Jo Beverley (15 page)

“Good morning, Minerva,” he said as if this was the most normal thing in the world, but there was definitely a question in his eyes.

Meg knew her cheeks had flared a guilty red, but she tried. Clutching her trembling hands inside her muff, she said, “Good morning, Saxonhurst. Winter morning air is so invigorating, isn't it?”

He stretched and yawned and she was suddenly aware that he only wore dark pantaloons and white shirt, carelessly open at the neck and loose at the wrists. He must be freezing. Their breath was puffing, and yet he seemed as careless of cold as a healthy animal.

She gulped. If she'd thought herself aware of his body before, she'd been wrong. This was awareness. She could glimpse his contoured chest, and imagine the rest of the torso so lightly veiled by fine white cotton. No imagination was needed about the shape of hips and legs in form-fitting black wool. She could even see the round shape of his male parts.

As he stretched, her attention was dragged to his elegant hands, and the strong lower arms exposed by his unfastened cuffs.

His neck. His jaw. His rumpled, beautiful hair.

His golden eyes watching her with wry amusement.

Watching her watching him.

Even then, she couldn't stop. She felt drunk and completely out of control.

Astonishing though it was, this magnificent man was hers. By his look, by his tolerance of her look, he was accepting it as he had last night when he'd offered her
the freedom of his body. She ran her gaze over him again in a way she had never imagined looking at a man.

She'd certainly never imagined a man being willing to be looked at like that by her.

Hers. Hers to command.

Oh, how she regretted her false monthly flow! But it only forced a minor delay.

“Invigorating?” he said at last, in that way he had which gave even innocent words a spicy edge. “Perhaps it is at that. However, being unacquainted with winter morning air, I'm damned if I know what it is except freezing. Are you always so sprightly so early, my dear?” With a distinctly wicked look, he added, “I find the idea delightful.”

Meg heard herself say, “I don't know.”

He'd think her a complete idiot, but she didn't know. She was answering his underlying question, which had something to do with the marriage bed, and she was too tired to make sense. Whatever force had carried her home, then carried her to the door, had now drained away. Her head swam and everything seemed a distance away, and not quite real.

Even he seemed unreal. Too beautiful to be real. Too beautiful for Meg Gillingham, idiot, liar, and thief.

“I am determined to reform.” She hadn't meant to say that out loud. She struggled to make sense of it by adding, “Morning walks, you know, my lord. Not lying around in bed . . .”

Oh, how she wanted to be lying in a bed!

“How admirable. If you are determined on early morning walks, you will like Haverhall, even in the winter. Brak enjoys walks there, too. Do you need to commune some more with nature now, or are you ready to come in and have breakfast?”

In. In was good. It led to warmth and a bed.

Meg walked forward, then absorbed the word “breakfast.” She hadn't thought that people would expect her to go through a normal day. She couldn't!

Perhaps she swayed, for his arm came around her. “Are you unwell?”

There was only one thing to say. Sickened at her own lack of integrity, she picked up her lie again. “It's the
time of month, you know. I think I should go back to bed.”

He swung her into his arms and carried her, carried her past the startled servants in the kitchen, and up the stairs to her room. Against his hot chest, hand on his shoulder, with only fine lawn and her glove between their skin, Meg fought tears of weary hopelessness.

Nothing good could come of lies.

And she wanted something good with this man. Wanted it very badly.

He placed her carefully on the bed, extricating her from her cloak and hat as he did so. Instead of summoning her maid, he pulled off her gloves and shoes himself, then brushed straggling hair off her face. “There. Shall I send Susie to help you undress?”

He looked so concerned, and his dog had its head on the mattress and might even be concerned too. “Yes please. I'm sorry—”

Again, his hand sealed her lips. “It's my fault for demanding instant marriage. Or rather, the duchess's fault. If we'd been able to follow tradition and let the bride choose the day, we could have avoided this.”

Meg felt Satan should appear at that moment and drag her straight to hell.

He kissed his fingers and touched them gently to her lips. “It's no bad thing, really. You were right, my dear. Last night was too early, and now I can woo you in proper form. I do want you eager, Minerva, not exhausted or frightened.”

“I'll try.”

“I hope it won't be too much of an effort.” He snapped his fingers and he and the dog left, but before obeying, the animal licked once at her hand.

Tears stung Meg's eyes, both at her husband's dry tone, and that gesture of sympathy from one coward to another. What a wretch she was.

If only she'd said she was at the
end
of her monthly flow.

Oh, if only she'd not lied to him at all.

And it had all been for nothing. The
sheelagh
was gone.

By the time Susie bustled in, Meg was sniffing back tears. She'd lost the
sheelagh
and lied to her husband, and was probably going to have to lie to him again, and again, and again. . . .

Now even Susie was frowning at her.

Of course. A personal servant knew everything, even when a woman bled. Susie must think Meg had lied about it just to escape her wifely duties.

Well, she had in a way. Just not that way.

Why on earth hadn't she claimed a migraine headache?

As Susie helped her off the bed and out of her dress, Meg responded to the frosty disapproval. “I don't have my monthly.”

“Thought not, miss. Sorry—
milady.
”

Oh yes, Susie was definitely disappointed in her.

“I didn't mean to lie. It just slipped out.”

The dress was off, and Susie was untying the stays. “Well, it's your business, milady.”

Yesterday, Meg would not have believed that she could feel so chastised by the disapproval of a servant. “I'm so tired,” she said.

Susie turned her, frowning. “I don't know what you've been up to, but I hope it's not wickedness. It was you as went out the front basement door, wasn't it?”

Of course, the servants would know. She should have realized that servants know everything. Meg nodded, feeling like the most base sinner. “I had something I had to do.”

“Something to do with the earl? I do feel sort of responsible, milady.”

Meg saw the real worry on the maid's face. “Oh no.
Nothing that would affect him! Truly. Just a personal matter I had to settle. After all, the marriage was done in a rush. I didn't have time to tidy everything.”

After a moment Susie nodded. “All right, then.” She dressed Meg in her nightgown and brushed out her hair. “But it'll all come out, you know. You'll be really having your courses soon.”

Meg was close to drifting off to sleep, but at that she came alert. “Oh no!”

“Oh yes.” Quick fingers wound Meg's hair into a plait. “Unless you get in the family way. You'd best hope to do that right off, if you ask me.” She steered a dazed Meg under the covers and tucked them around her, but her next words were no comfort. “Sax isn't a stickler for much, milady, but he don't like liars. Now, where's that key?”

Keys. Keys to heaven. Keys to disaster.

Despite looming disaster, Meg couldn't resist the pull of sleep. “In my pocket,” she muttered, eyes already closed. “I was going to try to drop it . . .”

“I'll take care of it. Go on to sleep now, but let's have no more of this foolishness. If you need something done, one of us servants'll do it for you.”

Meg hardly heard because she was obeying the first command. Anyway, she doubted she'd be able to obey the second. One way or another, she still had to get the
sheelagh
back, and it wasn't something she could leave to servants.

When Owain Chancellor went down to breakfast, he was astonished to find Sax lounging at the table, reading the
Times.
Knox was on his chair back, eating something.

“Good morning, my lovely,”
the bird said.

“Good morning to you, too, Knox.”

Brak sprawled over Sax's feet and just waved his tail in greeting. The dog always reminded Owain of one of those awful, snarling bear rugs. For himself, he really didn't think he'd be able to keep it around. But Sax was Sax.

And Sax was not an early riser.

Owain glanced at the mantel clock to be sure he
hadn't overslept. No, it was not yet nine and Sax had clearly already eaten.

“Interesting wedding night?” he couldn't resist asking.

“Fascinating.” Sax put aside his paper. “What do you know about women in their monthly time?”

Owain felt his cheeks turn red. “Less than you, I'm sure.” He turned to help himself to kippers, damning himself for sounding like a maiden aunt coming across a hound with a bitch in heat.

“Perhaps not. After all, the ladies of my intimate acquaintance avoid me during that time. Don't you have sisters?”

Owain sat at the table as Monkey, with perfect timing, hurried in with a pot of the
café-au-lait
Owain preferred.

Sax turned to him. “You know much about women during their courses, Monk?”

Now Monkey looked like the maiden aunt. “You should ask one of the females about that, milord, I'm sure.” Nose in the air, he stalked off.

Sax chuckled. “The male reaction to these matters is very interesting. I'll have to raise it over dinner at the club one dull day.”

“Coffee please!”
Knox demanded.

The only interest the bird ever showed in Owain was because of the milky coffee it had a fondness for. As he poured a little into a dish and put it on a spare chair, he had to admit to an idiotic pleasure that there was one thing he did better than Sax.

He was as mad as everyone else around here.

Once the bird was sipping, Owain eased fish off fine bones. “Do I gather the countess is . . . er . . . inconveniently indisposed?”

“That's one way of looking at it. She's taken to her bed. But I found her skulking about the garden this morning, dodging from tree to tree.”

Owain couldn't help feeling a little smug. “If you pluck a bride out of nowhere, you must expect a few surprises.”

Knox raised his head to give a routine warning.
“A bride is a bridle.”

Sax shoved his cup over. “Pour me some more coffee, even if it is that damnable stuff.”

Owain obeyed. “What were
you
doing in the garden in the early morning?”

“Does it matter?”

Owain returned to his kipper. “You raised it. I assumed you wanted to speak of it.”

“Damn your impertinent eyes,” Sax said without heat. “I wasn't in the garden. Or not at first. I woke early. One of those times when we're not sure if we're dreaming or not. I wasn't sure the whole thing hadn't been a dream, so I went into her bedroom. She wasn't there, but she clearly existed. Her things were all around.” He sipped from his cup and pulled a face. “Monk!” he called. “Cover your blushes and fetch more coffee. The real stuff this time!”

“So you wondered where she was,” Owain prompted.

Sax pushed his cup far away. “Don't know how you can stand that pap.” Knox immediately hopped up to drink that, too, but Sax put his hand over it. “No.” Only when the bird had gone back to its dish did he pour a little more coffee into it. “I don't know what I thought other than it was damned fishy. Was she stealing the silver? Had she turned coward and decided to run away? Was she a sleepwalker? Anyway, I pulled on some clothes and investigated.”

Monkey returned, bearing a steaming pot and poured black coffee into a fresh cup, stirring in just the right amount of sugar.

Sax said, “Monk—”

“If it's about the front downstairs door, milord, that I mentioned, and the missing key. Not to worry. The string just wore through. The key was on the floor.”

“Good try. But the countess was in the garden. Did she shimmy out a window?”

Monkey reddened again. “I wouldn't know about that, milord.”

“Servants know everything.” Sax sipped his fresh coffee. “Therefore, let it be known that the countess likes the early morning air. She is, of course, free to come and go as she pleases.”

Monkey relaxed enough to wink. “Right, milord. Not that any of us would talk outside the house, as you know.”

“I certainly hope I know.”

The footman left, and Owain put down his knife and fork. He was beginning to be seriously concerned. If Sax's wife was mad or bad, it was a disaster. “What
do
you think she was up to?”

“I have no idea. I wonder if one day she'll explain.”

“You know, Sax, you are responsible in law for her criminal acts.”

“Only if I can reasonably be assumed to have ordered or condoned them.” He gave Owain a rueful smile. “All right, all right. This was a foolish route to take, which I may well regret. Unfortunately, it was the only one left me by the dragon. Now I'll have to deal with the many secrets of my mysterious bride.”

“A bride is a bridle,”
announced Knox again, adding a hopeful,
“Coffee?”

“No, you've had enough.” Sax extended a hand, and when Knox hopped onto it, he stroked the bird's chest. “Don't you think, my feathered friend, that sometimes a horse enjoys being ridden?”

He grinned at Owain. “I'm finding marriage fascinating.”

Meg awoke to see daylight through the crack in the middle of the dark curtains. Clocks started to chime, telling her it was one-thirty. She'd had perhaps five hours of sleep, so it wasn't surprising that she still felt awful.

She mainly felt awful, however, because her life was pure disaster.

The
sheelagh
was out of her control, probably in the hands of Sir Arthur, and she had to get it back. She was its guardian, responsible for keeping it safe, and for keeping the world safe from it.

Then there was her husband, whom she had lied to, and who had caught her out in the garden. What was he thinking? He hadn't been surprised, which meant he must have seen her from the window.

She scrambled out of bed and went to look down at the bleak and frosty garden. The view from here must be similar to that from his window two rooms away. An evergreen tree blocked sight of the mews, but he could
easily have seen her dodging behind the trunks of the others. She must have looked the picture of insanity, or like someone with a very guilty conscience.

If only she'd thought to walk around boldly from the beginning! She was no good at all at these nefarious doings.

And what about the key? Had anyone told him it had been missing? Had Susie managed to return it?

And then there was the tangled problem of her monthly courses. Now she could think straight, she wondered if he'd guessed that she was lying, and had put it down to nervousness. Perhaps she could just tell the truth on that one and be forgiven.

She didn't relish the notion of confessing to an untruth, however. . . . No, to two! She'd repeated the lie this morning. Hands over her face, she had to admit that Susie was right. The only true way to conceal her lie was to get with child immediately so that her courses stopped.

The thought, she had to confess, did not displease her, either in the act or the consequences, but she had no idea how likely it was to happen so quickly.

If it didn't work, he'd soon know that she'd lied.

And apparently, he didn't like liars. They were in accord on that. She didn't either.

Oh dear. Perhaps it would be safer to keep him at a distance for months and hope he lost track of the dates. She laughed aloud at that notion. Judging from her husband's behavior thus far—and hers!—keeping him at a distance was as likely as keeping Jeremy away from books.

She'd just have to get it over with and confess the truth.

She felt better for a moment, as if she'd shed a weight, but then the burden dropped back upon her. Even in her confession she'd be lying, because she'd have to tell him she'd lied out of maidenly modesty.

She couldn't tell him about the
sheelagh.

She wished she could. She tried for a moment to imagine a way to tell him the truth.

I own a magic statue, my lord.

She could see his look of disbelief, and how could she
prove it, especially when she didn't have the
sheelagh
? Even if she did, she shuddered at the thought of using it again.

You might think you married me because of your grandmother, but really I trapped you into it through magic.

She shook her head. It was impossible.

And if she did convince him of the truth, it might be disastrous. He loathed his grandmother for trying to rule him. He'd warned Meg yesterday never to try to change or control him. How would he react if he believed that he'd been a puppet of her magic will?

So, she'd have to get the
sheelagh
back without her husband suspecting a thing. She leaned her aching head against the chilly glass of the window, wondering what sin she'd committed to end up in this state—

A knock on the door had her whirling around as if her guilty conscience were about to stalk in, finger pointed.

“Come.”

It was only Susie, followed by an anxious Laura.

“Feeling perkier, milady?” the maid asked. “Would you like a bath? A luncheon up here? A decanter of brandy?”

For all her cheerfulness, the last offering showed that Susie was still not sure about her. “A bath, please,” Meg said meekly, attracted by such indulgence in the middle of the day.

Ah, the luxury of high living.