She cut in quickly, “I am afraid there is nothing you can do.” She hoped that would be the end of it. How could she tell him when she so wanted him to first say he loved her?
He got up and paced a moment before returning to bend onto one knee and take her hand. “Tell me, sweetings, what is it. Just take a leap of faith and confide in me—let me be the judge of whether or not I can help.”
How can I
, she thought,
how can I tell you that I want you to declare your love and ask for my hand? You are a big oaf—that is what you are. You should be down on your knee asking for my—but no, you stand there instead looking so inviting that I want to dive into your arms and confess the whole
. So she said, “I am unable to do that. We all have our
secrets, don’t we … my lord?” At once she was angry with herself for her sarcasm.
“Yes,” he said, stiffening, “I had quite forgotten that.” He got to his feet and started out of the room, hesitating once at the door, but without looking back he left her to her solitude.
* * *
The pain of watching Kit leave ripped through Myriah like a whip that hit and snapped back in one motion.
His name lodged itself in her throat, though she was unable to call him back. How could she? What would she say? Her hand went out towards the sound of his retreating footsteps, her mind called out his name, and then when it was too late, he was gone.
She heard him take the stairs and listened for the front door to slam, which inevitably it did.
Myriah wanted to cry. Never before had she had the very thing she wanted and needed more than anything else in the world there, just before her grasp, and yet been totally unable to attain it. However, she had no time to speculate on this or to allow herself the comfort of tears, for a bellowing voice called her to order.
“Myriah, I say, Myriah!” Billy shouted from his room.
She got to her feet and crossed the room, calling in response, “Just a moment, Billy—I’m coming!” She arrived at his room, put her hands on her hips, and inquired impatiently, “Well, now that I’m here, what was all the shouting about?”
“Don’t be a shrew!” Billy admonished. “How else was I to get you here? Damnation, woman, you must learn to curb that nasty habit you have of unleashing your tongue. ’Tis too sharp—you are liable to scare off every buck in sight!”
She pulled a face, and her mood became frosty. “You did not call me here simply to impart that wondrous piece of advice.”
“Don’t cut at me
with your tongue,” her tormentor chided. “A veritable vixen, ain’t you? Well … as it happens I called you in here to ask you what’s amiss.” When she began giving a noncommittal answer, he crooked a finger of his right hand. “’Tis no use trying to fob me off, for I don’t take to round tales. I’ve got all m’marbles, so don’t try pitching the gammon at me, Myriah! Now, out with it.”
She plucked at her blue skirt and then stared at him intently, “Oh, Billy—I do want to tell you, but I can’t—at least not everything …”
“Well, then, try telling me something, and we shall take it from there. Trusted you with m’life. I rather think you could do a bit of the same.”
“Oh, and I would, but … I don’t want your brother to know. You must promise me that anything I tell you will go no further.”
“As it happens, Myriah, I think you’re out there. Knowing fellow, Kit. He could be a help to you, but if that is how you want it,
it
isn’t for me to say nay. So give over, do. You have my word of honor on it.”
“Very well. I shall tell you this much only. The note I received today was from the gentleman my papa wishes me to marry.”
“Egad!” young Wimborne exclaimed, much struck with this piece of news. “However did the fellow find you?”
“I … well … oh, you might as well know. I sent Tabby with a note to my grandfather, whom I thought might be worried about me, and Ro—the gentleman in question saw Tabby and followed him.” She sighed. “I have been expecting this, because Tabby discovered he was being followed, and although he was able to ditch him, the blasted man took it into his head to sleuth about Rye … where he is now staying. I suppose he must have seen my Silkie, as he knows my stallion, when I went to fetch your brother for Dibbs.”
“Sounds a devilish brute—tracking you to ground like this. What does he want? I mean … you don’t want to marry him, so why the devil would he …” Dawning lit in Billy’s eyes. “Hang me, Myriah, ’tis money he wants … so must be money you have. Just who are you, Myriah?”
“The point being that he has demanded I meet with him.”
“Damn if I will let you.” Billy shook his head. “I’ll be out of this bed so fast and on you—see if I won’t. You aren’t meeting this havey-cavey fellow alone … no, you are not.”
“Oh, but, Billy, I must. There is no telling what he may do if I don’t meet with him. It isn’t for myself I am concerned, but he could make things uncomfortable for my father!”
“You can’t, Myriah—I shan’t let you.”
“I have a plan, but I need to stall him … I need time.”
“Myriah, the fellow sounds a rum-touch to me. Don’t like the dratted man. I won’t have any sister of mine meeting such a fellow alone. I am coming with you.”
“No, you will not! Silly puppy, do you want your wound opening up for all the excisemen to see?”
“Then take your groom with you, for God’s sake,” Billy retorted irritably.
“Yes—yes, perhaps that would be wise.”
She was no fool, and she knew that Roland was desperate for this marriage. Everyone knew he was in debt and that only marriage to her would keep him from debtor’s prison. He might be capable of almost anything, but she had no choice—she had to meet with him. She took a turn about the room, looked up at the mantelshelf clock, and exclaimed, “Oh, gracious! There is just enough time to change into my
riding habit.”
“Where do you meet this dog?” Billy asked darkly.
“Land Gate in Rye—’tis public enough to be safe,” she said, vanishing from his room and leaving him to his thoughts.
She hurried with her clothes, donning the dark blue velvet habit she had worn on the night she had fled and landed at Wimborne. Up went her long red hair, and she found the matching top hat in her portmanteau and plopped it on her head. A quick scan at her profile in the looking glass made her grimace. Not very neat, but it would have to do, she thought, as she rushed about looking for her kid gloves. She scooped them up and popped her head into Billy’s room. “There now—don’t fret it, pup. I shall be back within the hour.”
“See that you do—for if you are more than ten minutes overdue,
my
girl … I shall come for you
my
self,” Billy threatened grimly.
She laughed, well pleased with his concern, and rushed down the front stairs, out of the house, and to the stables.
Tabson eyed her and said, “I don’t like it.”
“You don’t even know what yet.”
“I know it is something I won’t be liking,” he said on a humph and began saddling up their horses.
* * *
Sir Roland Keyes gave his neck cloth a final pinch and surveyed himself in the long mirror. He was well satisfied with his appearance. He was, he thought, quite well built a buck by any standards. His auburn curls were styled a la
Brutus
around features that were undeniably attractive.
His height and the cut of his clothes did him credit, though his lifestyle and his present plans did
not.
In truth, he was rather surprised at Myriah’s lack of proper appreciation for his proposal of marriage.
How could she ignore all his exceptional qualities? How came she to run from him? She seemed to enjoy his company. He had hoped by now he would have won her over with his easy charm. He was attracted to her and, of course, to the dowry that came with her hand.
Well, if she would not be seduced by his many exceptional qualities, then he would have no choice but to force her hand. It was an irritating situation, for Roland was usually not the sort that had to resort to force and had no liking for it.
He enjoyed a challenge, and Myriah had certainly been that. She kept his mind active, and though his heart had refused to beat any faster at the sight of her exquisite face and well-shaped body, still, he meant to have her.
He left the inn and called for his horse to be saddled, and it struck him that he had never been in love—not really. Love, he supposed was something he would continue to get whenever he chanced to want it, for marriage would not in anyway interfere with his amatory pursuits.
His steed saddled and ready for him, he mounted and walked his horse over the cobbles down High Street to East Cliff and rounded the corner where the Land Gate Arch loomed up before him.
Abduction had entered
his
mind. He could perhaps entice her onto the road …?
Not Myriah. She was a fighter and would rather be ruined than be forced into marriage. Besides, an abduction would require a private coach, and he hadn’t the blunt for that.
He saw her riding towards him. At her back was her groom—drat the man!
He pulled out his hand-painted enamel snuffbox and flipped the lid open. With a deft movement he had a pinch up to his nostril and inhaled, hoping its soothing quality would control his temper, for he was much annoyed with Myriah for all the trouble she had put him to.
He waited quietly as she approached, and his eye was not blind to her fresh loveliness. He rarely thought of money when she was this close, only of possessing her. Money was but a comfortable end result to the marriage he planned.
He snapped his snuffbox closed and replaced it in his inner pocket. A warm smile hovered about his sensitive lips.
Myriah’s eyes glittered challengingly as she rode up to meet him, and she looked as wild as the stallion, presently throwing his head, beneath her.
“Dash it, love, but you quite take the breath away,” Roland said, slipping off his horse agilely and putting up his hands for her.
She allowed him to help her dismount and stood with her back to the horse while Tabby hovered in the background with the reins.
Roland attempted his usual play with her. He touched her nose. “Naughty Myriah, you have sent a shaft through me. Promising to marry me one minute and vanishing the next. Heartless creature—
kiss me
.”
She pushed his chest away and laughed. “Out with it, Roland. I have come as you
demanded.
Where
do we go from here?”
“To the altar, my love! I wish it, your
papa
wishes it, and you know, deep in your hard little heart …
you
wish it!” he said glibly.
“But I do
not
wish it, my friend, and if Papa wished for it in the moment, it was because he was angry, confused. Do but listen to me, Roland … you don’t love me.”
“Ah, but I
do, from your fiery ringlets”—he
traced
a line from her forehead over her nose and stopped
at
her lips—“to your dainty little toes.”
“That, sir, is not love. That is something quite different.”
“My lovely girl, you simply are not up to snuff yet, though you think you are. Yes, I love you, want you, whatever you will call it,” he said, reaching for her neat little waist and bending down for her lips.
She pushed him away and stepped back. “What you want and need is first my dowry and then my inheritance. Be a man, Sir Roland, admit it—you are dished, you need to marry to stave off your creditors. I can name a dozen young women with nearly as much money as I that would do very nicely for your game. They are willing prey. I, sir, am not.”
He put a gloved finger to her chin. “They have not your eyes, Myriah—they have not your body … and, my dearest child, they have not your name! I do not intend to marry beneath me. Those whose family names are acceptable are devilishly unhandsome. You would not match me with such as that, now would you, Myriah?”
“Oh, Roland, you are horrid! You are cold and calculating, and—”
He cut her off. “And in need!” He took her by the arms and pulled her close. “What do you know of unfulfilled needs, pretty chit? Your papa gives you everything you want.”