What Isabella Desires (18 page)

Marcus threw his white hot rage beneath a cold smile. “And what were you going to do with the lady once you had her?”

“Return to London.”

Marcus split the seam next to Tommy’s knee with the knife’s edge.

Tommy squealed. “As long as she didn’t give us any trouble,” he hastily amended.

“You were told you could dispose of her otherwise, I’m sure.”

Tommy looked like he was about to cry. “We wouldn’t have. No good killing womenfolk. We just needed to hold her. To use her to get to you.”

“If only your statement were true, Judas. I would really like to let you go.” Marcus feigned a sigh. “But I know that it’s not true. Someone already tried to kill her.”

He moved suddenly, the sharp edge of the knife pressed against Tommy’s throat. “And I will kill anyone who tries again, do you understand that?”

The rank smell of urine permeated the air, giving Marcus Tommy’s answer.

Even if he hadn’t been a believer before, Tommy believed him now. Which was good, because this wasn’t a bluff. Marcus wasn’t going to let anyone harm Isabella. He would hunt down and destroy the perpetrators. And nobody was going to stand in his way.

“Now, let’s try again.”

Isabella played with the lace stitches on her nightgown. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t seek him out. That she would stay in bed and wake tomorrow and see how things progressed. But the nagging feeling that she was needed somewhere, somewhere downstairs, was becoming increasingly clear.

She would just take a quick peek downstairs. If he wasn’t there, she could return to bed, with only her earlier thoughts plaguing her. If he was there, well, she would see.

She pushed back the covers and slid from the bed.

Her door opened soundlessly and she padded across the soft runner, down the hall. She slipped down the stairs, following the sound of her heart. Sound echoed from the music room as she neared. The stormy and brooding notes of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata 14 pounded from within, not played with any underlying tenderness or uncertainty, but as if to purge demons from his very soul.

Her hand rested against the frame of the door as she watched him hunched over the instrument, fingers skittering down the keys and thumping the bass rhythm.

The piano really was magnificent.

The player even more so.

Dark locks obscured portions of his face, but his eyes were still visible. Locked onto the board, the keys below, the hammers underneath, the strings twanging and producing the melancholic, angst ridden sounds that he wanted. Needed.

Her heart beat in her chest. She was at a loss. She didn’t know what it was he so desperately needed. Something she was obviously unable to give.

His eyes shifted to her, through the hanging locks, and then back to the keys below, hammering just a little bit harder on the board, playing a little bit faster from the already too frenzied pace.

Her hand slipped from the frame and her feet carried her across the separating space. Her fingers played across the piano lid, feeling the vibrations from within as he continued the driving pace.

Seeking something at the end of a journey. Comfort? Redemption?

Her other hand found its way into his hair, pulling it back from his face. Her fingers touched the side of his face, offering solace.

He shuddered and missed a note. Then he was reaching for her, hands on her waist, pulling her between his parted thighs, backside to the piano keys as the movements banged off key.

He kissed her, devouring her like the notes of the music in the night. Dark and deep and overwhelming.

She returned the kiss with all the emotion she had. She didn’t like fighting with him. Didn’t like the fact that he had used her and lied to her. Didn’t like the haunted look in his eyes. Eyes that usually only showed what he wanted them to. Never fear.

Fear of what?

She looked at him and fell into his golden eyes.

He couldn’t stop looking at her, absorbing every detail in the shifting light. She was beautiful, her features dark and mysterious in the shadows, splayed as she was over the piano. His hand started just under her throat and stroked down the length of her, thumb curling into the heat between her legs, hot through the thin gown. She arched upon the keys and lid, her head thrown back.

This woman was different from the very proper lady of the ballrooms, from the slightly daring Isabella of the recent weeks, or even the warmly passionate Bella of last night.

She was hot and wild and worried. Worried about him. No one had worried about his state of being in a very long time. Not as a primary concern.

It was intoxicating. And terrifying.

He inched up her gown and trailed his fingers along the smooth skin beneath, from her thighs to the crowning curls. He replaced his fingers with his mouth. She squeaked and bucked. He anchored her in place and thrust his tongue within.

She moaned, grabbed his hair and pulled; her head dropping back as he greedily watched. He held her in place, circling her sensitive spots and mercilessly playing inside.

She edged up the piano backward, arching, moaning, and moving her way up one inch at a time, allowing him to do anything he desired. Her bare feet dangled, hitting the keys and plunking a discordant tune that echoed her jagged breathing.

Lifting her hips, he slid her farther up the lid, her gown still bunched beneath, letting him move her around without harm.

He reached for the top of her gown, the two peaks there seeking attention as she squirmed beneath him.

His hands brushed lightly over the top, making her wiggle and arch. He took one more taste of her in order to hear those delicious sounds. He was the composer and she his most beautiful creation. He pulled her back down toward him and slid her off the piano.

She grabbed his head and forcefully kissed him, melding her body to his. She was wild and free, and he had the dangerous thought that he could get used to this side of her very easily. As long as she stayed his good friend he could keep her at arm’s length. But as his good friend by day and this passionate creature at night? No, he wasn’t so sure that arm’s length was quite far enough.

He pulled her closer.

Sweet Isabella. His sweet Isabella.

He stripped her gown and chemise and tossed them onto the keys and edge of the piano lid. She stood naked before him in the flickering light, a small bit of sanity returning to her open face as self-consciousness flickered across.

That wouldn’t do at all.

He pushed back, just an inch, and performed an exaggerated perusal of her body. She automatically pulled her arms in front of her, which he batted away. “You are beautiful. And you are mine. And I don’t like my artwork hidden.”

He pulled her to him and somehow managed to get his trousers undone and her settled on his lap in one motion. He gently pushed her torso back so she relaxed against the edge of the keyboard, cushioned by her dress.

He could see her entirely. The glazed look in her eyes, her heavy hair gone awry, the way her heaving breaths lifted her breasts. Up, down, up, down. A fine sheen of perspiration pearling her skin. The way the shadows played against her stomach, her hips, her thighs.

The gorgeous, glistening area in between.

He leaned forward, shifting her on his lap as he moved, and pulled her right nipple between his lips. Her hands found his hair again, tugging at the back, urging him closer.

“Marcus,” she whispered, her voice breathy and erotic.

He looked up at her though his lashes, his tongue lazily tracing her breast, sucking at her nipple. Her eyes were heavy and pleading, her panting seductive and entreating. Her bottom was inching up his legs, trying to get closer.

She was miles past ready.

He thrust two fingers into her.

The keys violently depressed beneath her as she threw her head back once more and wailed to their tune. He scooted the bench forward with his other hand. Her beautiful legs dropped over the back edges of the bench and brought her into perfect alignment.

They brushed together.

Her head lifted and she met his eyes. There was so much emotion there he didn’t want to define, didn’t dare, but it poured through him.

He reached up with both hands and framed her cheeks. He bent forward for a soft kiss before pulling back.

“Bella.”

He buried his fingers all the way to the top knuckles in her glorious hair, at the same time he buried himself within her.

She let out a silent scream and arched her back, pushing down on him further.

And then she was riding him, and he was pushing her against the cushion, against the keys, the length of him spearing her and filling her.

Love swirled around her. Their actions swirled within.

The pace was fast and deep. He pushed against the top walls inside of her, sliding against her most sensitive areas without.

And she fell apart, coming violently among the cresting waves and opened stars.

He felt her breaking and wished with all he had that he might join her there. But he closed his eyes to her, sense prevailing, and lifted her up and away from him the very second before he too found violent release.

He shuddered and pressed his forehead to hers, too broken to risk seeing the confusion in her eyes, the unhidden pain. The same look she’d worn last night, but most likely magnified tenfold.

He could never explain. He was Lord Roth. Arrogant, a pacesetter, beyond capable in anything he tried; loved, respected, and hated alike.

Never would he admit, least of all to Isabella, that something was very much wrong with him.

He had overridden all of her hesitations for coming out to garden today. Now that she knew more about the activities that surrounded his darker side, she supposed that he was more used to living on the edge of danger than she.

Not that it was too difficult. She had little experience with danger. She had even written off the carriage incident—both carriage incidents—as accidents. Why would she presume her life to be in danger? She had had no prior reason to think in those terms.

There were no guards actively patrolling today, though she knew they hovered on the edges of the grounds and property. Marcus had accompanied her from the outset.

She had heard a version of what had taken place the previous night after dinner. She was under no illusions that the account had been abridged.

The garden they had chosen was close to the manor. Small dog-rose hedgerows surrounded the garden, and pale pink flowers and thorns dotted the low bushes, bestowing a colorful yet prickly atmosphere. It was the cook’s garden, with multiple herbs and spices planted throughout.

The walls were low enough so they could see out and others, namely brawny servants, could see in.

From the side of her gaze she saw Marcus put his ledger aside to watch her.

They had declared a tentative truce. Neither had spoken directly about their argument the day before or what had occurred in the music room; instead, they silently agreed to go forward.

She hoped their relationship would progress naturally. She didn’t know what Marcus was thinking. She rarely did, and the thought rankled.

Where not knowing had once been a mysterious and seductive thing, now it was frustrating and nail-biting.

“What are you planting?”

She patted the soil into place. “Feverfew. Especially good for headaches.”

He leaned forward. “Really? What types of headaches?”

She shrugged. “All types. Though some healers swear by lavender or betony. Ladies mantle or chamomile. If you had an especially severe headache, willow bark is what I would recommend.”

“And you think the herbs work? They are different from what the quack doctors conceive?”

She shot him a smile. “Not all doctors are half trained. Besides, there is a time-tested tradition with some of these remedies. They’ve been used for years.”

Marcus’s face took on a brooding expression. “I see. So they would have been tried years ago?”

Isabella shrugged. “Perhaps. It all depends on whose advice was sought. Why do you ask?” Curiosity pricked a memory. “Did your father have head pains? I seem to remember your mother asking after remedies.”

His face shut down. He touched a plant near him. “And this?”

She reached over and batted his hand away. “’Tis foxglove. It’s been mistaken for comfrey more than once, to a deadly result. I should ask the gardener about moving it. Even if it is not in the herb plot, still, it does no good in the vicinity if a hapless servant were to pick it for tea.”

He examined the stalks. “Looks as if someone picked some already.”

She absently looked. “Probably for a basket. If you need me to brew you something for a headache, I can make you a tisane.”

“I don’t need anything for a headache.”

She patted some parsley into place, ignoring him. “This is parsley.”

“I at least know that much.”

“Well, I know you said something about not liking to get your hands dirty. Thinking with your mind, not with your hands.”

His eyes sparked. “Did I? I don’t mind dirtying my hands at all where certain things are concerned.”

“Did you know parsley wine is known for its…more uplifting qualities?”

He leaned forward and pulled an escaped lock of her hair around his finger. “Is it? What other fascinating things do your herbs do?”

“Promote healing. Increase vigor. Stop death. Increase urges.”

“What types of urges do you have, my lady?”

“Ones that need no increase from parsley wine.”

His lips brushed across hers. Anyone could see them, but suddenly she didn’t care. She parted her lips for a soft, promising open-mouthed kiss.

A throat cleared.

Isabella pulled back, face flaming as a liveried servant stood uncomfortably between two hedgerows.

She tugged her overly large bonnet and grabbed another plant, her spade spiking into the soil at random.

Marcus leaned back on the bench. “Yes?”

“News from London, my lord.”

The steady stream of messengers was starting to irritate her.

Isabella picked up the basket she had brought with her and stood. The gardeners would clean up the tools and extra plants. She wasn’t fool enough to stay outside while Marcus went in. Not that he would allow it anyway.

She trooped upstairs to bathe and nap. Bertie was always nagging her about staying out in the sun, but with a wide-brimmed bonnet and a parasol, she never had any worries. But the sun tended to drain her energy even fully covered, and a nap sounded divine. She wanted to be alert for anything Marcus had planned later.

“You are sure?”

The messenger nodded. “Yes. The Crosby gang has all been rounded up. The information you sent led straight to them. The head of the gang admitted to writing the notes. One of the boys is a printer’s devil. We got him through the ink. He led us to the stragglers.”

Marcus reread the paper in his hand. It was from James and essentially said the same thing, but was signed by his friend’s hand.

“Something still seems off.”

He had sent the information with his fastest rider as soon as he had finished questioning the man they’d captured. He knew James and the others would take care of the roundup. But he didn’t like being so far away from London. The ploy had served its purpose. It had more than served its purpose. If the note was to be believed, they had captured the lot.

Still…it felt like something was missing, but he couldn’t be sure if it was a genuine feeling or one promoted by missing out on the London capture and the closure of it.

“Could be we don’t have every last one,” the messenger said, “but the majority are in our control, as well as the leader, of that we are sure.”

“And their plans?”

“To capture Lady Willoughby and use her against you. It was revenge.”

“All of their plans are dead or have been revoked?”

“Yes.”

He tapped the note. He knew no one else had ventured near the estate. His men were the best, and they knew every inch of the property, as had been shown the day before.

“My lord?”

Isabella would be free to return to town. She could leave him whenever she chose.

“Yes?”

When would she do it?

“Would you like me to relay anything?”

Usually he had plenty of correspondence. Today he had none. He had not been able to write a line. Too many thoughts. Too many fears.

And the scariest thing was…

“No. Thank you.”…what if she didn’t leave him?

They had been playing picquet for half an hour. She had beaten him at chess, though it had been close. His mind had been elsewhere all day and through supper.

“What is on your mind, Marcus?”

He swirled the wine in his glass, the dark burgundy catching the light on the crystal. “The villains have been rousted.”

A weight lifted from her shoulders. She was beyond relieved. He looked anything but.

“This is a good thing, no? Why do you act as if someone has died?”

“Not died, Bella. I just feel something is off, is all. But we can leave for town at any time.”

Some of the weight settled back on, but with it was its own brand of relief. “Well, then we should stay.”

He hummed a noncommittal noise.

“If you feel that everything has not been cleared up satisfactorily, I would rather we stay here.”

That, and she wanted to keep him for herself as long as possible.

“You do not find it a bore so far from the city?”

He knew she didn’t, so she sent him a disparaging glance. “You know I don’t. Besides, I like being with you. Having you all to myself.”

He smiled. “Such a greedy creature you’ve become. Count me impressed.”

“I’m sure.”

They played a few more tricks. A flickering light from the hall caught her attention, and her eyes grazed a family portrait of Marcus and his parents. He looked to be about twelve, just growing into the man he would become.

“Why do those of your family have only one child? It is a legend of your line.”

He stiffened, but played his card. “Instead of the heir and the spare, a good English tradition?”

She bit her lip. “Even beyond those reasons, many people desire a larger family.”

“Why did your family stop with one?”

“Mother said they just weren’t blessed with more. I don’t believe it was a case of not wanting more, just that it didn’t happen.”

“Perhaps thus it was so in my line.”

His tone suggested that he did not care for the line of questioning.

“Would you prefer more than one child if given the choice?”

“I would prefer none at all.”

She swallowed and looked away, her eyes catching on the portrait again. His parents were seated closely together, their hands interlaced. “Your parents were happily married.”

“Yes.”

“A terrible hit for your mother when your father died.”

“She died broken.”

“A broken heart?”

“A broken spirit.”

“What do you mean?”

He said nothing, playing another card.

“Were you there, with her?”

“I was there through it all.”

His choice of words was odd, but before she had a chance to question him, he changed the subject.

“Who heads the donation committee for the Botanical Society?”

She let him change it.

“Mrs. Creel.”

“Ah. Perhaps I will give the money to you instead. Mrs. Creel holds little liking for me.”

“It’s because you turned up your nose at her cousin.” She gave him a disapproving glance.

“Ah yes, Yarnley. Got himself into a fine mess. Deserved every upturned nose he received.”

“For some bad credit?”

“For his illegal activities and indiscretions.”

“Surely you are not saying that he was turned out for an affair? There is more than one well-born child who looks like a peer who is not his father. A woman may face such disgrace, but not a man.”

“Not for an affair. For many, many affairs, some of which were with girls not old enough to decide otherwise.”

Her eyes widened. “You jest.”

“No.”

“I’ve never understood what other women saw in Yarnley. He was unctuous, and always reminded me of a circling raptor.”

“Like a man hunting prey.”

“Oh, and I thought you were the one who hunted prey, Marcus.”

He cocked a brow. “Do you see yourself as a dove, Bella?”

“Perhaps a sparrow.”

“Is it your wish that I hunt you? I can’t think of a more delicious meal.”

Heat rose in her cheeks. “I would never deny you a good meal, Marcus.”

He put down his cards and touched her cheeks, bringing her across the table for a rather ravaging kiss. Her cards slipped from her fingers to clatter softly on the table.

She was leaning over the table trying to get closer to him. Her breasts grazed the top, brushing cards from the surface.

He drew back. “While last night was quite lovely, I think I’d prefer the softness of a real bed.”

She ached at the look in his eyes.

He took her hand and led her upstairs. The artwork on the walls and the bolted rugs passed by in a haze as he turned toward the family wing. His fingers caressed hers as he opened his door, and she caught the back of a valet leaving through a side door.

It was the first time she had seen his bedroom, his domain. The colors were gloriously dark and thick, permeating the room with a warm cocoon effect. The furnishings were sparse, the middle of the room completely bare, everything pushed to the edges. No rugs in sight

The entire scene was neat. A gloriously appointed spartan atmosphere. Not quite a dark cave, for the fabrics were rich and luxurious, from the drapes to the turned-down bedding. But cluttered it was not.

She started to say something, but his mouth claimed hers, and when she could speak, she found something infinitely better to say.

“About that bed?” she whispered.

He smiled against her mouth and backed her toward the bed. He started to remove her dress, and when his hand dipped down the back, he smiled again.

“I’m shocked, Bella. No stays?”

She’d felt naked without them, and her dress had looked a bit odd, but the feeling of being naked, bare to him beneath, had kept her on the edge since she had changed for dinner. Bertie had just shaken her head and muttered.