Megan Frampton (3 page)

Shaking her head, Mary returned to her seat and folded her hands in her lap. She wasn’t quite sure what to do—he had bought her, and she couldn’t get anywhere without money.

And she was so tired. Of course that meant sleeping with him. In that bed. She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep on the floor, and honestly, after today, it wouldn’t matter. She was ruined. The damage was done, in all eyes but theirs. Also, he was still wearing his clothes, and she doubted he was in any shape to remove them even if he wanted to.

She rose and crept toward the bed. His eyes rolled frantically underneath the lids in the throes of a dream.

As she gazed down at him, it was hard to believe her nightmare had only started a month ago.

Why did her father have to confess everything on his deathbed? He’d held the secret for so long already. Would she truly wish to have remained ignorant of the truth, though?

If it meant not going through this, then, yes. “Sleep well,” Mary muttered as she nudged him over to one side. She lifted the sheet, trying not to think about its state of cleanliness, and got underneath, keeping her body at the absolute edge of the bed.

He rolled over and flung his arm over her, nestling his head in her neck. Mary felt
a rush of yearning to be held like this forever: Even if this wasn’t hell, he was definitely the devil.

Tempting, sinful, and totally wrong.

This time, the dream was softer. Warmer. Before, Alasdair had found himself in luxuriant gardens, redolent of flowers and populated by bizarre animals. Dragons and goblins would drift by above him, adding a faint edge of danger to the proceedings. The dream had always let him just watch, a spectator to his own hallucinations.

This time, he was involved. He was there. He was lying in grass so green it was blinding, a tall tree providing some shade from the lemon-yellow sun. There were no clouds. No dragons or goblins, either.

A woman was lying next to him, her head propped on her elbow. As he stared into her eyes, she drew one hand up slowly and pressed a strawberry into his mouth. His mouth opened, and he tasted the sweet, bursting berry. He closed his eyes against the onslaught of flavor, chewing and swallowing in perfect satisfaction.

Then she must’ve leaned forward—his eyes were still closed—because he felt her lips on his, her tongue licking at the sticky remains of the berry. He opened his mouth, and she slid her tongue inside, caressing him with the same intense concentration she’d given to the juice.

He raised his arms to touch her, but she pinned them down with her hands, sliding her body on top of his. She chuckled in his mouth, and then raised her head. He opened his eyes, and staring back at him was a stranger. She was an old crone, a witchlike woman with craggy skin, broken teeth, and yellow eyes. Tiny blue bugs crawled out of her nose.

He tried to scream, but nothing came out. He couldn’t move. Her weight pinned him to the grass, and she leaned forward again, licking her lips. One of the bugs began to drop onto his face.

“Aargh!” He heard the shout before realizing it came from his own lungs. He sat up, hitting something hard that thudded to the floor.

He clutched his hand to his chest. By rights, his heart should be pounding, but the drug slowed him down all over: his breathing, his reactions, his pain.

His heart beat steadily, slowly, under his palm. Now that he was awake, he felt the same slow welcome fog envelop his brain, making it hard to feel.

Except—he felt a twinge of something he never had before. He began to recall what had happened—not the earlier memories, those he was determined to keep away—but in the past few hours.

Damn. He’d had to play the knight, hadn’t he? An ignoble, ignominious, and otherwise incapable knight, but a knight all the same.

And where the hell was she?

He glanced blearily around the room. The moon threw shadows enough so that he could tell no one was there.

He heard a scuffling on the floor and pulled his body over to the edge of the bed.

Her pale face shone like a beacon below him, her hair tangled about her shoulders.

He held his hand out to her and after a moment she took it.

She accepted his hand gingerly, as though she were far from sure he wouldn’t toss her down on the floor again. She’d probably choose to stay down there if she knew what he really wanted. What he’d been thinking of doing to her when they were lying here together before.

***

His grip was surprisingly strong as he pulled her up, and Mary rose in one swift motion to sit back on the bed. He settled down beside her and stretched his long legs in front of him. He ran his hands across his face, then turned to look at her.

His eyes were two black pools in the darkness. “I—I had a nightmare.” He held her gaze. He didn’t apologize.

“Do the nightmares happen often?” A black lock of hair had fallen onto his forehead, and Mary’s fingers itched to stroke it back. But he wasn’t one of her pupils.

She saw one corner of his mouth lift up in what might have been a rueful smile. “More than they should.” He propped his pillow behind his head and raised an eyebrow at her. “Have you slept here all night?”

She nodded. “It’s not like I had anywhere else to go, Mr.—” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I don’t even know your name!”

He extended his hand. “Alasdair Thornham, Marquess of Datchworth. And your name is—Mary something, am I right?”

Mary knew her mouth had dropped open stupidly, but honestly, what did he expect? Noblemen didn’t trot around the countryside purchasing women in squalid taverns. At least none that she’d ever heard of.

Of course, his being a lord could explain why he was so strange. She’d never met a member of the peerage before; maybe they all acted like this.

“It’s Mary Smith,” she said, taking his hand in hers. She held it for a second, still dumbfounded, until his other eyebrow rose up to meet the first. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said hastily, just as if they were meeting at Mrs. Flitchett’s house for tea, rather than after spending the night sharing a bed. His hand was clammy, and she dropped it, trying to wipe it on the sheet without his noticing. As if polite niceties mattered anymore, she chided herself.

“Well, Mary Smith,” he said, “what are we to do?”

“Do?” she repeated stupidly.

“Yes, do.” His tone was impatient. Right, he was a nobleman, probably nobody ever questioned him. “About this.” He spread his arms in a wide gesture. “You haven’t run away yet, so you must have no choice but to be here with me. So what are we to do?” he repeated, even more impatiently.

“As I said, my lord, I can go away, if that is your preference. Perhaps you could see your way to lending me …?”

She was amazed at her own audacity. Her father had frequently preached about courage, but she’d never had occasion before to summon it so completely.

“No.” His voice was just as emphatic as it had been the previous evening.

“But …” She dropped her hands to her lap in exasperation.

Another few pounds on top of the five he’d spent, and she would be no more than a bothersome memory. She knew enough about the aristocracy to know that even if he were poor, that was relatively little—he could find money somewhere to give her. Why wouldn’t he? “I could leave at first light,” she added.

“You are growing tiresome, Miss Smith. I said no.”

Mary straightened herself and glared at him. The moon threw enough light that he had to be able to see her expression. So be it. He should understand that even though he’d bought her, he didn’t own her. “Tiresome is when the squire’s wife has told the same story at every social gathering, and expects you to marvel at her cleverness each time. Tiresome is realizing your father has misplaced his sermon notes again. Tiresome is not, my lord, when a woman has been bought by a marquess who habituates low places where a woman might be sold.”

He flung his head back to laugh, then winced as it slammed against the wall. “Ouch.” He rubbed his head. “Excellent point.”

He rolled over her to get off the bed. He moved so fast she didn’t have time to react; all she could do was absorb the feeling of his body on hers for a moment—hard, warm, heavy.

She didn’t think about how good it felt. Did she?

“We’re where—Alnwick?”

She nodded. He didn’t even know where he was?

“If I let you go—” He glanced at Mary’s face and twisted his lips in thought. “The torture of a bad conscience is the hell of a living soul,” he said quietly. It surprised her, his knowledge of John Calvin. Mary’s father quoted him frequently in his sermons, but she hardly expected it from someone like this marquess.

Of course, given that she’d just met him, she didn’t know why she had an opinion about what he might or might not know.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Alnwick is about thirty miles from Scotland. We’ll go there, get married, and head to London.”

London! He would take her to London! And … “Wait! Married?” she asked.

“Married.” It sounded like a death sentence. “You’re clearly a lady, and I am supposed to be a gentleman,” he said, a cynical look on his face. “Marriage is what is required when a man and a woman have spent the night alone together.”

Mary got off the bed, too, and turned away from his handsome face and high-handed manner. For a second, her heart had lifted. Could her problems be so easily solved?

But her father’s gentle voice of admonishment spoke in her head. It wasn’t right. “Marriage is not possible, my lord.”

“Why not? Are you married already?” He sounded bored. “Will your husband be hammering on the door, demanding satisfaction?”

“No, of course not,” Mary replied. She twisted her hands together in her skirt. “You, my lord, are a lord. Obviously,” she added, when she heard him chuckle.

“And I …” Her mind raced at the thought of it. Why couldn’t she marry him? And leave him as soon as she reached London?

“You shouldn’t be marrying me.” She had to say it, for her own conscience, even though it might mean her ruin. In so many ways. Vicar’s daughters were odd that way, she thought ruefully to herself.

He grabbed her arm and spun her to face him. “Listen, Mary Smith. You have been compromised. I can do something about that. And I will. I will hear no further arguments.” He looked out the window. “I’ll order up some water so you can bathe. Meet me downstairs in half an hour, we’ll have breakfast, then be on our way. I’ll go out and see about hiring a carriage.”

He grabbed his coat from the peg on the wall and walked out, slamming the door behind him before Mary could do more than utter a faint “Oh.”

Mary sat down on the bed, putting her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand.

He was insane. Men didn’t marry women they’d just met, let alone bought. But if she could swap the devil she knew—her half brother—for the devil she didn’t know, she would reckon it a good bargain, even if the unknown devil was insane. She’d be leaving soon enough anyway.

With the protection of his name, she could get to London, find her mother, and then disappear, leaving him and his insanity to live out their days in companionable bliss.

Perfect.

Of course, marriage meant more than saying a few words and sharing a name. Her chest tightened at the thought—she was honest enough with herself to know that the idea of marital duties both terrified and intrigued her. As
he
did.

Besides, there would be time enough to talk to him about
that
on the thirty-mile
drive to Scotland.

Where she’d marry an insane marquess with nightmares and beautiful green eyes.

***

Alasdair stood in the hallway, looking in bemusement at the door he’d just closed. He’d made up his mind the night before, right after swallowing the vile-tasting pill: Marry her. Bring her to London. Establish her in Society, just enough to ensure no one would question her, then vanish into oblivion permanently, as he’d planned to do before meeting her. He could be someone’s knight in shining armor after all.

The thought had made him chuckle, and he’d fallen asleep still laughing about it. In the morning, waking to see the look of concern on her face after one of his nightmares, it had still seemed like a good idea.

To his surprise, when he’d posed the solution this morning, she hadn’t argued, beyond expressing the laughable idea that she was not a suitable bride for him. If anything, he wasn’t suitable for
her
—his addiction had become an all-consuming passion, a need that obviated any other.

Which was his goal. The sweet oblivion of his dreams dulled memory, thought, emotion. Everything. If he hadn’t loved so much. If he hadn’t tried so hard.

If he hadn’t, if he hadn’t, if he hadn’t
.

At the worst times, right before he gave in and took his medicine, he could barely function through the agonized clamor of the memories in his head.

But this—rescuing her, this woman who was so clearly at bottom, that might silence the voices. Make him feel again.

Alasdair wasn’t going to fall in love with her. Just save her.

“Where is he?” Matthias grabbed Mary’s arm as soon as she left the room. He stepped on her bare toes as he shoved her against the wall and leaned in close to her face, smelling of cheap wine, sweat, and smoke.

In other words, he smelled just like Matthias, or how he had taken to smelling in the month since their father’s death. And before that? She despised herself for not noticing his increasingly noxious habits.

“He’s coming right back,” she said, edging sideways. It had been over an hour since the marquess had gone to see to their transportation. Mary had nothing to pack, so after she’d rinsed her face, she’d sat alone in the room, still except for the nervous twisting of her fingers. Upon hearing the sound of approaching footsteps, she’d leapt up to open the door. Her brother had pulled her out before she could slam it again. Or scream. Or kick him where it would hurt.

She might be a vicar’s daughter, but she wasn’t very good at turning the other cheek.

Matthias yanked her so close she could see the muscle twitching in his jaw.