Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (5 page)

So there it was. In the open at last. She wasn’t being a martyr. She was serving her own ends. True, many people would benefit if she went through with this, but at heart she was being ruthlessly selfish.

So be it. She still had reason enough, and the means.

A stud animal, she thought firmly. She was used to evaluating rams and stallions, and this one was healthy and well-formed. What more did she want? Was she still hoping for a dashing knight on a white charger?

A dashing knight would doubtless be a great deal of trouble. Her drunken wastrel would do his business, like Samuel her best tup, then move on to another ewe without a thought.

She heaved herself onto her back with a wretched sigh, wishing she could get to sleep. Problems were niggling at her, however.

Even she knew young men didn’t leap onto every woman they encountered. A fine state of affairs that would be! She suppressed a chuckle at the thought of a country fair—or even church on Sunday!—with all the men acting like Samuel in a field of fertile ewes.

It wasn’t funny, though. She had to work out what to do. Should she dress provocatively? Would she have to be naked? Should she touch him first? Kiss him first?

Oh, she did wish Diana was here. Though unmarried, Diana met a lot more men and flirted with most of them. She’d even mentioned books on intimate matters. She’d surely know how to encourage a male. Whatever it took, however, Rosamunde was going to do it.

Even if she had to go up to Arradale and raid the library for those mysterious books!

Fear.

He lay still in the darkness, a bitter memory of enemies hovering over him.

Silence.

A foul taste.

Vomit.

’Struth! Embarrassing memory flooded back. He’d cast up his accounts in front of a woman.

Had she been real?

Tentatively, he reached out and found he was alone. Thank heavens. He’d dreamed it.

But the taste was still there, and the memory of a calm, pleasing voice was devilishly clear.

The touch of a breeze made him turn his head. His much less painful head. In the dark, curtains stirred, giving glimpses of a slightly lighter outside. Someone had opened the window to freshen the air.

So, who was she, and where was he?

Clearly in the country. The air and quiet told him that.

The woman had named the place, but that too eluded. Gill-something? Gillshaw?

He burned with a need for the security of knowledge. Despite comfort and tranquility, he lay tense with fear, under a haunting sense of danger in the shadows.

Was it real?

He didn’t know.

Just as he still didn’t know who he was. That seemed ridiculous, so he pushed and poked at his mind, demanding his identity.

He stirred only dreamlike memories, but snatched at them greedily.

Riding a country lane on a sweet summer’s day.

When?

An old stone house with ivy-covered walls.

Where?

Birds singing in the trees. A blue coat spoiled by a brush against wet paint.

Had he cared?

Swaying in a good, solid coach, applying himself to paperwork. He paused on that. It showed a hardworking, conscientious fellow, and that felt true. Not this drunkard in a whore’s bed….

Silver plate on a laden table, glowing in candlelight….

He sucked in deep breaths, forcing himself to break off the frantic struggle to weave these scraps into whole cloth. He knew with eerie certainty that they weren’t connected.

Who was he?

What was his
name
, dammit?

The veils parted and his name popped out like an impish child saying, “Were you looking for me?”

Brand Malloren.

He groaned with exquisite relief.

He was Brand Malloren. The knowledge settled in his mind, carrying dancing ribbons of detail. He was Brand Malloren, third son of the Marquess of Rothgar. The old marquess. His oldest brother held the title now.

That rich dinner had been his last meal at Malloren House in London before heading north. As the ribbons wove into a complete story, he grasped each detail, desperate for more of himself.

He could see the dining room as clearly as if he were sitting in it. Silver dishes of excellent food, all bathed in warm candlelight though, it
being summer, fading sunlight lightened the room as well. His oldest brother the marquess sat at the head of the table, Cyn and Cyn’s wife, Chastity, at either side, Elf opposite. That was the “elf” he’d thought of before. His sister Elfled. Cyn not “sin,” Bryght, not “bright”—Arcenbryght, his other brother.

How long ago had that been? Had Bryght’s wife had her child? Had all gone well? She was a small woman for childbearing….

He struggled to remember something else, but everything between that pleasant meal and this dark, mysterious room lay blank, as if it had never existed.

But he remembered talking at that dinner about a trip north.

Was he now in the north? He thought he remembered a touch of it in the woman’s voice, though she’d spoken like a lady. So, he was likely in Yorkshire or Northumberland. But where? And who was his nurse? And what the devil had happened to him?

He forced himself to sit up and after a moment, found the pain in his head bearable. Massaging the dull ache, he still struggled with the idea that he’d drunk himself insensible.

If he couldn’t change the damnable darkness in his mind, he could surely light that around him. Groping, he found a table, and searched with his fingers for the candle and tinderbox that should be there. Nothing. He stretched further. He felt the brushing chill of glass a moment too late, and cursed as it shattered on the floor.

His fingers scrabbled over the smooth table for something else. Something he could use as a weapon. The door creaked open and a pale figure appeared, backlit by a weak nightlight in the hall.

“Are you awake, sir?”

At the soft, remembered voice, he almost wept with relief.

Why this mad panic? What had happened to him?

“Sir?” She was coming over and he realized he hadn’t answered.

“Yes, I’m awake. Don’t come closer. There’s glass on the floor to the right of the bed.”

She stopped, only a gray shape now, for she’d closed the door. He reviewed matters with a suppressed groan. First he’d thrown up. Now he’d created a dangerous mess. He’d better crawl away from here as soon as possible and never return.

“Are you feeling sick again?” she asked. “The chamber pot’s down there.”

He tested the idea, and was pleased to be able to say, “No. I must thank you for your care of me.”

“It’s no trouble. Did you need something?”

My mind back.
He could hardly say that. “Perhaps a light?”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

How could he say he was suddenly afraid of the dark? “I’m sorry for disturbing you.” He wished he could remember her name, remember what they were to each other. Anything.

She came closer, round to the left of the bed. He watched the ghostly paleness of her hand and arm reach out so she could lay a hand on his forehead, and remembered the pleasure of her earlier touch.

“I’m much better,” he said. A smooth hand. A lady’s hand, though many doxies had soft hands, too.

“Certainly you have no fever.”

“Where did you say this is?”

“Gillsett.”

Gillsett. He repeated it to himself a time or two, determined not to lose it this time. “And where is Gillsett?”

“Arkengarthdale.”

One of the more remote Yorkshire dales. Mostly sheep country. Strange to know geography and land use, but not where he had been recently and why. He felt strangely certain that he had no business reason to be in Arkengarthdale.

He had to ask the obvious question. “And you are … ?”

“Miss Gillsett.”

He must certainly have dreamed the business of having this composed, well-bred lady in his bed. Miss Gillsett of Gillsett was doubtless a kindhearted lady of sensible years and impeccable virtue. She’d likely faint if she learned he’d imagined her in his bed.

“Have you remembered
your
name, sir?” she asked.

From embarrassment and a dislike of being fawned on, he’d rather not say. But he had no choice. “Malloren.” When she didn’t react, he relaxed and added his first name. “Brand Malloren.”

“Do you have family or friends who will be worrying, Mr. Malloren?”

He was actually Lord Brand Malloren, but certainly didn’t mind being thought a simple mister in this embarrassing situation. The question was an interesting one, however. If his family knew he was sick they certainly would worry. They were far away, however, and he’d left his entourage in Thirsk. With luck, neither family nor staff would ever find out about this debacle.

“No. I’m traveling alone on business.”

And, with another shift of the veils, he suddenly remembered some of his affairs. Visiting his brother’s estates around England. Checking accounts and the care of the land. Arguing with conservative tenants about
change. Reviewing breeding programs and the yield of experimental crops.

He remembered, too, that he often left his staff dealing with routine matters and visited suspect or interesting places without warning. Something about that snagged, like a painful jerk on a new scar—

“Business in the dales, Mr. Malloren?” Her voice distracted him before he could grasp what had snagged, and why it was important.

“Damnation!” He bit off more angry words. “I’m sorry. My nerves are on end. Truth is, dear lady, my wits are scrambled and I don’t know enough about myself to make a sensible story of it. What happened to me?”

“I don’t know. I found you by the roadside, unconscious, miles from anywhere. You were soaking wet with night coming on.”

That was not the story he’d imagined at all. “By the roadside … in Arkengarthdale?” He knew enough of the land to see the picture. Sheep-dotted fells climbing up to boggy moor. Scattered, rugged farms and little traffic. “Then I most sincerely thank you, Miss Gillsett, for saving my life. I apologize even more for the trouble I’m causing you.”

Rosamunde stood there, considering his dim shape in the dark. Diana always said she loved honesty too much, and it was true. She could dance along a lie for a while, but then truth would swell up in her like a pot boiling over. As it did now.

Was it possible to do this thing at least partly based on truth?

“Are you sincerely grateful, Mr. Malloren?” she heard herself say. Her hands were clasped tight together and her heart pounded.

“On my honor.”

She swallowed. “Then would you consider doing me a service in return?”

After the briefest hesitation, he said, “How could I refuse?”

“You can,” she assured him. “I don’t want you to feel obliged if it is impossible for you.”

“Why not tell me what it is you want?”

With truth in control she almost blurted out, “A baby.” She had sense enough, however, to know she mustn’t say that.

What, then?

Diana had said some women wanted men just for themselves. For the act.

What where the right words, though?

“I want …” When it came to it, she could only think of the sheep. “I want tupping,” she blurted out, then covered her mouth with a horrified hand. “I’m sorry. Of course you wouldn’t—”

“I don’t see why not,” he said, remarkably calmly. “I have to point out, however, that it can have implications, especially for an unmarried lady.”

She thought for a moment, then said, “I’m not unmarried.”

“Ah. Not
Miss
Gillsett.”

“No.”

“Widow?”

“No.” That truth spilled out before she could stop it.

“A neglectful husband, then.”

She hesitated. In most ways Digby was the sweetest, kindest man, but she knew what he meant. “Yes,” she muttered, hand still half over her mouth.

Then she realized how this would look to him, and felt her face flame. She must appear to be a woman with a flaming hunger for carnal matters, a woman so desperate for it that she’d proposition a stranger she had found drunk by the road!

She almost fled then, but reminded herself that it was true. Not in the way he’d think, but true all the same. And what did it matter what he thought? After this, they’d never meet again.

He was silent, clearly thinking just what she expected.

“So?” she prompted, and it came out harshly.

“Now? ’Struth, no.” She heard him mutter something she couldn’t catch. It was doubtless just as well. A tear leaked from one eye, and she fought the urge to sniff. She was making a thorough mess of this.

“You have been kind to me,” he said, as if weighing each word. “I will gladly be kind to you in turn, dear lady. But my head still aches like the devil, my brain feels scrambled, and I’m not at all sure I won’t cast up my accounts again if I try to move.”

Of course he wasn’t well enough. Rosamunde wanted to crawl under the bed in the hope that a monster truly did live there, ready to gobble her up. She also wanted it done and over with so she could get him out of the house tomorrow, and out of her life forever.

It didn’t matter what she wanted, though, or how this embarrassed her, or how much she disliked it. She just needed to get it done and hope and pray that a baby resulted. Clearly, however, she’d have to be a nurse before she could be an adulteress.

“If your head hurts,” she said, as coolly as she could, “would you like a powder?”

“I can’t guarantee that my stomach will tolerate it, but I’m willing to try.”

He sounded so
calm.
Was he not shocked to his soul by this?

She was.

“I’ll be back in a moment then.”

When she left, Brand eased back onto his pillow with a groan that wasn’t entirely pain. Plague take it. But how could he say no? He was not unaccustomed to frustrated wives, and if he liked them out of bed he was happy to give them pleasure in it, but this case….

He had no idea what she even looked like. It didn’t matter much, but it made him uncomfortable. Oh well, by the time he was in a fit state to tend to her, daylight would resolve that. Nor should it matter that he didn’t know her. He couldn’t with truth say that he’d been well acquainted with every woman he’d bedded, and what he did know of this one was only kindness.