Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (40 page)

With a nod, the woman staggered off, shooing away the servants as she did so.

Now what? He wanted to go to Rosa, but the damned countess was lying there. Stupid woman to be fainting when she could be of use. He gathered her into his arms, arranging her frippery silk-and-lace nightgown for decency. Then he smelled powder on her hands, and saw dark dust on the white silk.

’Struth!
She’d
fired the shot? The woman needed a keeper. He carried her into the corridor, listened, then went toward voices. As he hoped, he found Rosa sitting on a bed, her mother comforting her.

“Diana!” Rosa gasped, quickly making room on the bed.

He placed the countess there. Rosa’s mother produced smelling salts and waved them briskly under the countess’s nose until she spluttered and came around.

She pushed the pungent stuff away. “I hate that!” she complained, then sagged back, a hand over her eyes.

“Stop that, Diana,” the older woman said briskly. “Just because you’re embarrassed to have fainted.”

“I never faint,” Lady Arradale muttered. “Never.”

“You’ve doubtless never killed anyone before,” Brand pointed out. “If your aim had been better, you could have killed me!”

The countess sat up, glaring. “If you rush into people’s houses, you must expect to be shot.”

“I rushed in because I saw what was happening!”

’Struth, he must be in shock himself to be squabbling with the woman. He turned to his pallid beloved. “Are you all right?” Of course, she wasn’t. Why could he never comfort her when he wanted to?

“As well as can be expected,” she said, with a gallant attempt at a smile. He could see that she had no more idea how to behave in this situation than he did.

He fell back on convention. “I’m deeply sorry about Sir Digby.”

“Thank you.” She tried the same approach. “Have you met my mother, Mrs. Ellington? Mother, you know Lord Brand Malloren?”

“We met at Arradale,” said the plump, sensible-looking woman in nightgown, shawl, and nightcap.

Brand bowed as if he was in a drawing room, feeling increasingly unreal. “Your servant, ma’am.”

“You must have traveled a long way, Lord Brand.”

“From Thirsk.”

Devil take it, they’d be talking about the weather next. Everyone here must know the true situation. He perched on the bed near his lady’s feet, and took her chilly hand. “You’re safe now, love.”

“I know. It’s all right.” But then she swallowed, looking only at him. “He wanted to … to … Brand.” She began to shake, and then she tumbled herself toward him and he was free to gather her preciously into his arms at last.

For a moment, that was all, a connection too long denied, and deeply hungered for. Then she whispered, “He wanted to get rid of the baby, Brand. He was trying to make me swallow something.”

“Hush.”

“I kept my mouth shut. I couldn’t even scream—”

He held her closer. “Hush, love. It’s over. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”

If only he could. He longed to lie with her, comfort her, and protect her, but this was her husband’s house, and Sir Digby lay dead not many yards away.

He was going to have to leave again.

He couldn’t bear it.

Suddenly, the countess slid off the bed. “I need tea. With brandy in it.”

Rosamunde’s mother rose from her chair and nodded. “Excellent idea.”

She bustled past and briefly—amazingly—pressed her hand to his shoulder.

Well, who was he to go against a mother’s wishes? As the door closed, he sank onto the bed, his lady safe at last in his arms. She spoke wildly for a while, going over and over what had happened, what Edward had said, how she’d fought, the shock, the explosion, the screams….

He just held her and eventually she quieted, and finally slept. Arms around her, he kept watch over his lady through the night, as a true hero should.

Rosamunde woke. In someone’s arms? Digby?

No, not Digby.

She opened her eyes, hardly daring to hope that her final memories hadn’t been a dream. It was Brand. Heavy-eyed, but watchful and with her.

“You saved me. Or rather, the child.”

“Wouldn’t any father save his child?”

She closed her eyes. “Brand …”

“Hush.” His fingers weighed gently on her lips. “I’ve had the night to imagine all the troubles. But we can triumph over them. I don’t think you know my family’s unofficial motto.”

“Let me guess. ‘We are gods and do just as we wish.’”

His smile crinkled his eyes in the most delightful way. “Close. ‘With a Malloren, all things are possible.’”

She looked directly at him. “What do you want to be possible?”

“I’ll be hurt if you don’t know.”

“I need you to say it.”

“I want to marry you, Rosa, and love you, and cherish you, and guard you, and delight you forever and ever, Amen.”

She laughed, fighting tears. “You almost make me believe.” Then she touched his face, roughened with stubble again. After his long journey and adventure, he was close to the Brand she’d rescued. “Does it happen often, this sudden force? It doesn’t make sense.”

“I don’t think sense has anything to do with it.”

She expected—half-feared—a kiss. She didn’t know what to do, what to wish for in this extraordinary situation. “Brand, I’m so confused. The baby … I’ll have to …”

“Hush. We’ll find a way. Just tell me, do you want to marry me? I won’t force you.”

Could he doubt? “If I’m silly enough to object, please use force!”

He laughed softly, laying his head against hers. That was all, however. That was one of the things she loved so dearly about him, his honor and his true sense of what was right.

“Rosa,” he said, “we can’t do anything just yet, but I will find a way. Trust me.”

She stroked his hair. “I trust you. And we can be together, as long as we give up the baby.”

He looked into her eyes. “You won’t want to give up your child.”

“We can’t always have what we want. I’m resigned to it.”

“I’m not. ‘With a Malloren, all things are possible.’ If you don’t believe me omnipotent, perhaps you have faith in my brother.”

Faith wasn’t the word for her feelings there. “He won’t try to stop me concealing this child, will he? I won’t shame Digby.”

He smiled. “You look so fierce. And formidable. You realize, Lady Richardson and her spotty maid outwitted the Marquess of Rothgar. It’s unique.”

She thought of the kidnapping, wondering if he knew of that defeat. She was sure the marquess must be plotting revenge. “He frightens me, Brand. Don’t let him interfere.”

“’Struth, love, there’s no avoiding that. But the plan will be as you wish. Only let me try to find one that gives us everything we desire. Everything.”

She looked at him almost with exasperation. Didn’t he know, Malloren or not, that some things simply couldn’t be? They couldn’t marry and have their child with them without shaming her and Digby. She’d give him what trust she could, however. Taking his hand, she said, “I will pray for a miracle, then, my love.”

The air stilled. The pull of the forbidden kiss swayed them closer. But then, he said, “This is Sir Digby’s mourning time. We’ll both regret it if we forget.” He rolled off the bed to stretch and yawn as if it were just another morning. He was tousled, stubbly, beautiful, and impeccably honorable. All this at least she would one day have. She would not let loss of the other shadow it.

It would be enough.

He turned to her. “I must leave. Will you be all right?”

She wanted to keep him here. “We’ve parted too often in our brief time….” But she found strength to add, “I have Mother and Diana, and my family will be here soon to walk Digby down. You don’t want to stay for that?”

“I have no place here. Yet.” He was deftly restoring himself with the aid of the small mirror. It pleased her that he didn’t need a manservant for every little thing.

“Where will the service be?” he asked.

“In Wensley.”

“I’ll be at the church there, then. Just an acquaintance paying my respects.”

“And afterward?” She couldn’t leave matters so profoundly unsettled. “I can’t marry you soon, Brand.”

“I know.”

Did he? Did he really understand? “Not until after the baby’s born. After—”

He put his fingers over her lips again. “Trust me.”

He waited for her nod, then straightened and winked. “You’re lucky I’m a very patient man, Rosa Overton, or I’d be off seeking another woman to make me into her willing love-slave.”

Having reduced her to fiery blushes, he left, pausing only at the door to say, “Remember. Remember in the coming months that I love you, Rosa, till death us do part and into eternity. You will have everything you desire.”

“How?” she whispered, but thank heavens, he was already gone.

Tears threatened, but she controlled them and put all future problems to one side. Instead, she blew her nose, and rose to face this day, Digby’s mourning day.

When she emerged from her room, she found that Brand had already accepted responsibility for Edward’s death, and had taken his body with him to Lord Fencott, the magistrate. He’d also dropped hints that the New Commonwealth was being investigated on many charges, including using poison to remove inconvenient people.

As a result, the gathering to escort Sir Digby on his final journey fairly buzzed with shock and speculation, but also with enormous relief. There was even laughter at times. She didn’t think Digby would mind. He was missed, and he’d know it, but he’d always enjoyed good cheer.

No one seemed to find Brand’s intervention suspicious. They all knew he’d met Digby at Arradale, and taken Edward away by force when he left. That story had been too good not to fly around the dale.

Did they suspect other things? She really didn’t think so. The servants at the dower house had kept their mouths firmly shut. Those at Wenscote who had suspicions were doing the same. Perhaps her plan, at least, would work—to bear the child secretly and find it a good home.

Then she’d marry Brand and have other children.

It would be enough.

The men of her family arrived—uncles, brothers, and brothers-in-law, as well as her father. She felt bulwarked and secure, but couldn’t help wondering how they would treat Brand in the future. Because he was an executor, she’d had to tell her father that her child was not Digby’s. He’d not condemned her—she was sure he understood—but he’d sighed and shaken his head, clearly seeing the problems as she did.

Accepting her part in it didn’t mean that he’d accept Brand’s, but it didn’t matter if there was coldness. Once married, she’d live in the south. Looking out over the dales, she flinched under a raw new loss.

But she’d have Brand. It would be enough.

Digby was nailed into his coffin. Rosamunde put the flower garland she had made on top, and eight men took up the burden for the first stage down the dale. Rosamunde and Diana rode with the men behind. Her mother drove Mrs. Monkton in her chair, the bells removed for this journey.

All along the way, people came from cottage, field, and inn to bend their heads at the passing of a good man of Wensleydale, and as they approached Wensley in the afternoon, the church bell began to toll. When they entered the cool church, it was packed. Tears fell, but not really of
sorrow. This was almost a celebration of Digby’s warmhearted, honest self.

She wept during the service, and as she watched him lowered into the ground, but he was already elsewhere, in a better place. She felt sure that the peace around her was his gift.

Brand was doubtless among the mourners, but she hadn’t looked. As people passed by to give their personal condolences, however, she knew he would eventually be one of them and worried a little. It passed without incident. He simply bowed and said, “I am honored to have been of some small service to you and Sir Digby, Lady Overton.”

She did not let her eyes follow him. Their time would come. It was not now.

Having paid his respects to the widow, Brand hovered, chatting to the various people he’d met at Arradale, but really standing guard in case anything should happen to disturb Rosa’s peace. He hoped he wasn’t giving anything away.

It was hard to stand here as a mere acquaintance, to leave her care and comfort to others. They’d had so little time together, and none of it peaceful.

He wanted more.

He couldn’t have what he wanted, however, and he was, as he’d told her, a patient man. He was used to starting land development and breeding programs that would take years to show results. He had ordered the planting of trees that would buy the pleasures of future generations.

A year was not so long.

At the moment, however, it seemed a damned long time, especially when they must hide their feelings for most of it. At least he could watch her, as long as he was careful not to let his heart show in his eyes.

It was the first time he’d seen her with people, almost the first time he’d seen her out of doors. What a strange relationship theirs had been. She was a little shy, he saw, even with neighbors. A little reserved. She tended to tuck her head down sometimes, perhaps from a habit of hiding her scars, though the paint made them hardly visible now.

At some point in the past they must have been a terrible burden to her. He wished he’d been there for her then.

Despite shyness, she was kind and gracious to all, and clearly well loved.

He observed her family around her, pleased at the obvious closeness. Three tall, strong men were probably her brothers, and he’d liked Mr. and Mrs. Ellington when he’d met them at Arradale. Solid, sensible people who’d care for her well.

In fact, he liked the people of Wensleydale. They could be taciturn and sparing with their smiles, but there was a rootedness in them, a strength formed by one of England’s harsher climates.

With a start, he realized how much this was Rosa’s place on earth. She’d said her roots ran deep as rose trees, and it was true. He didn’t know what that was like. He was used to a wandering life, living in almost constant circuit of Bey’s properties.

The idea of roots was strangely pleasant. ’Struth, but Bey was likely to be put out if the plans forming in his mind came to anything!