Dilemma in Yellow Silk (12 page)

To the sound of the other passengers’ complaints, Marcus went off with the key.

“Did you pay over the odds?” she asked.

He smiled, slowly, his eyelids drooping. “I may have done. We have sufficient, my dear. We can afford it.”

“But one room?”

“Plenty of room for two,” he said.

She didn’t need his warning glance to tell her not to say too much. Instead, she tucked her hand in his arm and went into the main room of the inn. She was prepared, for once, to enjoy a meal taken at leisure.

Except her appetite seemed to have fled. The notion of sharing a room with Marcus disturbed her more than somewhat. How could she do that, when her feelings for him were far more than they should be?

After picking at her food, she declared she would go to bed. They had to be up at dawn to make the most of the light, the coachman informed them. Gone at six.

Marcus grabbed their bag, the only one they had, and took her upstairs to their room before anyone else could claim it, as he informed her on the way up. “You appear to have some experience with the stage coach,” she commented as he unlocked the door.

“As a boy, and sometimes at Oxford,” he admitted. “My father made me work to a specific allowance. He wasn’t ungenerous, but sometimes I was too lavish, and at the end of the quarter I would find myself somewhat short of funds.” He shot her a mischievous smile. “The stage isn’t cheap, but it’s much cheaper than keeping a horse stabled or hiring a private vehicle.”

He opened the door and conversation ceased. Going inside, he glanced around and put down the bag. “I’ll sleep in the tap room,” he said abruptly.

His decision made her more than nervous. “But you promised not to leave my side.”

He nodded. “I know. But this inn is a compact one and the room much smaller than I envisioned. I can find a spot where I can see everyone going up and down the stairs. There is only one door to this room.”

She shook her head. “No.” Fear clutched at her, unreasoning and foolish. She’d had enough for one day. “We are supposed to be married. Won’t people think it strange?”

He closed the door, but stayed on her side of it. “What do we care what people think?” He spoke savagely, a vicious edge to his voice. Turning, he grasped her shoulders. “This room—I had counted on a chair, or even a stretch of floor.”

Apart from a tiny washstand and bowl, the only piece of furniture in the room was a huge four-poster bed. The posts and headboard were elaborately carved, the wood nearly black with age but shiny from polishing. “How did they get it in here?” she asked.

“They would have taken it to pieces.” He stared at the posts. “These old beds were often thrown out.”

“You have one at Haxby.” She recalled it in the attics, and yes, it was in pieces. But why crowd such a large bed into such a small room? That was anyone’s guess. Certainly not hers. The sheets were fresh, and the landlord had promised them clean water. “I need to wash, and change, and—um—”

He nodded. “I will stay downstairs. You’ll be safe; I swear it.”

She didn’t want to be safe; she wanted him. But she could not move him, and he left, promising her he would call her in the morning.

Viola finished her book before she climbed into bed. She washed the shift she had taken off and draped it over the washstand to dry. This whole situation was strange, totally unlike anything she had known before. How could she sleep?

In the end, she fell asleep listening to the almost constant noise from downstairs and outside. The inn appeared to be a popular drinking stage, as well as a coaching inn. Was Marcus carousing with them?

With questions revolving through her mind, she finally fell asleep.

A sharp rap on the door woke her from a restless slumber. “Water, missus!” someone shouted in an unfamiliar accent. Viola felt as if she’d barely slept for five minutes, but was keen to appear decent before Marcus appeared.

She was dressed in the skirt of her habit and the shirt by the time Marcus knocked on the door.

Disheveled was putting it politely. She had never seen Marcus less than well-turned out, but today was different. His clothes were crumpled and his eyes bleary. She had lit the candles in the branch, but they were not the best quality and they smoked. He blinked. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you. Shall I leave while you dress?”

“No.” He sounded determined. “Go over there and sit on the bed. Turn your back if you wish, but I won’t strip. Only wash and shave.”

“You have a razor?” She had not thought of that. Not being a male, she had little use for a razor.

“Yes, if you can call it that. And yes, I have shaved myself before. I do so on a regular basis.”

“Oh.” She had not thought a man would not be able to shave himself, but someone in his position would have a valet.

She did not look away as he dropped his coat to the floor, followed by his shirt.

Oh, my.

His back rippled with muscle, and when he lifted his arms, the flex made her mouth go dry. She had never, ever been this close to a half-naked man. If she moved closer, she could spread her hands over his back and soak up his warmth. She swallowed, and in silence, watched him.

Longing filled her, forbidden and wicked. That was why women were so carefully chaperoned, because for two pins she would give up all idea of propriety and fall on him. Warmth settled between her legs, and she’d never been so aware of her own body before. How could he remain so steady?

Watching him shaving was almost unbearably intimate. Few people would ever see him this way. He was a man of importance, surrounded by attendants in the normal way of things. Yet he was moving heaven and earth for her.

Her birth wasn’t why Viola wanted him to escort her. That was only a legend she had only half believed until a few days ago. She wanted him to care for
her
.

Scraping the razor across his skin, he said, “If you carry on watching me like that, I’m in danger of slitting my throat from ear to ear.”

“Oh!” Shocked, she stared at her hands instead. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

He laid the razor down carefully and turned around. “You can look at me now.”

She didn’t know if she wanted to, but his words were a command. Lifting her gaze, she met his eyes.

He burned. He flicked his gaze over her. “I want you, Viola,” he said baldly. “I can’t think of a better way to say it. I am at the edge of my control. You are lovely, intelligent, utterly desirable.”

“To you?”

“To all men. The way that curate leered at you yesterday made me want to knock his teeth down his throat. Don’t you know how utterly delectable you are?”

She opened her mouth, and closed it again.

In a minute he was across the room and he had her in his arms. He slammed his mouth down on hers, ravenously devouring.

She responded, circling her arms around him, and she had her wish. His warm flesh pulsed under her hands. The sheer power of his body made her feel deliciously weak and helpless, although she knew herself to be no such thing. She’d slept with the pistol he’d given her under her pillow, and she would have used it, had she felt the need.

She did not need it now.

He rolled on to the mattress, holding her close, bringing her over him, but he never stopped kissing her. When she dug her fingers into his back, he shuddered. He covered her breast with his hand. Despite the barriers of her shift, stays, and shirt, his touch made her arch towards him.

He tore his lips from hers. “No.” His eyes were wild as he gazed at her. “This is why I slept downstairs, why I need to keep away from you. We cannot. Must not.”

“No.” Of course not.

“We need to dress and go downstairs.” As if he’d done nothing at all, he turned away. He picked up his shirt from the bottom of the bed, throwing it over his head and thrusting his hands through the sleeves. His abrupt, ungraceful motions told her of his agitation. She said nothing. In truth, she didn’t know if the power of speech had returned to her yet.

He felt so very good all she could think of was more. As she put on her stock and buttoned up her jacket, she could think of nothing else. They went downstairs in silence and ate at the big table with the rest of their fellow passengers. She did note that when they climbed aboard, Marcus ensured she was nowhere near the cleric.

The day passed, giving Viola an opportunity to come to terms with her new existence. She would return to her father and Yorkshire soon enough, but this was her chance to make this an adventure. Their pursuers had either given up the chase or could not find them. They were as safe as they could be, considering the circumstances. Now she could relax more and pay more attention to the experience of travel. Although she had travelled from Italy as a baby, Viola naturally had no remembrance of that time. This counted as the longest journey she had ever taken. Certainly the first on public transport.

The scenery passed, mile after mile of hedgerow, the occasional hamlet, and regular stops at inns to change the horses. Passengers did not alight at every stop, only for meals and to stretch their legs. If the coachman was ready, he would set off without a backward glance.

When she napped during the afternoon, Marcus did not hold her. However she found herself leaning against her corner of the coach with a cushion propped behind her head. So he was taking care of her.

In that position she could watch him. He had taken her book and was reading it in a desultory fashion, occasionally chuckling. Pointedly he did not look in her direction, and she did not disturb him, although she was fairly sure he knew she was not properly asleep.

Marcus was the most handsome man she had ever seen. She had never taken stock of him in this way. However, his appearance that morning, together with his out of control kiss, forced her into the realization this man meant much more to her than he should.

For years she had told herself simply that Marcus was too far above her for her even to dream about, but now that was not true. If anything, she was better born than he. But she felt no different. She was still Viola. Did he feel that way? That his titles were not a part of him, but separate? Was he lonely as a single man? Oh, yes, he’d had mistresses—he’d told her himself—but only to satisfy his physical needs, those needs he had so ably demonstrated that morning.

Towards three in the afternoon, Viola knew several things for sure. She wanted him. After their journey, they would probably separate once more. Even if his family sheltered her until the crisis had concluded, she would not spend such time alone with this man again. Soon Marcus would marry, and then his wife would spend time by his side. Even though the identity of his future wife was yet unknown, unreasoning jealousy seared its way through her heart. Nobody should have him but her.

Foolish thinking. But for this journey she was his wife, and she wanted all marriage brought, although their union would be instantly severed when they reached London. She didn’t care. If unfortunate circumstances occurred, she would cope, somehow. Women often went away, bore their embarrassing child, and gave it away.

Just like her mother—her true mother. She had not wanted Viola enough to keep her, but regarded her as a political pawn. For what loving mother would choose to give her sweet baby to another with the prospect of never seeing her again?

Maria Rubio did not deserve the title of mother, Viola decided bitterly. She was merely the vessel that had borne her. Viola belonged to her father in Yorkshire, not the one in Rome. Her name was Viola Gates, not Viola Stuart.

What would their neighbors the Stewarts think of her alarming, not to say shocking, change in circumstances? Would they deride her or bow down to her? Viola would appreciate neither.

Marcus flicked over a page in the book, his attention apparently completely on the novel. But he glanced up, met her eyes, and smiled. Tentatively, she smiled back, and warmth spread through her. That was exactly how she’d seen the marquess connect with his wife without words.

For the next two days this man belonged to her. He was her husband and she would make him behave like one. He would not leave her again, even if the next bedroom was even tinier, with a narrow bed better suited to a maidservant than a fully grown man.

“The coachman says we are making good time,” she said, knowing she could not feign sleep any longer.

“Indeed,” he said, seemingly engrossed, but he flipped another page. He had not read that one. “We will be in London by Thursday night.”

Tuesday, this was Tuesday. She would be a wife for another two days, that was all. Two days and two nights. Why could this not be a wagon, which would take a full week to reach London? But if she travelled in one of the hulking vehicles that carried passengers and cargo, she would probably sleep there, too. People who could not afford to travel any other way used the carts. Even the stage coach was a step up from that.

“I’d hire a carriage, but we are making good time, and you are not uncomfortable, are you, sweetheart?” he said then, sparing her another glance.

Sweetheart. Another treasure for her meager collection. “Not at all,” she said. The lady with the cockerel had not been replaced by another passenger, although some of the travelers on the roof had agitated to be allowed inside. With vails not forthcoming, the coachman had refused them. “It ain’t fair to the people who paid full fare,” he’d said. “If you can’t pay, you travel on top.”

She could not imagine doing that, but if they ran out of money, she could find herself balancing precariously on top, open to all weather.

The journey lulled her into a drowsy half-awake state of mind. She dreamed she was married to Marcus, who was, in truth, a simple country gentleman visiting his cousin in London. The cousin part might be right, but they were peers of the realm, not simple folk or the Cits he claimed when he spoke casually about them in the hearing of others. They would have their time in London, ogling the rich, attending the play, buying a few clothes, and conducting modest business. Then they would return home to their property, something like the house in Scarborough, comfortable but not spectacular.