I mean that literally, Uncle.” He pushed straight and raised his right hand. “God knows, and He will consign them to hell’s flames for it!”

As the outraged Cotterite stormed out of the room, Sir Digby filled his wineglass again and knocked it back in one gulp.

Brand sat stunned.

Lady Arradale and Lady Overton. The dower house. They’d been there a few weeks back when George Cotter was in the area. A well-run stud. It was all he could do to sit in his seat, not to race up to find the room where Rosie Overton skulked.

He swallowed and hoped he could speak calmly. “I gather your wife is young, Sir Digby.”

The man looked a bit awkward about it. “Aye, she’s quite a bit younger than I am.”

“Still of childbearing age?”

“Oh, aye. She’s not yet twenty-five, my Rosie.”

“Then perhaps God will be kind and send you an alternative to Edward Overton.”

And tears glimmered in the corners of Sir Digby’s bloodshot, half-drunk eyes. “We have hopes, Lord Brand,” he whispered, clearly forgetting that he’d already confided his impotency. He touched the side of his nose. “Not saying anything yet. But hopes.”

As he’d suspected. Collusion between husband and wife. And doubtless the whole of Wensleydale was in on it. Brand stood. “If you’ll excuse me, sir.”

Sir Digby nodded, doubtless assuming Brand was finding the necessary. Without subterfuge, Brand climbed the stairs and found the most likely door. He opened it, went through, shut it, then seized the woman he found sitting reading an all-too-familiar book. He hauled her up and drove her back against the wall. “A planned breeding program, perhaps, Lady Overton?”

She went a strange color—stark white with creamy blotches.

Then fainted.

Chapter 21

C
hrist.” Brand swept her into his arms and laid her on the big old bed, his heart pounding with panic and guilt.

Tapping her cheek, he said, “Rosie?” finding her name awkward on his tongue. It was his lady, though. This was the body he knew so well, the face he’d sensed beneath the mask.

His Delilah. The woman who’d tricked, drugged, and used him. Bitterness and anger, however, were melting away.

He saw something on his fingers. Rubbed them together. Grease?

Then he realized that the right side of her face was painted. Looking closer, he thought he saw marks underneath.

He went to the washstand, dampened a cloth, and came back to rub at the paint. Her eyelids fluttered, and she put up a weak hand. “Don’t.”

Ignoring her, he removed most of the thick paint, uncovering scars. A network of jagged purple scars ran beside her eye, one streaking down her cheek. He touched that, only able to think how painful and frightening it must have been at the time.

Her eyes opened, saw him, then squeezed shut as if she could make him go away.

“Wake up, Lady Overton. We have things to discuss.” He was clinging desperately to the defense of fury, but deep inside other feelings stirred. He remembered their laughter, their lovemaking, their sharing of minds.

She was certainly as lovely as he’d thought. Scarred, but lovely, with long lashes, and smooth skin dusted with freckles across the bridge of her nose and the tips of her rounded cheeks. His eyes lingered on the full lips he still hungered for.

Catching a breath, he stood and put distance between them.

She opened her eyes, fearful, watchful.

“So? Are you with child?” he asked.

She struggled into a sitting position. “Why do you ask that?”

“What sort of a fool do you take me for? I can see a plan when it’s so clear.”

She winced as if he’d hit her. “I’m sorry.”

“So, are you with child?”

“I think so.”

“My child.”

But she stiffened at that. “Digby’s child.”

“I could prove that not to be true.”

“You’d find it hard.”

Damn her. “With all the servants in on the scheme, I suppose I would. I could take you away from here by force.”

She shrank back. “Why?”

“Because you’re stealing a child from me.”

“It’s as much mine as yours. More!” They were both keeping their voices low, but it was as if she screamed it.

He turned away. Hell’s fire, he didn’t want to take her child. He wanted
her
—Samson indeed—but he couldn’t have her. She was another man’s wife. He could even appreciate the need here. In their position, he too would do almost anything to save this lovely place from the New Commonwealth.

But had there been nothing true between them? He realized that that was why he was here, why he was attacking her. He needed to believe that beneath the betrayal, beneath the cold-blooded plan, there had been something real.

He turned and walked to the bed. She began to scramble back awkwardly, hindered by her tangled skirts. “Stop it!” she hissed. “This is my husband’s room, too, you know. He could come in.”

“He’s doubtless snoring off his dinner.” But a glance confirmed what he’d ignored before. No question of separate rooms here. She shared this room, this bed, with Sir Digby every night. Rage flaring again, he grasped the front of her bodice and towed her close. “Don’t I deserve something for stud duty?”

“I saved your life!”

And it was true, as was so much more. He knew it and he wasn’t blind. He changed his grip and held her close. After a moment, she stopped fighting.

“Tell me about the scars,” he said. “What happened?”

Her neck relaxed a little and her head rested against him. “A carriage accident. We were going too fast in the fading light.”

“We?”

“Diana and I. Lady Arradale. We’re cousins. Almost of an age. Always up to trouble.”

“How old were you?”

“Sixteen.”

She’d married at sixteen. Because of the scars? “What were you up to?”

She looked up then, rueful mischief in her eyes. “We’d talked the coachman into taking us to the Richmond Races—something our parents wouldn’t permit. It was just mischance that the coach left the road as we hurried home.”

He traced the long scar. “And your cousin escaped without harm.”

“She was unconscious for two days. And she’s always felt guilty. It was her idea.”

“I’m sure they all were.” Brand felt a strong temptation to take a whip to the wild, feckless Countess of Arradale.

“You underestimate me, sir. I was well able to come up with a good adventure now and then.” Then her humor faded. “Before.”

“Before you married Sir Digby. You were forced?”

“No!” She sighed. “It looked far worse then. Everyone hovered over me, pitying me. I couldn’t stand their pain. I couldn’t stand being ‘poor Rosie,’ living at home forever with no hope of marrying. When the idea came up, I seized it. They could all stop worrying. I’d be safe at Wenscote behind the walls…. He didn’t really want to marry, you know. I didn’t see that then.”

“Someone should have advised you to wait.”

“Everyone was as devastated as I was.” She looked into his eyes, calm and mature. “It was a long time ago.”

“But has led us here.”

“A blessing, then. We’d never have met, you and I, except for that accident.”

“Strange logic, but true.” Then he had to add, “I wish you had trusted me. Was I not trustworthy?”

Tears glistened. “It wasn’t my secret to risk. Please don’t spoil this, Brand. It’s not just me. It’s—”

“Hush. I know.” He wiped one tear from her cheek. “It’s Sir Digby. It’s Wenscote. It’s Wensleydale.”

“Edward must never suspect.”

“Edward already suspects.” At her alarmed look, he added, “Not your pregnancy, but your virtue.”

“He’d suspect the virtue of a hermit in a cave. He’ll never be able to prove anything unless you help him.”

She wasn’t trying to tempt him, he knew, but she was, just by being herself. His Delilah. His beloved. The one, the only. But forbidden. For a moment, he considered seduction, but even if he could fracture her strong will, she lay on her husband’s bed, and even a kiss would be sordid.

He took his arms away and moved from temptation. “I won’t betray you. You have my word. Trust me this time. But don’t underestimate Overton and the Cotterites. Make sure Sir Digby sticks to his resolve to make him stay away.”

She put a hand to her belly. “He might try to do something?”

“He’d probably see himself as the avenging hand of God. You are perpetrating an illegality, you know. If he could prove it in a court of law, I’m sure there are penalties for this sort of thing.”

“He couldn’t prove anything, without you.”

“So, he might try rougher justice. I’m still tempted to carry you away from here, simply to protect you.”

Her chin firmed in that precious way she had. “I’d fight. This is my home, Brand. This is my place. I am fixed here, like the rose trees in the garden.”

It was a message, one his mind accepted and his foolish heart spat out. “Without Sir Digby or a child …”

“That will not be.”

Her resolute words stole his breath. Before he knew it, he had hard hands on her shoulders. “I have one price for my silence.”

Shrinking beneath his grasp, she whispered, “What?”

“If you are not pregnant, if something goes wrong. If you think to try again, send for me. Promise me that. I’ll give you to Sir Digby and Wenscote, my lady, but I’ll be damned if I give you to another philandering, chance-met man.”

She bit her lip and tears spilled, but she nodded. “I could not do it now,” she whispered, “with any other man.”

He wanted to ask her then whether Digby still demanded anything of her in this big old bed. The man had hinted he was incapable, but he might still try. He might … It was not something he had the right to ask, and he didn’t want the wrong answer. Beating like a trapped bird in his mind were the words “Mine. Mine.”

In reality, she was not, and could not be.

Reason defeated passion. He let her go, and walked to the door. There, he paused to look back. “It would be madness not to see this as the end.”

Tears tumbling now, she nodded. “Good-bye, then, Brand Malloren.”

“What should I call you? Rosie?”

“That’s my childhood name. My name is Rosamunde, but I’d like you to call me Rosa as Diana does.”

“Then God, and my love, be with you always, Rosa Overton.”

He opened the door, checked that all was clear, then left. Downstairs he found Sir Digby sprawled in a big chair, hounds over his feet, snoring.
Brand wanted to shake the man awake and tell him to take care of himself, that his wife needed him. A bitter other part wanted Sir Digby to die, now, before he could ever share a bed with his wife again.

Instead, he did one last service for his lady. He ordered Sir Digby’s coach and his own horse, then went in search of Edward Overton. He found the man sitting on a bench in the lovely garden—Rosa’s garden—reading his Bible.

“Even useless flowers are pleasant company, Mr. Overton?”

Overton closed his book on a finger. “God’s open air is healthful, Lord Brand.”

“I am leaving, and you are coming with me.”

The man stiffened. “Why do you say that?”

“Sir Digby asked that you leave. I am offering escort.”

“I have no intention of leaving a place I consider my home.”

Brand plucked the Bible from his hand and put it on the bench, then hauled him up. “You consider it your
future
home. For now, you are leaving with me, conscious or unconscious.”

Overton’s eyes bugged and his cheeks reddened. “How dare you! What business of yours is all this? Help! Ho!
To me!
”

“Do you really think anyone here will come to your aid?” He shook the man. “I warn you. I’d enjoy beating you.”

“You can’t …” Overton spluttered, but he put up no resistance as Brand towed him to the coach, only insisting on picking up his Bible. The servants there acted as if there was nothing unusual in a man being thrust into a coach by force.

Brand slammed the door, for he’d no intention of enduring Overton’s company for hours.

“My possessions!” Overton demanded, sticking his head out of the window.

“Are packed and in the boot. Though, of course, as a true follower of Christ you have little thought to such matters.” Brand swung onto his horse. The groom gave him an approving wink, and despite everything a grin broke free.

Though he suspected his lady—Rosa—might be watching from a window, he resisted the urge to look up. The only other service he could give her now was to never raise any suspicions.

For that reason, he did not look back as he rode away from Wenscote and his no-longer-mysterious lady.

They passed Arradale without stopping. Brand would have liked to speak to Bey, to make sure he would put aside all enquiries and thoughts of vengeance. Doing that straight from Wenscote, however, would be as
good as raising a flag blazoned with the discovery, and he couldn’t be entirely sure his brother would obey his wishes. Bey tended to think he always knew what was best.

The ride to Leyburn passed in a bittersweet haze. Rosa Overton. Rosamunde. Like a love-sick poet, he found himself murmuring it to himself. Rose of the world. Fair Rosamond who’d been trapped in a maze for a king’s pleasure. Trapped …