A Scandalous Lady (16 page)

“Where did you get—” Her face snapped around to the bundle tied to the back of his saddle. “You took them from your ship, didn't you?”

“They weren't being used.”

“Oh, Baron . . .” She started to caress his cheek, then drew back as if remembering where they were.

And who surrounded them.

Troyce didn't need to look into their faces to know what he would find; they'd made it perfectly clear when he'd ridden through town. Condemnation. Disdain. Utter and absolute hatred.

“Someone help me get him on his horse,” Faith ordered.

Not a person moved.

“He brought coverings for your windows to keep out the rain.”

Still, no one moved. In fact, the tension in the air only seemed to intensify, and a sliver of apprehension embedded itself at the back of Troyce's neck.

“He's trying to help you, can't you see that?”

“Faith, let it go,” Troyce said, gathering his strength and his bearings. “I can manage on my own.”

“Where was his lordship when the crops failed two seasons in a row?” Someone called out from the crowd. “Where was he when we needed timber for the fences?”

“Too busy slippin' his hands up some muck-a-muck's skirts, I'll wager,” someone else cried.

“Off hobnobbin' with the hoity-toities, that's where he was,” another chimed in. “Forgettin' all about the little folks what put supper on his table.”

“We don't want his bloody help,” a bear of a man spat.

“Then you are fools, every one of you,” Faith hissed in his defense. “He alone has the means to give all of you a fresh chance. Though why he'd do it, I can't imagine. You've certainly done nothing to deserve it.”

“He abandoned us!”

She looked them up and down with undisguised loathing. “You abandoned yourselves.”

 

Faith had no idea how she managed to get him on the horse. He was swaying so badly on his feet that she feared he would lose consciousness. Somehow, he put his foot in the stirrup and with her shoving his backside, swung his leg over. No sooner was he in the saddle than he slumped forward.

She'd never ridden a horse before and didn't think now was the best time to learn. Instead, she took the reins and walked beside the animal, hoping it wouldn't give her any trouble. If the baron fell off, she had no idea how she would get him back in the saddle.

It took nearly thirty minutes to reach the manor, and in all that time, the baron didn't stir again until the horse came to a stop at the front gate. “Stay here and don't move. I'll be right back.”

Faith was afraid to leave him, but there was no possible way she'd be able to get him into the house without help. Several minutes later, Lady Brayton was following her outside. Against Faith's orders, the baron had dismounted, and stood leaning heavily against the animal's flanks, his hand cradling the right side of his head above his temple.

“What happened?” Lady Brayton cried, rushing to his side. “Good heavens, you're bleeding.”

He pushed himself upright, and though he was steadier on his feet than he'd been before, his face was an alarming shade of gray. But Faith was so grateful to see him alert that her legs went weak.

“I fell from my horse, Devon. Don't concern yourself.” The look he cast Faith's way warned her not to gainsay him.

“I'll get some water and rags,” Millie said, then rushed toward the kitchen.

With Faith on one side, Lady Brayton on the other, they supported his weight into the house and led him up the stairs to his room.

Faith had never been in the master's chambers before, since the task of cleaning the lord's and lady's rooms had been delegated to Lucy. The room was large and airy, decorated in shades of rich burgundy and gray the same shade as his eyes, with a heavy, masculine wardrobe, two trunks, two thick-cushioned chairs, and a massive four-poster bed fit for a king.

Or a prince.

He sank onto the mattress and ordered Lady Brayton to leave him, which she, of course, ignored. Faith stayed back near the door, out of the way, wringing her hands and fighting the instinct to comfort him. But she knew it would not be allowed. Lady Brayton would strangle her before letting her near the baron, and Faith was in no position to challenge her.

But as she watched the duchess fuss over him like a mother hen, the realization struck her of how dearly Her Grace cared for his lordship. The two might grouse and disagree, but the bond between brother and sister could not be mistaken. Seeing it, feeling it, made her remember a time when she'd shared the same sort of bond with her own sister. Faith's throat tightened, and the hollow ache she tried to ignore whenever she thought of Aniste—or
Honesty
as she'd dubbed her during their childhood—settled in her breast. They'd been so little, alike in so many ways and close as peas in a pod, but Honesty had always been the more vibrant of the two.

No wonder their father had chosen her sister over her.

Spotting her lingering in the doorway, Lady Brayton frowned, then shut the door, banning her from the baron. She was not allowed near him for the rest of the day, and worry for him was driving her mad. Finally, near dusk, Lady Brayton left his room.

“How is he, Your Grace?” Faith asked, rising from the hallway floor just as the duchess shut his door.

“What are you doing here? Haven't you caused enough damage?”

“Me?”

“I don't care what my brother said happened, his horse didn't throw him. West learned to ride before he could walk. I know that he went to the village, and I also know that he wouldn't have gone there if hadn't been for you.”

Every word seemed to take nicks out of her flesh. “I'm sorry.” She could hardly get the words passed the lump of anguish lodged in her throat.

“Sorry? You could have gotten him killed!”

Faith didn't know what to say. How could she deny what she knew to be true?

“If you want to waste your time and risk your life on that bloody village, then so be it, but do not jeopardize my brother's. Until he is in a better position to provide what they need, he will not be returning. In the meantime, you just . . . stay away from him, do you hear me?”

As if to drive the edict home, Lady Brayton locked the baron's door and pocketed the key, then marched past Faith down the hall.

Faith stared at the door for several long moments, before turning away. Back in her own room, she paced the floor. The duchess was right. It
was
her fault the baron had been hurt. If she hadn't been so damned insistent on fixing the problems of the lands, he never would have gone to the village, and they never would have stoned him.

Why had he gone there?

Why had he decided to bring the canvasses, knowing what sort of welcome he would receive?

She managed to obey Lady Brayton's order for all of an hour before digging out a familiar leather case from her rucksack, which she'd confiscated while loading the carriages for the journey to Westborough. Even though she hadn't thought she'd have need of her tools again, it still belonged to her.

Returning to the baron's room, she knocked softly on the door. “Baron?”

No answer. She knocked again. “Lord Westborough?”

Still no answer.

Her blood beginning to run cold, she extracted a set of false keys from her kit and wedged them, one after another, into the keyhole. On the fourth try, she heard the familiar click of the lock releasing. Absently tucking the case into her apron pocket, Faith let herself inside.

He stood by the window, the moonlight casting his face in half shadows, so much like the first time she'd seen him under the lamplight in front of a London tavern that her heart skipped several beats. Then she'd thought him her prince of dreams.

Now, she knew he was only a man.

A remarkable, foolish man.

“Troyce?”

He turned, saw her, and looked back out the window.

She took a bold step forward. “I thought you were resting.” Another step. “How are you feeling?”

With a brief and slanted glance over his shoulder acknowledging her presence, he answered, “My head hurts like hell, but I'll live.”

“This is not the first time they've turned on you, is it?”

His silence said it all.

Anger rose inside Faith, swift and blazing. At him for being so foolhardy. At the villagers for being so cruel. At herself for causing it in the first place. “Why do you allow it?”

“Because they're right. I did abandon them. Like father like son.” He laughed a humorless laugh that ended on a groan.

Instantly, Faith was at his side. The swelling above his temple seemed to have abated, but the cut had been deep, and he'd no doubt carry a scar. “Oh, Baron, I'm sorry,” she said, reaching up to touch the knot, then drawing back at the last moment lest she cause him pain. “Can you forgive me?”

“For what? You had nothing to do with this.”

“I feel like I did.”

“Oh, Faith.” He brushed a damp curl from her cheek with his finger. “Their contention has been an issue long before you arrived, and it will be dealt with, I promise you that.”

She could hardly think when he touched her. Her heart jumped. Her mouth went dry. “What will you do?”

“I will finish what you began. I refuse to let them drive me away any longer.”

A flash of fear mingled with the pride in her expression, and Troyce's heart soared. Unlike Devon, she didn't scold him for his decision. Instead, she understood his inability to give up. To let them win.

“Lady Brayton will not be pleased if you go back to the village.”

“Lady Brayton is my sister, Faith, not my mother.”

“She worries over you.”

“I'll admit that it's nice to know that someone worries over me, but I'm a grown man. I make my own decisions.”

“Even at the risk of your own life?”

“Are you worried for me, too, Faith?”

Slowly she looked up at him, and he lost himself in her eyes. Every emotion she felt was reflected there. Fear. Hope.

Desire.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I couldn't bear it if something happened to you.”

His resistance slipped. God, to hear her say that he meant something to her was like receiving a gift. He took a step toward her. She watched him closely, but she didn't move. Her lids grew heavy. Her lashes fell, dark crescents against her cheekbones. Then she licked her lips, and the ache he'd been nursing in his head all afternoon took a downward shift. The top of her head came just below his chin. Faith was not exactly petite, nor was she overly tall. But next to him, she seemed so small. So fragile. So defenseless. It could have been her being pelted with stones. It could have been her on the ground.

Aware that he was flirting with danger, he traced the edge of her jaw with his fingertip. “God, you are so beautiful.” A man could drown in those eyes of hers, and her skin . . . it wasn't pallid like so many women, but fresh and healthy and natural. His fingers traced their way to her mouth. He should leave her alone. But he couldn't. She'd haunted his thoughts, tormented his dreams . . . he could hardly sleep at night for wanting her.

Her lips parted under his caress and Troyce lost all sense of reason. He dipped his head, paused, then settled his mouth on hers. There was hesitance and then a strange resignation as her mouth softened beneath his. Ah, God, she tasted good. Like the heat of sunshine. Like the mystery of moonbeams. And simply like Faith. He slid his tongue across her bottom lip, once, twice, gently so as not to frighten her. He had no idea how much experience she had with men, but from her awkward and timid response, he guessed little or none at all. The thought pleased him immensely.

His patience coaxed a response. She tasted him back, the feel of her tongue meeting his so sweet, so tentative that his chest swelled to the point of bursting.

He'd never known that simply kissing a woman could be so arousing. It took every ounce of willpower he could summon not to thrust his tongue into her mouth, shove her skirts up to her waist, and bury himself inside her. His manhood strained against the front of his breeches, his blood crashed through his veins likes waves in a tempest.

Instead, he held himself tightly in check, his hands remaining around her delicate jaw, his tongue stroking her mouth until his entire body trembled with the effort of holding back.

A whimper penetrated the haze of desire. She brought her hands up between them and pushed at his chest.

He drew back, his brows furrowing. “What is it?”

“I can't . . .” She shook her head.

“You can't what?”

“I can't do this.”

“You can't kiss me?”

“I fear it would not stop with kissing.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“Aye. I will be no man's whore, Baron, not even yours.”

“I don't want you to be any man's whore, Faith. Most especially mine.” His dropped to a husky pitch. “Intimacy between a man and a woman who desire each other need not be vulgar or distasteful. Quite the opposite is true—it can be immensely pleasurable.”

“In your world perhaps, not in mine.”

“Has no man ever made love to you, Faith?” He brushed the pad of his fingers across her kiss-slicked mouth. “Has no man ever feasted upon those succulent lips, buried himself in the glory of your softness? Has no man ever brought you to the highest of heights?”

Every word he spoke, every touch he bestowed, surrounded her in dreams she'd long forgotten to dream. Of being loved. Of being wanted. “You wish to make me your lady, then?”

His shock might have been comical to Faith if it weren't so heartbreaking.

“I wish to be with you,” he said carefully. “Why tarnish something so rare and special with something as confining as marriage? We shall simply enjoy each other. If the time comes when one of us is no longer pleased with the other, we would be free to seek our pleasures elsewhere.”