Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (23 page)

She drew back to study his dark beauty, brushing damp hair off his high brow.
I love you, Bey Malloren
. Impossible words, for they would shatter the agreement they had here tonight.

No tomorrows
.

But they had made love. Indeed they had. Fully and completely. The love they had made here tonight had to exist somewhere in the world. It would linger in her, and in him, changing everything.

But pray God, not as a child.

He echoed her action, brushing hair off her cheek, then kissing her again, lingeringly.

On impulse, she slid the large ring off her first finger—it happened to be a sapphire and valuable, but that was not the point. She took his left hand and it fit onto his ring finger.

With this ring,
she thought, but did not say it.

He looked down at the blue stone, then kissed her one naked finger, looking at her with troubled eyes. In one sense, she knew, she shouldn’t have done that, but in all other senses it was completely right.

Then he rolled out of bed, dampened a cloth on the washstand, and returned to wash her belly. She looked down, suddenly understanding.

“I wish you hadn’t.”

“Far safer.”

He was right. To spill his seed on her instead of inside was an extra level of safety. But she wished he hadn’t.

“Not in chilly hauteur,” she said, “but mind still in control.”

He returned to the bed, and pulled her into his arms. “Stop complaining. It wasn’t what I wanted, either.”

She snuggled up against him. “If I wasn’t so … fulfilled at this moment, I could scream at fate.”

His hand played in the hair at her nape. “Surrender to the moment, love. Tomorrow is soon enough for screaming.”

That word “love” again, but he was resolved, even so. That this would be all. She couldn’t complain, for it had always been clear, but she had hoped. Just a little.

They couldn’t marry, but they could be lovers if they were very careful. No. She knew it would be impossible to avoid a child forever …

Rothgar held her, watching sleep creep over her. She looked like a weary child, her curls tangled, her lips parted a little, her lashes soft on her rounded cheeks. It had been a long, arduous day full of tension and danger, and now at last she could rest.

He had given her that.

Pray God he had not given her more.

They should be safe.

Once he was sure she was deeply asleep, he eased her out of his arms and onto her pillow, but rested there, studying her. At the different angle she still looked young, but now he could see her firm chin. The body he’d tangled with had not been childish at all, but that of an active, strong woman.

A truly remarkable woman.

He’d respected her for a year now, but she had led a pampered life and retained a streak of childish willfulness that was undesirable. He’d wondered how she’d behave when truly tested.

Today he’d found out.

Magnificently.

She’d faced danger coolly at his side. She’d killed for him. She hadn’t foolishly made a fuss over it.

Last year she’d stirred his interest with her bold challenge to him, and even more with her victory, but he was not a man to be pulled into folly by an intriguing young woman. In the past few days, however, she’d shown she was his match in every area. She’d amused and alarmed him with her quick wit and understanding, her boldness and courage, her problems and needs.

Then she’d teased that dangerous kiss.
Their
kiss. Still, he’d remained in control. Not seriously threatened. Until tonight.

Unique.

Shattering.

Forbidden.

He looked at the multifaceted blue stone on his finger. Part of her gaudy armor against the world. It was a pledge ring, he knew, not just of affection but of protection. A bond of mutual loyalty and trust.

Putting the ring to his mouth, he looked at her, recognizing that here, unexpected and unwanted, lay his mate.

No, not unwanted, but impossible.

Sappho had said he was incomplete, that now his family was cared for, he had a void. No. She’d said that the void had always been there, covered by other demands. Other passions.

It had seemed nonsense, but now he saw that as usual, she was right. Unsuspected, he hungered for closeness, love, and intimacy. His siblings had not been a duty, but a necessity, and their needs had allowed him to resist marriage.

But now he faced temptation unprotected.

He had called her “love.” Twice. He hoped she hadn’t noticed.

Too late he saw how much wiser it would have been to have avoided this. He should have sent her back to her room. He could even have brought her in, plied her with port, soothed her agitated nerves, and sent her back to bed.

Instead he had given in to the hungers burning inside himself, hungers he’d lived with for days now, thinking they were safe. That he would be, as always, in control of the machine.

Hubris, with predictable results.

A need as raw, as painful, as skinless flesh.

For protection, he left the bed and pulled on his clothes again, trying to re-create barriers, to cloak the pain. At the same time, he struggled to rebuild the guards around his mind.

This was all a result of peril and proximity. It would fade when he was back in normal days. Tomorrow they would arrive in London, and Diana would attend the Queen’s Drawing Room. From there, she would move into the Queen’s House. He would see her only briefly and in company.

They’d be late arriving in town, though. An excuse to put off her presentation for a few days—

Folly. The sooner she was within court circles the better. If all went well, she would return north within weeks, and they need never meet again. He would regret not being able to visit Brand at Wenscote, but it was necessary.

What if Diana returned to London for pleasure one day?

Then he would travel elsewhere. Paris was open to him again. Or he could go north when she came south. He laughed to himself at the folly of such a silly dance, but it would be the only way.

He closed his eyes for a moment, not trying to deny the pain. For him, and for her. Pain, however, was part of life. Fear of it did not govern an honorable man.

And in time, even the worst hurt faded and became bearable.

In shirt and breeches, he climbed onto his side of the bed but lay beneath only the coverlet, separated from her by sheet and blanket. He was unable to resist turning toward her, however.

As if sensing him, she rolled to face him, still asleep, and her arm reached out beneath the covers. Finding nothing, it stilled and she sank back into deep sleep.

He resisted the urge to kiss those parted lips, but lay watching her until, at last, the candle drowned in wax, and darkness brought him rest.

D
iana awoke in a state of peace and pleasure that turned to momentary confusion. Because someone had just kissed her.

She blinked up.

The marquess.

Bey.

She smiled and tried to untangle her arms to reach for him, but he stepped back. “It’s nearly dawn. We must get you back to your room.”

Instantly she recognized that the guards were fully in place. Wiser so, but horrible.

Groping around, she struggled to straighten her shift beneath the covers even though he had stepped away to look out of the small window. The pearl-gray sky was just beginning to brighten with yellow, orange, and pink.

He was completely dressed, even to his cravat and coat, and she felt slovenly as she slipped out of bed in the one creased, stained garment. She wrapped the pink checked coverlet closely around herself before saying, “Ready.”

He turned and came to her as if they were a proper lady and gentleman about to leave for a stroll. She noticed then that the sapphire ring was not on his hand. Of course not. No tomorrows. But she knew he would keep it safe.

There were a thousand things to say, and yet none. She had pushed for that dangerous voyage with the implicit promise that they would return to shore today, would create no lasting, entrapping bonds.

She would keep that promise if it killed her.

He opened the door and glanced out, then turned back. “All safe.”

She walked toward him, past him, but she couldn’t resist a pause, a look. A plea.

All lightness gone, he put his hands to her cheeks and brushed his lips against hers. “We left the safe path. If against all odds there is a child, you must tell me.”

She shook her head. “You know you cannot marry, and we cannot openly acknowledge a bastard. If I conceive, it will be my concern alone.”

“That isn’t true.”

“But we must make it so. Don’t fight me on this, Bey.”

“Don’t give me orders, Diana.” But it was said without rancor, and, devastatingly, he put his arms around her and held her close, resting his head against hers for a moment.

When he straightened, there was no trace of weakness in his face. “
Adieu
, Diana.”

“
Adieu
, Bey.”

She did not look back as she hurried across the corridor and into her room. Clara still slept, so Diana quietly opened her jewel box and chose a ring at random to replace the one she’d given him. Then she slipped into bed beside the maid to lie staring up at the dark beamed ceiling, reliving, remembering …

Relinquishing.

Dressed in her stained gown, Diana joined Bey at breakfast. They were, thank heavens, not forced to make small talk, as Sir Eresby appeared again with reports and questions. Apparently he’d sent someone to make inquiries at Ware, and discovered that the assailants had been seen there, and were French. What’s more, they had been with a Frenchman called de Couriac.

Bey made no difficulty over telling Sir Eresby that they had dined with Monsieur de Couriac and his wife in Ferry Bridge, that Monsieur de Couriac had been taken ill, and that the couple had left in the night.

The stocky, serious magistrate clearly did not approve of any of it. “Could he have held a grudge, Lord Rothgar?”

Bey raised his brows, entirely returned to aristocratic hauteur. “Over his illness? The food was provided by the inn, sir, not me. And who would plan murder over that?”

“What else could be cause for such a cold-blooded plan, my lord?”

“I have no idea, Sir Eresby. However,” he said, rising, and extending his hand to Diana, “we must be on our way. Lady Arradale is expected at the Queen’s Drawing Room today.”

Diana gave him her hand, resisting the urge to curl her fingers around his, pitying the poor baronet so dauntingly put in his place.

Sir Eresby rose and bowed. “Of course, my lord. My lady.” He didn’t completely buckle however. “I will send to London if there are further questions.”

Good for you, thought Diana as she let herself be led out of the dining room and to their coach. The scarred panel, however, shocked her back to yesterday.

“Are you all right?” Bey asked quietly.

“Yes, of course. I had forgotten.”

They shared a glance about what had wiped horror from memory.

Then she looked away. “I’ll be glad when our baggage catches up with us. Clara has done her best with this gown, but some of the dirt simply will not come out.”

A metaphor for her life, that, she thought as she climbed into the wounded carriage. Not dirt, but changes that could not be reversed. Nor would she want them to be, even with the peril they brought.

Clara and Fettler were already sitting opposite her. Bey took his seat, and in moments they were on their way to London.

They did not talk, did not even pretend to read. Did not look at one another. As for that, he could be staring fixedly at her all the way, for she refused to look at him. It was not just the pleasure of the night which had left her adrift, it was the closeness, the intimacy such as she had never experienced before.

Rosa had warned that women had a tendency to fall in love with the men they made love to, but there was more to it
than that. Quite by chance, Rosa and Brand had found each other, like two parts of a broken whole. A fit so perfect that all other matches instantly became impossibly flawed.

You or no other.

Bey was her lost half?

He and no other?

She recognized it to be true. He was the lost part of herself suddenly found, rashly fitted for brief moments against raw edges, which now bled afresh.

Why not? her rebellious side suddenly demanded. Why could they not have the completion, the wholeness, that was every person’s right?

Was it not worth striving for?

Determined now, she analyzed the practical problems.

Her independence. That was nothing. She knew he would respect that.

But what of her appearance of independent power? Heaven above, the Marquess of Rothgar could overshadow anyone, and in a way that would work to her advantage. She would gain from having him as mate, as equal half. He would certainly feel no need to inflate himself by lording over her.

So what of geography?

That was both their enemy and their friend. They would have to find ways to divide their time between north and south, between his responsibilities and hers. It would mean separations, but being alone on her estates would help her to retain authority there. A lesser, ever present husband would be a much greater threat.

Truly, though she hadn’t thought of it before, a great husband would serve her better than a lowly one.

It
was
, perhaps, possible after all.

She slid a glance sideways, borne on fledgling wings of hope. And collided with despair.

Her problems might have melted away, but his had not. His reasons for not marrying were as strong as ever.

She looked out of the window again, at the increasingly busy road and more frequent villages and inns that told her they were close to London.

Close to parting.

He was resolved not to carry tainted blood into his ancient line. He had not contradicted her when she’d said he could not marry her if she was with child, and she knew how agonizingly difficult that would be for him.

He accepted all his responsibilities—even a rebellious countess who was only a distant connection by marriage. His love for his family ran deep, and he was wonderful with children. The thought of rejecting his own child must be impossibly painful, and yet he was prepared to do it to keep to his firm resolve.