Secrets of Midnight (16 page)

"Bess, enough now! Fanny's probably just running
her big mouth. She's only a scullery maid. How could she possibly—"

"By sleepin' with His Grace's solicitor, you
pudding head! Aye, just before Fanny left to come here. Wilkins, she said his
name was—though she says he wanted her to call him 'lambkins,' the strange
little fart. Seems they shared a bit of wine and one thing led to the other—aw,
come on, Meg, a rousing good tumble's always the thing to loosen a man's
tongue."

"Aye, I suppose you're right."

"So I am! Look at the rubbish that knobby-kneed
scarecrow Henry Gilbert used to tell me! How he wanted to marry me and take
good care of me, whilst 'ere I am, plumpin' the pillows for some common Cornish
chit with an ugly scar on her face and no breasts to speak of. Ah, but I'll
just bide my time till Lord Donovan's done his duty and filled her belly, then
when he casts 'is eye about, I'll . . ."

Corisande couldn't hear more; the two housemaids must
have gone into the other room. But she didn't need to. Her blood thundering in
her ears, she rested her forehead on the doorjamb, incredulous.

Donovan needed an heir? That . . . that . . . God help
her, there were no words to describe what she thought of him now. If he had
tricked her, and it bloody well sounded as if he had, she wouldn't waste time
with a pitchfork, oh, no. As an army officer, he was bound to have a pistol in
the house. Yes, perhaps in his room, and she had only to find it. Then she
would confront him and demand to know the truth!

"Corie?"

She spun, her heart slamming, as Donovan strode toward
her; it was too late now, she knew, to look for any pistol. But she had her
shrew's tongue—wasn't that what Donovan had called it?—and, thank God, that had
never failed her.

"Fiend," she spat, not surprised when he
stopped in his tracks, those midnight eyes growing hard as he glanced behind
him to see if any servants were near. "You bloody, bloody fiend! Oh, yes,
I know all about you now. You need an heir, do you? An heir because your
brother the Duke of Arundale won't lie with his own wife—"

"Who told you this?" Donovan cut her off,
never having seen her look so furious. He moved toward her, but she dashed
farther down the hall, keeping a good distance between them. Good God, if he
didn't catch her and silence her soon . . . "Corie, answer me. Where did
you hear—?"

Donovan didn't finish, spying movement out of the
corner of his eye as he passed Corisande's bedchamber. He stiffened as he
recognized the two housemaids who had been hired long ago by Henry Gilbert, the
young women laughing at something and talking between themselves while they
closed the heavy velvet draperies. Hell and damnation, he would kill Henry if
that fool had said a word to these women!

"Leave my wife's room. Now."

Both housemaids whirled to stare at him wide-eyed; he
had clearly startled them. And his tone had clearly frightened them, for both
women looked pale of a sudden and only too eager to oblige him. They dashed
past him without a word and were gone, not even looking over their shoulders,
which led him to believe that somehow they must surely have played a part in
upsetting Corisande.

Corisande.

Donovan looked down the corridor toward his room, but
she was gone, his door wide open. But he wasn't fool enough to rush in after
her. Oh, no, his short three day acquaintance with this hot-tempered,
unpredictable woman was enough to tell him that caution should be his guide.
Instead, he stole into her bedchamber and then through the sitting room,
pausing for an instant to glance inside his own room.

She was
there,
standing behind
the door leading out to the corridor, waiting for him, a fireplace shovel
raised high as if she fully intended to bash him over the head as soon as he
walked into the room. She looked so intent, so vengeful, and yet so ridiculous
standing there in her white wedding gown with black soot spotting her veil,
that he thought he might laugh. He knew he was smiling, and when she suddenly
turned, spying him, he simply gave up the chase and went to the fireplace where
he sank into a deep wing chair, shaking his head.

"You . . . you think this is funny?"

She sounded so outraged and yet almost disappointed as
she lowered her weapon uncertainly.

"Funny? Not at all, but what would you have me do,
woman? Take up the poker and challenge you to a duel?"

Chapter 14

A duel? Was the man mad? Corisande glared at Donovan,
so angry that her face felt ablaze, yet she couldn't be sure if it might not be
due to the sherry. She felt a bit dizzy, too, but oh, no, she wasn't going to
drop the shovel—or her guard—for a moment. Lifting her weapon once more, she
took a step from the door.

"You must feel very clever, don't you?" she
demanded through her teeth. "You knew damned well I'd never agree to marry
you if you'd said anything about a bloody heir, so like the detestable,
deceitful,
self
-interested—"

"Loathsome?"

"Yes, loathsome!" Corisande blurted
out,
enraged even more that lie would make jokes and toy
with her at such a moment. "Like the loathsome, despicable miscreant you
are, you decided to wait and surprise—"

"There's no surprise, Corie, because there's no
heir. At least I've no need of one. Put down that shovel and close the door so
we can talk."

Now she gaped at him, wondering incredulously how he
could sit there like some pompous monarch issuing commands while she fully
intended to do him bodily harm . . . but—but wait. Hadn't he just said he
needed no heir? Corisande blinked, suddenly wishing she hadn't downed those two
brimming glasses of sherry so quickly.

"Very well,
I'll
close the damned door. No bloody sense in the servants overhearing more than
they know already."

Donovan thrust himself from his chair so suddenly that
Corisande gasped and stepped backward, her heel entangling in the hem of her
dress. But he was there to catch her almost before she felt herself falling,
looking at her quizzically as he firmly took the shovel from her hand.

"You're jumpy tonight, wife."

Corisande tensed, the infuriating wryness in his voice
enough to vanquish the fuzzy cloud settling over her brain. "If I'm jumpy,
it's only because you've made me so! Now let go of me!"

"As you wish."

He did, too, and before Corisande had a chance to
regain her balance she fell backward, landing with a startled cry on her
bottom. That drew no response from Donovan as he returned the shovel to its
hook by the fireplace, then went to shut not only the door to his bedchamber,
but her door as well.

Within a moment he was back, looking mildly surprised
that she was still sitting quite ungracefully on the floor, her dress twisted
about her knees. But when his gaze fell to her white-stockinged calves,
lingering there, too, Corisande scrambled to her feet and stood somewhat
dizzily, glowering at him. Damn that sherry and damn him too!

"There. Now at least we have some privacy. Perhaps
now, too, you're in more of a frame of mind to talk."

Oh, she was in a fine frame of mind, all right, but
before she could utter a single word, Donovan put up his hand.

"Allow me, Corie. I don't know what you overheard
from those two maids—it was the maids, yes?"

She nodded through clenched teeth.

"As I thought. By God, I'm going to strangle that
Gilbert!"

"Gilbert? What are you talking about?"
Corisande demanded as Donovan began to pace in front of her, his strides
reminding her of a restless beast prowling a cage.

"The only way those chits could have known
anything was if Gilbert told them. He knew I was coming to Cornwall to find a
bride, thanks to a recent letter from my brother, who also informed him that
the Trents of Dorset were in dire need of an heir."

"So you did trick me!"

"No, I didn't trick you! Nigel could have all the
heirs he wanted if he'd only sleep with his wife, but I can hardly blame the
man. Charlotte is a fright."

"That's unkind."

"But true. Nigel didn't choose her, my bloody
father did . . ." Sighing with exasperation, Donovan ceased his pacing and
shoved his fingers through his hair. "That's not the point anyway. Simply
put, Corie, I didn't marry you to father an heir. I told you I needed the
money. My inheritance. That's all I want out of this mess, nothing more. As far
as I'm concerned, Nigel and his grand scheme for an heir can go to hell!"

Stunned by the raw vehemence in his voice, Corisande
watched as Donovan began to pace again, even more restlessly than before.

"So now you know what you overheard tonight isn't
true, and by God, as soon as I see Gilbert I'm going to—"

"Why are you still blaming Henry? It wasn't he who
told Bess about this heir business but Fanny, the scullery maid. And Fanny was
told by some fellow named Wilkins."

Donovan stopped to stare at her incredulously. "Wilkins?"

"Yes, your brother's solicitor." Corisande
felt her cheeks growing very warm as she debated what else was seemly for her
to reveal, and how to politely say it. She cleared her throat. "It seems
that Fanny and Wilkins shared a glass or two of wine and then . . ."

"Oh, good God!" Donovan circled in front of
the fireplace and then brought his hands down hard against the mantel, bracing
himself there as he scowled into the fire. "That little bespectacled . . ."

He didn't finish, but Corisande could imagine what he
must be thinking.
Which wasn't exactly what she was thinking.
Suddenly a giggle burst from her throat, then another, which made her clamp her
hand over her mouth when Donovan turned to look at her, a black brow raised.

"I said something funny?"

Corisande lowered her hand, grinning like an idiot, she
knew, and which she blamed wholeheartedly on the sherry. "No, but Meg did.
It seems Fanny told her this Wilkins likes being called, well . . . lambkins."

"Lambkins?"

Hearing Donovan say it only made Corisande giggle
again, and this time she simply couldn't stop. It was so ridiculous! Grown
people wanting to be called such silly names? And she wasn't laughing by
herself, either, as a slow grin spread over Donovan's face, nothing like that
devilishly charming smile at all, but something more boyish and, oddly, much
more appealing.

He began to chuckle, shaking his head as he looked at
the fire and then back to her, while she had to hold herself around the middle,
she was giggling so hard. Her ribs hurt!

"Oh, Lord." Her words had come out with a
gasp, and finally she bent over slightly at the waist to catch her breath. But
when she threw back her head, still laughing to herself, she saw that Donovan
wasn't chuckling anymore, just staring at her with a strange look on his face.
Suddenly self-conscious, she dropped her arms slowly to her sides, the room
grown silent but for the soft crackling of the flames.

"You should do that more often, Corie. Laugh.
Smile. It becomes you."

She didn't know what to say. There really didn't seem
to be anything she could say. Rubbing her lips together nervously, she glanced
beyond him to the door leading to the sitting room. It had been closed, too,
which made her grow even more flustered, a sudden gush of words jumping to her
lips.

"I should go . . . to my room, I mean. It's late
and—and I'm very tired. Good night, Donovan."

Hugging her arms tightly around her middle, Corisande
went to walk past him, nearly jumping out of her skin when he reached out and
blocked her way.

"You can't go, Corie. You have to sleep in here
tonight, with me."

If he had said she must walk on water, she couldn't
have been more surprised. Or more alarmed than she'd ever felt in her life, and
she tried to bolt past him toward the door. But his arms were around her before
she could blink, strong massive arms that held her still against his body
though she struggled mightily, a big hand clamping over her mouth when she
inhaled to scream.

"Easy, Corie, you haven't let me finish! We have
to share the same bed. It's our wedding night. But I'm not going to touch you,
woman! How many times must I assure you of that? You'll have your side, and I'll
stay on mine—and for God's sake, that bloody mattress is wide enough so we won't
even be lying close to each other! But we have to make things look convincing
to the household, remember?"

She'd already ceased struggling well before he had
finished, embarrassment flooding her as he slowly drew his hand away from her
mouth. "Of—of course, I knew that." she stammered, trying to cover
for behaving so ridiculously and yet trying not to look in the direction of
that huge canopied bed. "Our wed-wedding night."

"Exactly. Now, your valise is over there behind
the screen if you'd like to change."

"Change?" she parroted, once again feeling
quite stupid when Donovan smiled wryly and released her.

"Unless you want to sleep in your wedding dress.
But I doubt that would be very comfortable."

"No, no, probably not," she said half to
herself, only too grateful to be free of Donovan's unsettling embrace. Without
meeting his eyes, she rushed to take refuge behind the screen like a terrified
mouse looking for its hole, which only made her feel more chagrined. Staring
blindly at her valise set upon an embroidered stool, she fought to regain her
composure.

Whatever was the matter with her? For heaven's sake,
she'd faced tougher trials! This situation wasn't dangerous or
life-threatening, no, not like coming face to face with armed Customs men in
the dark of night, or braving boiling surf to help drag to shore a near-drowned
fisherman. It was the sherry, and it was her own blessed fault for drinking so
much of the stuff, making her act like a ninny, a dimwit, a flustered goose!