"Agreed."
Fantine's one word seemed to echo in the night air, and she swallowed, wondering what she had just committed to. Playing with Ballast was one thing. Hurdy was an entirely new game. Without a son or any other obvious weaknesses, Hurdy was a lot trickier to manipulate. Despite what she had just said about him needing her, the truth was that he had the power. She didn't.
And his next words underscored the truth. "Betray me, Fanny, and there will not be enough o' you for even the fishes."
Fanny grimaced in a false show of bravado. "Ye break me bones, smash me face, rip me from for t' aft." Then she folded her arms and shifted into her cultured accent as she pushed her only advantage. "So when do I meet Teggie to explain my idea?"
Hurdy snorted his disdain. "You do not meet him at all. I will tell you what we decide."
Fantine shrugged. "Very well." Then she turned to leave, but Hurdy caught her arm, pulling her back. "What about 'im?" He gestured to Marcus, who stood stoically beside her. She almost smiled. Marcus was arrogant, naive, and foolhardy to boot, but he had risked his life to rescue her. No one had ever done that for her before, and she found herself softening toward him.
"Aw," she groaned, "leave the prig t' me. I'll see 'e gets wot 'e deserves."
She saw Marcus's eyes widen with apprehension, and this time she did smile. Just what tortures was he envisioning?
"Very well," returned Hurdy, echoing her earlier cultured phrasing and intonation. "Make sure he does not interfere again."
Fantine nodded and, smart man that he was, Marcus appeared appropriately frightened. She knew that was a lie. The man was too arrogant to understand his danger. Still, he made a good show of grabbing her arm and pulling her out the door.
Much to Fantine's relief, Hurdy let them leave, and soon she and Marcus were breathing deeply of the fetid dockside air. But she did not have much time to enjoy the dubious scents of the outside as Marcus began pushing her into a run.
"Slow down," she gasped. "I've had a long day."
"I don't want Hurdy to change his mind."
Fantine shrugged, even as she picked up her pace. "He won't stop us. But he will follow us."
There was a slight hitch in Marcus's step, but not enough to slow them down. "To see what our true relationship is?"
"To see what I do with you." She glanced sideways at his grim expression. "If I cannot control one daft lord, then I am of no use to him."
"Then we will both be killed. My title can't protect us from a knife in the dark."
Fantine nodded, surprised by his quick grasp of the situation. Then she abruptly slowed, turning to peer through the dark at him. "This is no longer a game to you, is it?"
She heard his soft inhale of surprise, and she knew she had guessed correctly. Then he began speaking, his words slow as if he were groping for them. "It has never been a game so much as a challenge."
"And now?" she prompted.
"Now it is important to me." He took a deep breath. "You are important to me."
Fantine felt her breath catch, wondering at his meaning. But then they were interrupted by a loud shout.
"Yer lordship!"
They both turned to see a light, unmarked coach pulling out of a narrow alleyway.
"Jacob!" Marcus cried, rushing toward the conveyance and pulling Fantine along with him. "How did you find me?"
"Giles told me. I thought ye might need a bit o' help."
"Bless you, Jacob, we do. Take us home."
"Home—" Fantine began, but he ignored her, pushing her inside the carriage without another word. Then he dropped down beside her and released a relieved sigh.
Though annoyed at his peremptory treatment, Fantine could not help but echo his sound. Marcus's carriage, though small, had cushions that could ease an angel's arse. The rich velvet seemed to enfold her in softness, and the bricks, though nearly cold, provided some warmth to her toes.
Still, she had to voice her fear. "Hurdy will know where you live and who you are."
"Good," responded Marcus flatly. "Then perhaps he will think twice about killing me."
Fantine nodded, agreeing with the sentiment. Then, as Marcus settled a rug about her legs, she allowed herself to close her eyes, relishing the unaccustomed feel of luxury.
"If only you had waited ten minutes," she said softly. "Then I would at least have eaten."
"You will eat with me." It was not a question or even an invitation, but a simple statement of fact. "It is the least I can do after ruining your meal."
There was a note of irony in his words as he subtly reminded her that he had risked his life to save her. The least she could do was accept the meal he offered.
"You are tired," he continued.
"My head hurts," she returned without opening her eyes. "They clubbed me pretty good, and I didn't even hear them."
"You cannot be alert all the time." He was a disembodied voice, drifting easily past her defenses, easing her soul. "You are safe now." Then he settled her head against his shoulder. She went willingly, too tired to argue. "Rest," he urged.
And she did.
* * *
Roast mutton.
It could not be. She could not be smelling roast mutton.
But she was.
Then her stomach growled as if underlining the thought.
Fantine roused herself, pushing upright on... a bed? A bed with silk sheets and a feather down pillow. She dropped back down, rolling over and burying her face in the wondrous softness with a groan of pure delight.
"You need not get up now," drawled a voice from behind her. "My cupboards are well stocked. There will be plenty of food when you wake."
Fantine edged around the coverings, peering through one eye at Marcus. He looked so handsome. The glow of the fire bathed his face in a gentle light, softening his harsh angles. Glancing around, she saw a large and airy room filled with the colors of spring—green and gold. She lay in a huge four-poster bed and to her right, just between the bed and the fire, sat Marcus at a table. A well-stocked table. A table covered with more succulent dishes than she could eat in a week.
Her mouth watered.
"Where am I?" Her voice felt coarse in her throat, and she swallowed, grimacing at the bitter taste in her mouth.
Marcus stood up, poured water into a glass, and brought it to her. "This is a guest room in my house. How is your head?"
She sat up, taking the water from him and swallowing it down greedily. "Much better," she lied. In truth, it pounded like the very devil.
"Would you like some more water?"
She shook her head and pointed to a bottle near the roast mutton. "Wine, please."
He nodded and filled her glass to the top. His compassionate expression told her he knew she wanted to dull the pain. She didn't care. This was one time when drink would clear her head, assuming it took away some of the throbbing.
"Would you care for something to eat?"
She nodded dumbly, hating herself for how slowly her wits were returning. She slid her feet out from under the covers, only now realizing she was not in her maid's uniform. Instead she wore a negligee of rich burgundy satin. It was a cool, sensuous delight as it moved with her, but all she could do was frown at it.
"My housekeeper changed your clothing." He gestured to a large closed wardrobe. "My sister also keeps some things there if you wish something different." When she did not respond, he held out a chair for her at the low table near the fire. "You should eat something."
She shook her head and held out her glass. "More wine, please."
He took her glass, refilled it, then set it near her plate on the table. The implication was clear. She would not be allowed to drink any more until she sat down at the table.
She grimaced. "You are being manipulative."
He smiled at her, his expression too innocent. "I thought I was being a gracious host."
"You are that, too." She spoke grudgingly, not meaning to be surly, but she felt too disoriented to match wits with him. Yet here she was, drinking his wine and about to eat at his table when she had no control over the situation whatsoever.
As if reading her thoughts, he smiled as he helped her to her seat. "You are quite safe, you know. I will not harm you."
She wrinkled her nose. "I never trust anyone who says that."
He leaned forward, cutting up the succulent meat with a steady hand. She nearly groaned at his excruciatingly slow movements, especially since she wanted to rip at the food with her bare hands.
"I doubt you trust anyone," he said.
She shrugged. "Actually, I trust a great number of people."
"Like?"
"Nameless, for one. And his friends. As long as I keep feeding them. As long as they keep supplying me with information for Penworthy."
As she spoke, Marcus served her a huge portion of mutton along with healthy measures of every other sumptuous dish. Fantine could do little more than smile her gratitude as she picked up her fork.
They spoke little as she ate. In fact, Fantine spoke not at all, spending her time totally on her meal. She took care to maintain her manners, but it was a strain. After her first bite, she became absolutely ravenous, and she could barely keep herself from shoveling the food in like a starveling.
Meanwhile, Marcus kept up a leisurely prattle of no consequence until finally lapsing into silence. It took her embarrassingly long to notice the silence.
"I'm afraid I'm not much company tonight," she apologized.
"On the contrary, you are a perfect companion—beautiful and appreciative."
She sent him a wry glance. "That sounds like a lapdog."
"Certainly not," he said, obviously insulted. Then he reached for her, tracing the curve of her cheek with a long, slow stroke. "You are the most beautiful woman in the world."
Fantine wanted to laugh. How many men said the same thing every night to a thousand different women? The least he could be was original. But she did not laugh. She couldn't. Because the way he said it made her believe it was true.
She swallowed, nervous and excited. "Marcus—"
"You fascinate me, Fantine. I do not know why or how, but I can think of nothing but you."
He pulled her close for a kiss. She went easily, mesmerized by the clear blue light of his eyes. When their lips met, his touch was tender, but no less powerful, robbing her of breath as he tasted first her lips, then deeper within her mouth. When he pulled away, he gazed down at her, and she could only stare back in a daze.
"I do not like the way you live," he whispered. "Buying friendship, scurrying about the sewers, in constant danger from thieves and curs." He stroked her face, tracing the edge of her lips. "I want you as my mistress. You will live like a queen, have servants, a luxurious home, whatever you want."
Fantine blinked at him. The wine, the food, even the peaceful surroundings had lulled her. But she should have known. Men like Marcus thought of her in only one way.
She pulled away in disgust, angry with him for asking and with herself for not seeing it coming.
"No." The word fell like a dead weight from her lips, but she said it nevertheless. Then she pushed him away with enough strength to rock him backward in his chair.
That he seemed totally shocked by her refusal only added to the insult. "But why?" he asked.
She lifted her chin, remembering the sweaty men in her mother's greenroom. The hands, the smells, and the heat still repulsed her. "I will not become my mother," she said, her voice firm, her gaze steady. "And I do not trust you."
He matched her gaze, silently testing her statement. When she did not waver, he suddenly thrust himself away from the table, the scrape of his chair loud in the room. "Hell and damnation, Fantine, I have mucked through the sewers with you, flown through a window for you, even sat through hours of inquisition at Lord Harris's because of you. If I meant you harm, don't you think I would have throttled you by now?"
"I am sure your brother trusted you and look what happened."
He froze where he stood, and Fantine bit her lip, realizing she'd been unfair. Yes, he had insulted her, but she should not have struck back so viciously.
"I am sorry," she whispered. "I should not have said that."
"No," he agreed, "you shouldn't have."
She sighed. "Bloody hell, Marcus, I am tired, but I am not blind. I do not wish to be your mistress, and no amount of excellent food and beautiful clothes will change that. Why can you not accept that?"
Suddenly, he leaned down over her, large and dominating. "Because I wish to know why."
She shrugged and looked away. She had nothing more to say.
As if sensing her thoughts, he changed his posture. Sitting back down, he poured himself more wine. "What do you know about Geoffrey?"
"That you sacrificed..." She bit her lip, knowing that was not true. "That you sent your brother back to England, alone and unprotected. That you saved England, but Geoffrey died."