My Wicked Marquess (15 page)

 

To Mother.
Love Always, Daphne.

 

As soon as he saw it, Max knew what it meant. He expe
rienced a pang of comprehension. So, while he had been a lad far away in a Scottish castle having the rule of secrecy beaten into him as part of his brutal training regimen, away down here in England, her little world had also been falling apart.
My poor, sweet girl
.

He lowered his gaze, fighting the urge to gather her into his arms and hold her close. At least now he had an inkling of what lay behind her fear.

He spoke up barely audibly, wanting with all his soul to reach her all of a sudden. “I'll bet I can guess the first time you felt like everything was out of your control,” he whispered.

“What?” she asked faintly, staring at him. He registered an uneasy note in her soft tone.

“Your father told me you were ten years old when your mother first got sick. You were powerless to help her. There was nothing you could do. You were just a little girl. You must've dreaded to wonder what was going to happen to you without her there.”

He turned with a gentle gaze, and saw her staring at him with a stricken look. “Daphne,” he said quietly, “I will always keep you safe.”

She bristled as though he had given her some great insult. “No.” She shook her head, looking accusingly at him. “No one can promise that.”

“Oh, I can be very determined,” he whispered, but with a tender half smile, as he saw he shouldn't push. It was obvious he'd already touched a nerve. “As I said, my dear, I am not perfect. Far from it, in fact. But this is not a world where anyone should have to be alone, and when you're mine,” he added softly, “I will do all in my power to make you happy.”

“How?” she demanded, her blue eyes glittering with remembered pain and, he thought, her resentment that he had uncovered her secret hurt. “How can you claim you'll make me happy? You don't even know me.”

“I know more about you than you think.”

“Like what?” she challenged him.

“I know you are kind to strangers. You're witty. Wise
enough to know a fool when you see one.” He reached out and very gently tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear.

He was encouraged that she did not pull away.

“Your confidence pleases me. Your sense ofhumor delights me. And your heart…your compassion for those poor children compels my admiration and respect.”

She trembled, staring at him.

“You are brave,” he continued as she turned away abruptly. “The fact that you lingered in Bucket Lane at your own risk just to make sure I'd be all right—and then had the presence of mind to send for the constable during that row—it all bespeaks your courage and good sense.”

She sat very still, listening like a doe in the woods, but poised to run from him. Just as she had run from all the others.

“It makes me feel that I can trust you, Daphne Starling. Trust in your integrity. Which is a miracle. Because I never trust anyone. But besides all that,” he added with a simple shrug, speaking utterly from the heart, “I just rather like you.”

 

Slowly, she looked over at him in dismay; she found herself rendered briefly helpless by his words.

It was difficult to argue with a man who praised her not for superficial things, as Albert had, but for the very qualities that she most valued in herself.

Perhaps he
did
understand her a little better than she wanted to give him credit for.

He was gazing at her with an air of surprising openness as he sat beside her on the couch in a casual, manly pose, his arm draped along the back of the leather sofa behind her, one ankle resting atop his opposite knee.

He waited patiently for her reply, but her efforts to find an answer flagged when she got distracted by the fascinating blend of sea blues, smoky grays, and crystal greens that made up the pale color of his eyes.

He raised that damnable eyebrow at her, waiting, so knowingly, so thoroughly in control.

She let out a small sound of frustration, rose from the
couch, and walked to the other end of the room.

“I am serious about this offer, Daphne,” he said matter-of-factly. “I want you.”

She turned to him with an impassioned air. “Doesn't it matter what I want?”

“Of course it does.” The intensity receding slightly from his stare, he smiled fondly, rose, and joined her in front of the bay window.

She found it daunting to meet his determined gaze, but when he touched her chin, tilting her face upward as he had at the ball, alas, she became entranced again.

He stared for a long moment into her eyes. “It matters a great deal what you want,” he told her softly. “Just don't ask me to believe that you don't feel the attraction between us.”

She turned her face away in blushing frustration.

“Or that you're indifferent to me, after you sought me out and stopped me from leaving the ball. Or when you so smoothly inquired if I already had a wife,” he added with a faint half smile. “Did you think I had forgotten that?”

She looked at him from the corner of her eye, noted the teasing sparkle in his eyes, but huffed all the same at the reminder of her awkward gaffe on the night of the ball.

She turned her back on him and stared for a moment out the window, trying to gather her thoughts; but her heart skipped a beat when he touched her.

Standing behind her, he gently fingered a lock of her hair. “You're very beautiful, you know. I suppose you don't want to hear it, but all the same, it is true.”

She stood rooted in place, unable to pull herself away as he then trailed his fingertips slowly down her spine.

“Yes.” He leaned down to murmur at her ear while his hand came to rest on her waist, his touch fraught with subtle possessiveness. “Quite irresistible,” he whispered. “When you are mine, I will treat you like the rare jewel you are.”

She wanted to deny that that was ever going to happen, but her tongue refused to fashion what might well be a lie. The rest of her body was already quite in favor of the match; her pulse raced at the warm tickle of his breath on her earlobe, and the feel of his hard body behind her, ready to support
her as the delicious nearness of him made her dizzy.

“You say we barely know each other, so I say we must remedy that,” his silken baritone cajoled her, his lips skimming her ear with maddening softness. “I will come by tomorrow in my cabriolet and take you out for a drive.”

She bit her lip, pained to think she must decline. This scoundrel made her body ache in the most confusing fashion. “I am not sure that's such a good idea.”

“Of course it is. Come, my dear,” he cajoled her, his deep and worldly voice beguiling her. “Be fair—to both of us. You said yourself that you don't know me, so how can you refuse me out of hand? You haven't even learned yet what you might be giving up. You might find you like me if you'll give it half a chance. Come, I saved your neck, didn't I?” She let out the tiniest of moans as his warm lips skimmed her neck to emphasize his words. “That must be worth a little of your time, at least.”

“Very well,” she forced out breathlessly, attempting to sound dignified as his hands glided up and down her arms with maddening pleasure. “For the sake of fairness, then. You may—take me driving in the park.”

“There, now.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “That wasn't so hard, was it?”

Finally gathering her wits, she turned her head a little to meet his mischievous gaze askance over her shoulder. “Best not to push your luck,” she advised in a voice gone soft and scratchy with desire.

His smile widened. “I shall count the hours,
cherie
.” Removing himself from their lovely close proximity, he made his bow and headed for the door.

“Lord Rotherstone?”

“Call me Max, please.” With one hand on the doorknob, he paused, glancing back at her. “What is it?”

She ignored his invitation to the dangerous familiarity of first names, and nodded toward the fancy little present he had brought. “What's in the box?”

He leaned against the doorframe, the sketch of manly elegance. “Why don't you open it and find out?”

“Is it a ring?” she asked with wary bluntness.

“Er, no.” When he took in her skeptical look he laughed, a roguish sparkle in his eyes. “I didn't know your ring size yet. What is it, by the way?”

“I'm not telling you!” she exclaimed, refusing to give in to the temptation of a smile.

But she was relieved to hear it. A ring would have seemed too distressingly final.

Perhaps he understood that she was nowhere near ready for that so soon.

“Suit yourself,” he replied as he opened the door again to leave. “Four-thirty, then, tomorrow. Don't be late.”

Another order from him?
she thought, but she could not help smiling guardedly after he had gone.

She was nowhere near agreeing to this, but all things considered, she had to admit, a woman could do worse.

H
is mind is gone, poor bastard. He is a hollow shell.” Septimus Glasse nodded toward the captured Order agent who sat slumped nearby in the invalid chair. “His body should heal quickly. He is young and strong. But his wits are scrambled, James. He just sits there, staring into space. He barely speaks.”

“And whose fault is that?” James bit back in seething anger as they stood out on the rooftop battlements of his friend's ancient castle tucked among the Bavarian Alps. “Look what your torturers have done to him! They have all but driven him mad! The one man who can unlock the Order's secrets for us, and now he barely remembers his own name!”

“So he claims,” Talon remarked with a doubtful look.

“You think he's faking? You try surviving months of torture and see if your own mind does not shut down!” James rebuked his assistant, then he looked again at the blankly staring man, the once-mighty physique half wasted away after months in his dungeon cell.

James had demanded that Septimus remove this “Drake” from the bowels of the castle immediately. They'd had the surgeon examine him and cut off all his thick black hair to get rid of the lice. But even with his head shorn, the prisoner still had an aristocratic bearing.

James had no idea who the agent really was. But in spite of
the fact that they should have been mortal enemies, he was moved to pity for their silent captive.

“Well,” Septimus said resignedly, “I doubt he will be of any use to us now. He is a broken man.”

“I could get rid of him,” Talon murmured.

“No!” James ordered, turning to them in exasperation. “Nobody touches him, do you understand me? Somewhere in his brain lurks the names of all his fellow agents. We must treat him gently, give him time to heal.”

“And when he's strong again, what if he turns against us?” Talon asked, keeping his voice down. “Given all we know about the Order's knights, I say best to kill him now, while he's still weak.”

“Talon, you will obey me in this,” James warned. “Why do the two of you fail to see my vision? Imagine what a boon he will be to us when we have helped him see the light. Don't you understand? I will change him. Teach him to understand that where he really belongs is on
our
side.”

“How do you intend to do that, James?” Septimus shook his head. “It sounds extremely risky.”

“He's been torn down. I will build him up again. Obviously, I mean to gain his trust.” James glanced grimly from their captive back to them. “I do not know for certain if the damage to his mind can be undone, but we must try. When I have turned him, then we can destroy the Order of St. Michael for once and for all. As long as they survive, we will never succeed in advancing our vision. Every time we come close, they ruin it in the final hour.”

Motionless a few yards away, Drake caught only snatches of their low-toned conversation, but he did not sense any danger in this moment, so he made no effort to try to hear their words. He was too exhausted in mind and body to care, anyway. All he wanted was to be left alone, breathing in the chilly alpine air.

It helped to clear his muddled head—and to keep the panic at bay. Losing himself in the sweeping view before him, he watched the sunlight play over the orchards and the high meadows filled with goats and wildflowers; the bright glitter of the distant snowy peaks stung his eyes with unshed
tears.

His captors found it strange that he always wanted to be out on the roof now, beneath the open sky. But they might have felt the same if they had spent the past few months in the castle's lowest dungeons, in the dark. He blinked away the pain that haunted him like a wraith.

As his heart began to pound with remembered terrors, he strove to make himself empty again, empty, and pushed the fractured memories down again in a silent wave of desperation. He scrabbled for the words of his new creed, finding calm once more by saying them slowly, over and over again, in his mind.
We…are beyond good and evil…the elite…

They had forced this litany down his throat, and made him learn it and recite it until his mind had screamed never to hear it again. But he must have broken through the pain, for speaking the words as his captors ordered in that cell had somehow, finally, reduced his agony.

Strangely, now the same words he had hated so bitterly began to bring him comfort.

He groped into the black void of his mind for the next phrase.
The elite…made of pure will
…

Was it not pure, savage will that had kept him alive all those months? Maybe they were right. Maybe he belonged here. Maybe as his savior, James, had said, some new destiny awaited him.

Forever reborn, new-kindled like the flame…

Drake, too, had been reborn.

He, too, had survived his daily torment like the god Prometheus, enduring the horrible talons and tearing beak of the eagle. The mere echo in his mind of the torturers' footsteps approaching down the hallway toward his cell made him break out in a cold sweat.

But the worst part was the fact that his time in hell was the only part of his life he could remember now—caged, forced to play the intolerable role of victim.

They had interrogated him endlessly, and it seemed to him he must have known the answers to their questions once, but if at first he had refused to tell them of his own free will,
the day had come after a particularly bad beating when the answers were simply no longer there.

Vanished into the recesses of his mind—as though someone had erased them in between those blows to the head. His knowledge had been swallowed up as if by a vortex in the sea that sucked down ships.

His name was Drake. He was fairly sure of that much, but most of the life he had lived before was gone.

They had beaten it out of him, out of his body, out of his mind until he was hanging by a thread over this emptiness.

He was no longer sure who he was, could not remember where he had come from or why. The simple facts of his existence had shattered and dissolved, and were as much a puzzle to him now as they were to his captors.

If he dwelled on it, the panic rose. He had almost wished that they would kill him. But then James had come.

The kind old man had rescued him and assured him this wild fear, this profound confusion all would pass. Such sweet promises. James had vowed gently to help him rediscover all he'd lost. For Drake's part, he now loved the old man with a blind, instinctive faith as his only hope for survival in this place.

The others feared James, respected him. They did as he ordered. For the first time, Drake had hope that the agony might truly be behind him now, as long as he did exactly what James said.

When the distress rose again from the slow-moving whirlwind of his confusion, Drake took comfort anew in the reassuring presence of his aged savior not far away. He knew he owed the kind old man his life. He longed with all his heart to please him, for he understood perfectly that, whenever he wished, James could send him back down into the depths of Hell.

“Drake?”

The deep, patrician voice seemed to reach him from a million miles away.

“Drake?” James appeared beside him, resting a bony hand on the back of his wheelchair. “Good morning, Drake.” He bent down, peering into his face with solicitous concern.
“How are you today? Feeling a bit better?”

Through a thick fog, Drake turned his head and gazed at him. “Better…yes.” Injury and despair had made him docile, but though he couldn't quite remember, he did not think he had always been this way.

He saw a trace of pity in the deep-set gray eyes. James Falkirk was slight of build, with a shock of pewter hair, gaunt features, and a prominent nose. “Good,” he murmured, the timeworn lines etched around his mouth and eyes deepening as he gave Drake a reassuring smile.

Behind him, the dark-eyed, bearded German, lord of this castle, regarded Drake with a wary mix of pity and contempt. The third man stood farthest away, but even from his distance, Drake saw the animosity in his cold hazel eye. The other eye was covered with a patch.

The youngest of the three, called Talon, was tall and rather husky, with rugged features and dirty blond hair. That one-eyed stare frightened Drake. He sensed an unspoken threat from the eye-patch man, but knew he was too weak right now to defend himself adequately if he was attacked.

He could feel the distress building up in his chest, but did not even realize how he had sunk down in his chair, cringing from Talon, until James spoke up again.

“It's all right, Drake. No one is going to hurt you. Drake, now, listen to me. There you are. Good lad,” James soothed as Drake obediently gave James his attention. “I have exciting news for you, Drake. Talon and I are going to take you to England.”

“England?” he echoed barely audibly, tasting the dimly familiar word.

“We believe that was your home. In another week or so, you should be strong enough to travel.” James paused. “You know I promised to help you regain your memories, didn't I? When you see the places you once knew, I believe your memories will start to come back.”

Drake's first thought was that he didn't want his memories to come back. It was best if they were hidden. He was certain of this, though he didn't know why. His mind must have swallowed them into the void for a reason.

Unfortunately, he realized that was not the answer James desired. “Yes. Thank you, sir,” he whispered, trembling a bit. He lowered his head.

“You will get well in time,” James encouraged him. “We must both be patient. And when you are well, Drake, when you're strong again—” The old man's voice deepened and turned slightly sinister. “I will help you get revenge on the so-called friends who left you here for dead.”

 

The next day, Max arrived at the Starling villa at the agreed-upon hour to collect his intended for their courtship drive—a quaint and proper tradition, he thought in amusement. He was eager to see what Daphne's manner would be now that she'd had a full twenty-four hours to get used to the idea of marrying him.

He wasn't sure what to expect, but when he arrived, she received him with an attitude of subdued grace, alluringly dressed for their outing in a delicate pink carriage dress with long transparent sleeves.

His gaze trailed over the V-neck of her gown, festooned with frothy lace, but he forbade himself to stare too much. He spent a few moments dutifully conversing with her family—he really liked her father—but at last, she put on her matching pink hat, and he whisked her away for their outing, with a promise to have her back soon.

With her little sisters spying out the window, they walked out to his ridiculously expensive cabriolet, a light two-wheeled vehicle drawn by a single black gelding. Max opened the little low door and handed her in.

In truth, the late summer day was too hot for this time-honored courtship ritual, but he raised the nautilus-shaped leather hood of the cabriolet to provide his lady with shade. He also suggested a stop at Gunter's for their famed ice cream, but they had not yet decided on that.

He was merely glad she did not attempt to back out of their appointment using the strong sun for an excuse.

Then they were under way.

They set out at a sedate pace, but when her shyness persisted, and the conversation flagged as a result, Max
quickly decided to break the stilted tension with a heady dose of speed.

Nothing like a brush with danger to bring two people together. He drove his horse on faster while Daphne shrieked with half-terrified delight.

“Slow down! You are a lunatic!” she cried as they went thundering down a long, flat stretch of finely graveled road in a less-peopled region of Hyde Park.

Max laughed. He would have listened to her pleas if he believed her protests, but her exuberant laughter and her beaming smile told another story.

He slapped the reins again over his galloping horse's rump, half standing in the driver's seat, his leg braced against the footboard.

His coattails flew out behind him as they barreled on; likewise, the white ostrich plume on her bonnet waved like a pennant in the breeze formed by their velocity. He liked the way she reached for him, clinging onto his arm to steady herself.

She was responding to the excitement exactly as he had calculated—of course, he was too skilled a driver to put her in any actual danger. The illusion of it was enough.

They raced on down the dusty road, through patches of shadow cast across their path by the late day sun, angling over the tall, dry trees.

“Max!” she cried.

He thrilled to her use of his first name. At least they had cut through that irritating tension.

“Yes, Daphne?” he replied with a breezy glance.

She pointed ahead. “Look out!”

“Whoa!”

As they thundered up over a rise, both carriage wheels left the earth. Daphne let out a small scream and gripped him for all she was worth as, indeed, they went a little more airborne than Max had quite intended.

He laughed heartily as the cabriolet bounced back to earth, bumping them back down onto the seat.

“Oh!” she exclaimed after a moment, pressing a hand to her heaving chest. “We were—flying!”

He flashed a grin. “Want to do it again?”

“You
are
mad!” she burst out, but her shaky smile admitted that she at least realized he was joking.

“Only mad for you, Miss Starling. Only mad for you.”

Her eyes sparkled at his soothing flattery, but he slowed the black gelding to a swift, cooling walk. The animal's glossy coat had begun to lather in the heat, and in any case, they were coming upon a more crowded region of the park.

She let go of his arm and put a small distance back between them. Max forced his attention to the road again, but his fierce awareness of her beside him roused his most elemental instincts, and took his imagination where it ought not go.