This Rake of Mine (36 page)

Her eyes flew open and her gaze met his. There was an expression of wonder on his face as well, as he moaned deeply and drove into her one more time, filling her. He gasped and kissed her, his mouth hungry anew, even as the tension in his body seemed to drift away.

"Miranda, you are magnificent," he told her.

She tried to speak but found herself unable to say a thing. Instead, she grinned and nuzzled in close to him. She sighed, letting the sound carry away all her fears from the past nine years.

Never once in her life had she felt as complete or as at home as she did in the arms of this man.

This rake of mine
, she mused.

His fingers ran through the tendrils of her hair, pushing them away from her face.

She smiled at him and said, "Now I know why you were such a successful rake. And I must say, you've been wasting your talents playing the gentleman, Jack Tremont."

«
^
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J
ack awoke an hour or so later and looked over at the sleeping form beside him. Miranda. His passionate, obstinate Miranda. He had meant what he'd said about ending the secrecy and danger that permeated life at Thistleton Park. She'd nearly lost her life meddling in his work, and he knew she would continue to do so as long as he continued his work.

So there was only one solution.

Pulling on his clothes quietly and quickly, he went in search of Temple. He could make his report about Malcolm and then resign. He found the marquis eating a late breakfast, entertaining the girls with a rendition of his infamously stodgy and lofty grandfather.

Jack caught his eye from the door and nodded toward the hall. "I need to speak with you. In private."

The marquis excused himself and followed Jack into the music room. When the door was closed, he said, "So I suppose you want me to apologize for thinking you crack-witted back on the beach?"

Jack, who was making a beeline for the sideboard, came to an abrupt halt. "What did you say?"

"I thought you'd finally gone round the bend when you kept insisting Miss Mabberly was in the folly," Temple said, pointing his lorgnette in the direction of the ceiling and Jack's bedroom. "However did you discover the truth?"

It wasn't the subject Jack wanted to broach, but he knew Temple well enough to realize the man wouldn't rest until he had the entire tale. "She found me, or rather those girls out there found me and brought her along—crazy as it sounds, they had a notion we'd suit."

"Ah, I thought this had a touch of the Duchess's hand in it," Temple said. "Still, it must have been a shock to see Miss Mabberly again when she arrived."

Jack flinched and said nothing.

"You didn't recognize her at first, did you?" Temple said, with what sounded like a chuckle.

There was no use denying it to the man. "No, I didn't," he said. "But then again, I was so far gone that night at the opera, I wouldn't have recognized her half a minute later."

Temple shook his head. "So how was it that you finally came to recognize her? Or dare I ask?"

Jack knocked back his entire drink. "I think it better that you don't ask."

"Oh, what an
on dit
it would make," Temple said with an air of regret, pacing about the room in his overly exaggerated Corinthian style. "That's the demmed shame of this business, the delicious pieces of gossip that come my way, and yet, how can I share them without revealing too much. Why not two months ago, I overheard something utterly remarkable about—"

"Malcolm is dead," Jack blurted out. He hadn't wanted to tell Templeton like that, but the man had a way of going on and on, and he needed to get this interview over with.

When the marquis turned around and stared at him, he was no longer the affable buck of a few moments ago. "What did you say?" The frivolous air had been replaced with a deadly intent.

"Malcolm. He's dead." Now Jack could barely get the words out, the sting of guilt filling his heart anew.

Temple sank into the nearest chair. "How can that be?"

Jack knew exactly what he meant. Malcolm Grey had slipped past the French more times than anyone could count. "On the beach. The militia was firing at us and he…" Clenching his fists and shutting his eyes, he tried to blot out the memories… the retort of the pistols, the splash as Malcolm hit the water, the bright stain of blood on his hands.

"Have you told Clifton?" Temple asked.

Jack shook his head. He had wanted to tell Temple first, if only to gauge how best to do it. After all, it was his fault the man was dead.

"Oh, bloody hell," Temple murmured. "I don't envy you the task of telling him."

Telling Clifton had been his first and only thought, since they were brothers. Half brothers, that is. Still, for heir and bastard they had had a deep and abiding friendship that had spanned the gulf of legitimacy separating them.

Clifton, their father's heir. And Grey, a by-blow from a tavern girl in the village.

And now Malcolm was dead.

"Tell me exactly what happened," Temple said.

Jack explained how Dash had come ashore and refused to let Malcolm get out of the longboat until he'd had his money. Then the militia had sent up the rockets and all hell had broken loose.

"And he didn't say anything to you when he got back to the
Circe?
" Jack asked.

"No, the greedy bastard," Temple cursed. "He just said the militia was out looking for smugglers and you and Malcolm had made for the cave."

"That part was true."

Temple's brow furrowed. "Dash probably knew Clifton well enough to realize that if he told the man his brother had taken a bullet, he'd go overboard and dare the surf and rocks if only to see what had come of Malcolm. With the two of us still aboard, at least Dash had a chance of being paid in full." Temple cursed roundly. "We ought to let that bastard rot in France for the remainder of the war."

While Jack was still furious with Dash, blamed him to some extent for Malcolm's death, he had to give credit where it was due. "Don't think too ill of him—he tried to save Malcolm. Risked his own life to pull him down, but it was too late."

Temple nodded. "Where is he?"

Jack knew what he meant. "Birdwell told me that Miranda and the girls got the workmen to dig a plot for him in the graveyard behind the house." Jack felt the hot sting of tears that he hadn't been the one to see to the task. To put his friend to rest. "She buried him alongside Lord Albin. I don't know how Miranda knew, but I have to imagine it is where Malcolm would have wanted to be. Ironic, don't you think?"

"Yes, very ironic," Temple said, wiping back tears with no shame. "I can only hope that Malcolm's soul finds the peace that he fought so hard to gain."

Jack went to the sideboard and caught up the bottle of brandy.
French brandy
. He put it back and opened the cabinet, digging around until he found something a little more appropriate.

Whisky. Good Scottish whisky. The one Malcolm loved.

As Jack poured out the amber liquid, its heady fumes brought back a raft of memories. Clifton and Grey arriving in the middle of the night, arguing good-naturedly about who had discovered what on their latest mission.

And now that was lost.

Jack and Temple raised their glasses in a silent toast to their fallen friend.

And then Jack went in search of Clifton, to finish the assignment he'd failed so utterly.

Miranda made her way downstairs well after midday. She'd awakened, naked and alone, in Jack's bed. At first, she'd stretched like a cat, relishing the memories of their lovemaking, but when she'd looked up at the sunshine streaming in through the windows and realized the time of day, another thought had come to mind.

Everyone would know what they had done!

At first, her long-held sense of propriety sent a trumpeting roar of panic through her. Why hadn't she thought of that before?

Before Jack had carried her upstairs and… ruined her, truly and utterly.

She groaned and buried her head beneath the covers. How would she ever go down and face everyone?

No, it was decided. She would remain in Jack's bedroom until a special license was secured, the vicar fetched, and they were lawfully and respectably wed.

Heaving a sigh, she sat up and made herself comfortable. Yet something niggled in the back of her mind. She shifted again and looked around the room.

In all the heated passion, in letting herself get lost in the desire his kiss brought forth with such rakish delight, Miranda couldn't help but think that she'd forgotten something.

Something awfully important.

Like, perhaps, a marriage proposal.

Miranda tried to breathe and found she couldn't.

Jack had proposed, hadn't he? She quickly sifted through everything he'd said and done.

Well, he hadn't actually gotten down on bended knee as she'd always imagined her true love and hero would. Nor had he ever actually asked her. More like just declared it.

What had he said?

Do you think I want my wife risking her life…

And hadn't he also said that she was the woman he loved? She crossed her arms over her chest and smiled as she thought of just how much he'd shown her that during the last few hours. Yes, he loved her.

Certainly he had to have been speaking of her when he'd said "my wife."

At least she hoped he'd been referring to her.

Miranda's panic burrowed a little deeper. This was Mad Jack Tremont, and he had seemed a bit overwrought at the time. What if he had changed his mind by now? Proclaimed his declaration of love as nothing more than a momentary fit of madness?

She took a deep breath. She was simply being ridiculous. What she needed to do was get dressed, go downstairs, find Jack, and make sure he had meant her when he'd said "wife" and "love." Then she'd gently suggest that he see to it that procuring a special license, as well as the vicar's services, was on his agenda for the day.

Then she could face everyone in the now overflowing house.

She buried herself under the covers and considered perhaps it would be better just to wait for Jack to return. But after a few moments of hiding, her practical side took over.

Dear heavens, if she stayed up here, that left Lady Josephine and Felicity downstairs and in charge of the household.

Her soon-to-be household.

They might even be planning her wedding. Ordering hothouse flowers, special cakes from London, and a dress from Paris—war or no war.

Propriety was one thing, but the idea of those two together for any length of time was enough to send Miranda rooting around the floor and under the bed in search of her discarded clothing. She dressed quickly and went to the door, wondering how she was going to find her way downstairs; she'd never been in this part of the house and for the life of her couldn't remember exactly which panel they'd come through when they'd snuck up into Jack's bedroom.

She counted her blessings that she didn't run into anyone until she was nearly to the foyer, when Birdwell came around the corner. At the sight of her, the butler broke into a wide smile. "Miss Porter, how good it is to see you up and about."

Miranda felt as if she were blushing all the way down to her toes. "Thank you, Mr. Birdwell." The man continued to stand there, grinning at her, and she knew she'd die of embarrassment if she didn't get matters settled, so she asked, "Do you know where I can find Lord John?"

The butler glanced over his shoulder, his brow furrowed. "His lordship is out in the garden with Lord Clifton."

"Thank you," she said, starting down the stairs.

"Miss Porter," Birdwell said, "you may want to wait a few more moments before you go out there."

"I don't think they'll mind," she said, though she didn't know how many more people she could face before she knew the answer to her question.

Did Jack mean to marry her?

She started forward, but this time the butler caught her by the arm. "Miss, you had best wait."

"Whatever for? This isn't more Thistleton Park intrigue, is it?" She smiled at him and tried to shake his grasp free. But he held her fast.

"No, miss. His lordship is telling the earl about Mr. Grey. About what happened."

"Oh," she said. "Were Lord Clifton and Mr. Grey good friends?"

"No." Birdwell shook his head, then looked her steadily in the eye. "They were brothers."

Miranda's knees wavered. "Oh, heavens," she whispered. "I didn't know." She swallowed and glanced toward the front door. "How terrible for Lord Clifton."
And for Jack
, she thought, remembering the blood on his hands—from trying to save his friend's life. "It won't be easy for Jack to tell him."

Birdwell nodded in agreement.

Just then the front door opened and a white-faced Clifton walked in, his back ramrod straight, his expression tight and emotionless. He walked past Miranda and Birdwell as if he didn't see them and continued up the stairs without a word.

"Oh, dear, I daresay that didn't go well," Miranda whispered, once Lord Clifton disappeared from sight. If the look of grief on the earl's face was any indication of how the news had gone over, she had to imagine Jack was feeling a similar devastating sense of loss.

"Lord John will bear the responsibility of this," Birdwell said sadly.

"But how is it Jack's fault?" Miranda set her jaw. "The militia shot Mr. Grey. If anyone is at fault, it is Sir Norris."

"It is not how Lord John will see it. It was his job to see Grey and the others ashore safely, and…" Birdwell sighed. "I think he hoped to redeem himself when he came here, prove to one and all that he wasn't such a wastrel, make his life complete and meaningful, but now… I daresay after his speech this morning, he'll never complete his work here."

She knew he didn't mean just Jack's obligations to the Foreign Office. He meant achieving a sense of worth and nobility that had been missing all Jack's life.

Miranda blew out a deep breath. Lady Josephine had made a point of telling her all the good and brave things Jack had done. The loss of Grey was chilling, but what about all the lives he had saved?