Surrender Becomes Her (24 page)

Whether by design or coincidence, it was evening before Marcus and Isabel met again. Both excruciatingly polite to the other, they dined alfresco in the sprawling beautiful gardens that surrounded the house. After dinner, a quiet meal in which neither did full justice to the expertly prepared dishes, they strolled in the direction of the lake, a gibbous moon casting a silver glow over the water. The scent of lilacs and roses drifted on the air and a faint breeze stirred the leaves
and branches of the various shrubs and trees as they wandered down one of several meandering paths. Clouds scudded across the star-sprinkled skies, heralding the possibility of a spring shower.

Outwardly serene, Isabel was a mass of chaotic emotions. Tonight she would become Marcus’s wife in more than just name, and she was eager and terrified of what would come. Risking a swift glance at his lean face, she wondered what he was thinking. Was he looking forward to making love to her? Bored by the idea? A little ball of warmth bounced down low in her belly. No, he wouldn’t be bored; that torrid embrace in the foyer this afternoon told her that much. But when he finally made love to her, would she be just another woman to him? Would he feel nothing more for her than he did for any of the other women he had undoubtedly made love to in his life? He was no libertine, but he was certainly no monk.

Isabel knew a great deal about Marcus Sherbrook; she’d known him as a guardian, as a neighbor, and even, in an odd way, a friend. He had always been so self-contained, unruffled, presenting to the world a calm, measured face, but of late, she’d learned that behind that calm, measured surface, a different man existed. Behind his cool manner lurked a man who could kiss her senseless and make her knees melt, and it was that man—that passionate, demanding male he kept well hidden—that had her heart racing and her pulse pounding in anticipation of what would come.

The first light drops of rain fell and Marcus halted abruptly. As the drops increased, he murmured, “Well, this certainly puts paid to the romantic seduction under the moonlight that I had planned for tonight.” He glanced down at her, a light comment hovering on his lips, but rational thought fled as his gaze locked on her half-parted lips.

Knowing how it would end if he touched her, he fought the primitive desire that he had kept carefully banked all evening. Struggling against the overwhelming urge to take her into his arms and allow passion to rule him, he finally
managed to force himself away from her. He had barely taken a quick step back when the sound of a shot shattered the night air and his left cheek was struck by flying splinters as the bullet buried itself in the tall beech tree only inches from his head.

M
arcus’s first thought was of Isabel and he dove for her, knocking her to the ground and shielding her with his body. For a frozen second, they lay there, both of them breathing hard, listening intently. Then they both heard it: the unmistakable noise of a large body crashing through the underbrush. Neither had any doubt that it was the person who had fired the shot…the shot that had come perilously near to ending Marcus’s life.

Isabel struggled to push Marcus aside. “Get off of me, you big oaf,” she hissed impatiently. “Whoever shot at you is getting away.”

Marcus rolled aside and rose to his feet, but before he could help Isabel, she jumped up and plunged into the woods in furious pursuit of the shooter. In two long steps he caught her, jerking her to a stop. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded angrily. “Trying to get yourself killed?”

Ignoring the rain and the blustery wind that accompanied the sudden storm, Isabel wiped away a dripping lock of hair and glared at him. “I’m trying,” she enunciated carefully from between clenched teeth, “to discover who fired that shot. You, on the other hand, are being obstructive.”

“And you,” he said with equal care, his teeth as clenched as hers, “are too hot at hand for your own good.” He took a deep, calming breath, tamping down the temper, engendered
as much by fear for Isabel as fury at the boldness of the attack. Only when he was certain that he had command of himself did he ask with more than a little curiosity, “What did you intend to do if you caught him—bite him?”

So enraged she thought seriously of biting
him
, she spun away and, arms crossed over her bosom, stared into the darkness. The noise from the assailant’s rush through the forest had stopped, but in the distance, above the rain and wind, they heard the faint sound of hoofbeats as a horse galloped away. “You let him get away,” she ground out and, turning on her heel, she marched to the house.

Marcus followed her more slowly, frowning. The attacker could have only been Whitley, but what the devil was the man thinking? Whitley could have so easily missed and wounded or killed Isabel. Something cold and hard lodged in his chest. Attacking him was one thing; doing so in a manner that endangered Isabel was something else again. His mouth set in harsh lines he caught up with her as she mounted the steps and prepared to enter the house.

An anxious expression on his face, holding a lantern, Thompson met them at the door. George and Daniel, just behind him, wearing much the same looks, were also holding lanterns. At the sight of Marcus and Isabel looming up out of the rain, relief spread across his features, Thompson stepped back and cried, “Master! We heard the sound of a gun and feared the worst.”

Marcus smiled and said calmly, “There was nothing to fear; your mistress and I are unhurt. A poacher must have strayed too near the house.”

Thompson looked offended. “As if your gamekeeper would allow such a thing!”

Brown eyes bright and eager, George, the smaller of the two footmen, blurted out, “I’ll wager it was that housebreaker, come to murder us in our beds!”

Marcus ruffled George’s hair and laughed. “I doubt it.” George appeared to be more excited than frightened about
the prospect of his imminent demise. “Whoever was out there is gone,” Marcus explained. “Before we returned to the house, we heard the horse galloping away and, with this rain, no one, poacher or murderous housebreaker, is likely to be skulking about. I suggest that you all return to your duties. Mrs. Sherbrook and I are retiring for the night.”

Her maid, Peggy, was nowhere in sight when Isabel entered her rooms, but signs of Peggy’s industry were evident in the neatly turned-down bed and the fine lawn nightgown and matching robe that lay across the cream and green silk coverlet. Wasting little time, Isabel stripped out of her damp clothes and slipped into the nightgown. Chilled from the rain, she bypassed the lightweight robe on the bed and, crossing to the dressing room, opened one of the big mahogany wardrobes that lined the wall. Her fingers quickly found the yellow woolen robe she had been searching for. Wrapped in the warmth of the wool, she took a brief moment to take down her hair from the topknot of curls she had worn for the evening. She spent another moment swiftly brushing the thick auburn locks. With her hair waving gently about her shoulders, she stepped back into her bedroom and was pleased to find that Peggy had once more anticipated her needs and was busy placing a tray on one of the satinwood tables scattered about the large room.

An expression of fondness in her blue eyes, Peggy glanced up from her task and said, “I thought that you might like a spot of hot tea on a night like this. There’s some warm milk if you prefer that. And some biscuits.”

Nearly twenty years Isabel’s senior, Peggy had been her personal maid ever since Isabel had taken up residence in Manning Court. They had begun as strangers, and in the beginning Isabel had been a little intimidated by Peggy’s brisk manner and blunt ways, but over the years a warm relationship had developed between them, a relationship that went well beyond that of maid and mistress.

Satisfied that all was in order with the tea tray, Peggy picked up the other robe from the bed and disappeared into the dressing room. Returning, she ran a critical eye over Isabel and, seeing her shiver, ordered, “Now into bed with you! You’re chilled and the last thing you need to do is catch cold.”

Isabel didn’t argue. Tossing aside her robe, she slipped under the covers, sighing with bliss to find that despite it being the month of May, Peggy had warmed the sheets. With a bank of pillows at her back, Isabel sat up in the bed, the covers folded across her lap, and gratefully accepted the cup of hot, steaming tea Peggy brought her.

After taking a sip, Isabel said with a smile, “What would I do without you, dear Peggy? You think of everything. A toasty bed and hot tea—wonderful!”

Peggy snorted. “As if it takes any brains to realize that, on a rainy night, warmed sheets and a hot drink wouldn’t be appreciated.”

Her eyes dancing, Isabel said meekly enough, “It is indeed appreciated. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Reaching for the discarded woolen robe, Peggy laid it carefully over the arm of a nearby chair and then cast an eye around the room, as if daring anything to be out of place. Finding all to her satisfaction, she patted the tight bun of light brown hair at her neck and said, “Well then, if that will be all, I shall retire for the night. Unless, of course, you need me for something else?”

Isabel shook her head. “No. No. I’m fine. I’ll see you in the morning.”

The big room was very quiet after Peggy left, and Isabel sipped her tea thinking about the incident in the garden. A thrill of fear knifed through her when she remembered that terrible moment when Marcus was nearly killed. But knowing he was safe and nearby, she experienced again the unutterable relief she’d felt when she’d realized that he was unharmed. She bit her lip. It was wonderful that he had es
caped unscathed, but there was no denying that someone had tried to murder him! And despite his claim that it was probably a poacher, she wasn’t having any of it. There was no pretending, she thought stubbornly, that if he hadn’t moved when he did he might very well be lying dead in the garden.

Pushing aside the terror at the very thought of him being dead or even gravely injured, she considered the attack itself. Whoever the attacker had been must have been both foolish and desperate. Foolish because Marcus was respected and well liked, beloved almost, amongst his many, far-flung friends and relatives. His death or injury by a cowardly assailant would have caused an outcry heard all the way to London. And risking a shot at him in the rain, with woodland obscuring the target and under fitful moonlight had been the act of a desperate man. Her gaze narrowed. There was only one person she could think of who was both foolish and desperate and would have had a reason to harm Marcus. Whitley!

So intent was she on the path of her thoughts, not even Marcus’s appearance in her room distracted her. Frowning, still considering the implications of her conclusions, she watched him enter from the pair of double oak doors that divided their two bedrooms.

Wearing a black and crimson silk robe, he strolled across the room as if he did it every night. A faint smile on his lips, he approached the side of her bed. She looked, he thought besottedly, utterly adorable. Staring at her sitting there in the bed scowling up at him, her mane of flame-red hair flowing wildly about her shoulders, those incredible golden-brown eyes fixed on him, Marcus acknowledged something he had known for a long time: he was helplessly in love with her.

Dazed by the admission, he simply stood there staring, mesmerized. Completely under her spell, he took a second to realize that her lips were moving and that she was talking to him.

“What?” he asked stupidly. “What did you say?”

“I said,” she replied impatiently, “that your attacker had to have been Whitley. There is no one else who has any reason to try to kill you.”

There wasn’t much point in trying to dissuade her, and so he met her eyes and nodded. “Yes, I’m fairly certain that it was your friend, the major, who shot at us tonight.”

“He’s no friend of mine!”

“I agree. I suspect that Whitley’s only friend is himself.”

“Most likely, but what are we going to do about him? He can’t be allowed to creep about the neighborhood taking shots at you whenever the mood strikes him.” Her eyes full of fear, she said, “Marcus, you might have been killed tonight…. If anything were to happen to you…” She stopped, her voice suspended by tears. Looking away, she finally managed miserably, “This is all my fault! I put your life in danger. I should never have asked you to intercede for me.” Her gaze fierce, she glanced up at him. “I should have killed him the moment I laid eyes on him, shot him like the venomous reptile he is!”

“I don’t disagree that Whitley appears to want killing, but I would appreciate it if you would allow me that task,” Marcus said quietly.

It was the very quietness of his tone that made her look closely at him, her eyes widening when she saw the resolve in those calm gray depths. Her breath caught. “You really mean to kill him, don’t you?” she asked, half horrified, half approving.

He sighed. “Probably. It’s not something I will take pleasure in, but you called it correctly: he is a venomous reptile and I can no more allow him to live than I could a viper in the stable.”

“Oh, Marcus,” she cried, “you will take care? He is dangerous.”

“And so am I, my dear, so am I.”

The words were said softly, but it was that very softness that sent a shiver down Isabel’s spine, and she looked at him
with new, wondering eyes. Until this moment, if anyone had told her that Marcus Sherbrook could coolly consider the possibility of killing another man, she would not have believed them. Nor would she have believed him capable of actually doing it; but hearing that note in his voice, seeing the icy resolve in his eyes, she realized that there was much behind the calm, polite façade he showed the world. Her heart banged in her chest, memories of his ardent kisses and bold caresses sweeping through her mind. Oh, yes, she thought warmly, there was so much more. So
very
much more!

Their eyes met and suddenly Whitley and the events of the evening evaporated. Desire swirled in the air between them. There was only the two of them, alone in her candlelit bedroom on a windswept, rainy night….

Marcus’s gaze dropped to her nightgown, the peaks of her nipples visible through the delicate lawn fabric. She was naked beneath that frail garment and tonight there would be no more delays, no more reasons why he could not make love to his wife. No more reasons why he could not claim his love. His loins tightened and the passion he’d kept so carefully caged sprang free.

Isabel saw the change in him, saw his eyes darken, recognized the frankly carnal curve to his mouth and, half fearful, half eager, she closed her mind to anything but the knowledge that tonight she would well and truly become Marcus’s wife. Her body tingling in anticipation, when he reached for her she fairly launched herself into his arms, her mouth eager for the touch of his and what would come.

His lips came down hard and hungry on hers, his hands on her upper arms, pulling her against him. There was no thought of denial in her response, her mouth opening beneath the onslaught of his, heat rising through her as his tongue delved deep. When he lifted his mouth from hers, she moaned in protest, unabashedly seeking his lips.

He laughed huskily and muttered, “A moment, sweet; we are both wearing far too many clothes.”

In a second, her gown was whipped over her head and tossed onto the floor; his robe joined it almost immediately and then she was jerked back into his embrace.

Warm flesh met warm flesh and Isabel trembled at the sensation of her naked breasts flattened against the muscled, hair-roughened wall of his chest. His mouth was insatiable, his kisses more and more urgent as he laid her down on the bed. She jumped when his hand closed over her breast, the gentle kneading, the caressing thumb at her nipples sending spirals of hot longing through her.

Marcus had meant to take his time, but he’d been bedeviled by dreams of holding her, making love to her for far too many nights to go as slow as he wished. Telling himself he’d be more tender, gentler the next time, he ravaged her slender body with his mouth and hands. Those tempting little breasts called to him and his lips dropped lower and, with a groan, his hot, searching mouth fastened onto a nipple.

Isabel arched under his touch, the sensation of his warm tongue curling around her nipple unbearably exciting. Her fingers clenched in his thick, black hair, pulling his head closer, reveling in the intimacy of the moment. She was full of longing, aching, yearning,
burning
to become one with him. His mouth worked magic against her breasts and honied heat cascaded through her as his teeth lightly scraped across her sensitized skin. When his big, heavy hand drifted to the thatch of curls at the junction of her thighs and she felt his fingers exploring the soft flesh he found there, she moaned, surging up against him, inviting, begging for deeper penetration.