Rexanne Becnel (21 page)

H
E
hurt all over. And he’d never felt so good.

Marsh shifted, wincing at the shooting pain in his upper arm. Beside him the soft, fragrant form of a woman also shifted, their bare skin sticking a little in the warm cocoon of the bed linens.

For a moment longer he reveled in the intimate slide of naked skin on naked skin, and he sighed as his intense sense of well-being soared. There was nothing like a willing woman to mend a man’s aches and chase his troubles away.

His troubles?

Like a rude slap across the face, the reality of his situation hit him and Marsh’s contentment abruptly fled. He twisted his head to the side and stared down into Sarah Palmer’s sleeping face, and in a rush every detail of yesterday—and last night—returned.

His arm hurt because he’d been shot.

The rest of him hurt because he’d made such ferocious, overdue love to Sarah. She was his nemesis; she was his enemy; and she was the most delicious, responsive lover he’d ever had.

But was she also the one who’d shot him, or had him shot?

He levered himself away from her, stifling a grunt of pain. Funny, he’d not felt any pain during their lovemaking. But his arm hurt like hell now.

So did the unhappy fact that he’d gotten exactly what he’d demanded, that last sticking point in their perverse agreement. He’d rightly decided not to hold her to that demand. Yet at the first opportunity he’d still taken complete advantage of her.

God, but he was the lowest sort of heel. He’d fucked her, as he’d so crudely termed it. Now it remained only for him to have the legal papers prepared, and for her to transfer the funds to his account.

Frowning, he shoved down the coverlet. He was naked and in her bed, not his. He swung his feet onto the floor, gritting his teeth. He’d gotten what he wanted all along, despite his belated attack of conscience. So why did he have this nagging sense of dissatisfaction? Why did he feel like punching someone—anyone—in the nose?

Spying his discarded dressing gown, he snatched it up and put it on, intending to retreat to the bedchamber he’d been given. Then it occurred to him that he was inside Byrde Manor. He was inside his father’s home, the home that should have been his all these years.

And the woman still asleep in her bed, with her glorious hair strewn in a tangle, had just purchased it from him with her sweet virgin’s body.

His nostrils flared in revulsion even as his body reacted with lust. He’d given up his heritage to her, something he’d sworn he would have back, if only for his mother’s sake. He’d given in to Sarah Palmer, though. But why? She was a self-indulgent English aristocrat who believed her money could buy anyone off. When it could not buy him off, however, she’d willingly thrown herself into the pot. Anything to protect her family’s reputation among the rest of their loathsome peers.

He clenched his jaw again. Though he knew he must share the blame for what they’d done together—after all, he’d been the one to add that caveat to the agreement she’d offered—that only made it worse. Why must he react so violently to her? So urgently? Why did he lust after her when there were so many other less complicated women to be had? Why her?

As if to taunt him, she sighed and rolled onto her back, revealing even in the feeble light of the guttering candle the pearly skin of her shoulder and the upper swells of her breasts. Like a goad, his perverse desire sharpened almost to pain.

But it was done between them, he told himself. It was done.

He clung to that simple but excruciatingly hard thought as he backed from the room. It was done now between them. He’d won a handsome sum of money and an energetic night in her bed.

But his eyes clung to the womanly figure sprawled on the shadowy bed. His gaze remained fixed upon her until the door closed between them. Even then, when he turned down the quiet hall that led to his bedchamber, victory did not taste particularly sweet.

Sarah awakened early, at least by her standards. The sun was up and she heard voices in the yard. But no maid had yet entered her room.

She rolled over, stretching her drowsy body—then realized with a gasp that she was naked.

Naked.

Then a far worse realization struck her like a cruel blow. She was also no longer an innocent maiden.

Wide awake now, and trembling, she yanked the counterpane up to her chin and peered cautiously about. Where was he? Where was Marshall MacDougal, the man who had come to her last night? Marshall MacDougal, whom she’d welcomed into her bed without even a pretense of objection?

Wherever he was, however, it was not in her room. Piercing disappointment left a hollow feeling in her chest. Though she should have felt relief, her first and truest reaction to his absence was keen disappointment.

But it was the wrong reaction, and she buried those inappropriate feelings with a quick burst of activity. The maid must not find her naked.

She fished her wrapper from its puddle on the floor near the foot of the bed. Her hair she twisted into a messy rope and secured with a ribbon, and for good measure she donned her slippers.

But there was something wrong. Something…

She checked the sheets and saw a half-dried stain and a faint smear of blood. Her virgin’s blood.

Her heart, which had already been racing, thundered now with the heavy rhythm of guilt. She grabbed a washcloth and, using water from the pitcher on the washstand, soaked and scrubbed until the blood was gone. Then she blotted it with her towel and flung the top sheets and counterpane over the telltale patch.

There. She was safe.

But she remained uneasy. There was something else. She couldn’t determine what, but she knew anyone entering this room would immediately guess what had happened here. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, and at once she knew.

Her bedchamber smelled different, of seething emotions and physical intercourse. Of a man and a woman coming together in that most intimate of acts.

“Oh, no!” She sniffed again, feeling for all the world like a harried fox done in by her own scent lingering on the air, with the hounds, meanwhile, quick behind her.

In an instant she yanked the gold damask curtains open, then flung the narrow window sashes wide. Was there anything else she could do—besides die of humiliation?

With her head bowed, she leaned on the windowsill and tried to think, to calm herself. But any chance of calm was shattered when she raised her head and spied Marshall MacDougal standing just outside the stables.

She sucked in a sharp breath, for the very sight of him seemed to tighten every muscle in her body. This was the man she’d shared every intimate secret with. The man who’d made her moan and sigh and cry out with pleasure. Though she ought to look away from him, she could not. Her eyes fairly drank in the sight of him, so straight and tall in his buff-colored breeches, white shirt, and dark blue frock coat. He might have been some well-heeled country squire, or even a titled lord, for he had that air of command about him. He looked so right, so perfect standing there.

But then, he was a country squire, she reminded herself. He was by birth Cameron Byrde’s legal heir, and therefore a Scottish country squire. And now, thanks to the deal she’d made with him, he would be quite wealthy. Even wealthier than he already was.

She started to back away, trying hard to tear her gaze away from him. But as if he sensed her eyes upon him, he turned and looked up at the house, straight at her window. She could not move. She saw his arm, in its sling. But that did not lessen the virile impact he had upon her. She quivered, legs, belly, and every square inch of her skin. She quivered and swallowed hard despite her suddenly dry mouth.

She would have to face him eventually. Perhaps she should just get dressed, go down there, and be done with it now. Be done with
him
.

One of his companions spoke to him, he glanced away from her, and Sarah noisily exhaled. Her fingers tightened on the windowsill, for she felt almost dizzy from the impact of Marsh’s stare. How could one man affect her so profoundly?

The answer was as disheartening as it was obvious. She had a history of responding to the wrong sort of man, of being attracted to charming troublemakers. No settled, good-hearted fellows for her. Oh, no.

She turned away from the window and slumped with her back against the wall. The good-hearted fellows were all too dull for foolish, reckless Sarah Palmer. She must pick those mysterious fellows with ulterior motives. She must court disaster at every turn. And now disaster had overtaken her.

But at least she’d spared her mother and sister the pain and humiliation of having Marshall MacDougal’s true identity made known. She’d accomplished what she’d set out to do. Surely there was some sort of honor in that.

She pressed one palm to her chest and willed her pulse to slow. Then she lifted her chin, pushed off from the wall, and started with a determined stride for her armoire to dress. After everything she’d been through in the last few weeks, the fear, the racing about—

The sex.

She halted with a simple day dress in her hand, grimacing at that crude term for such wondrous intimacies. Yet wasn’t that how he thought about it? He’d said he wanted to “fuck” her. Well, last night he had. She would be a fool to think it was anything more to him than that.

But I am a fool
, some anguished part of her cried out.

Not today. Not anymore
, her practical side insisted.
You cannot be a fool anymore
.

So she squared her shoulders and braced herself for the coming ordeal. She would see him; she would converse with him; and she would conclude her dealings with him once and for all. After everything else she’d gone through, facing him this one last time could not be that hard.

Only when Sarah crossed the yard a few minutes later, heading for the small knot of men, did she notice the mayor and sheriff among them. Mr. Hamilton held Marsh’s horse, while the valet, Mr. Erskine, saddled the animal. The sheriff doffed his hat when he spied Sarah, and the others all did the same.

She smiled in reply but kept her gaze fixed upon the stout sheriff. It was stupid, of course, but she was afraid to look at Marshall MacDougal, afraid that if she did, somehow everyone would know. Something in her face would give her away and reveal what she’d done with him—and how much she wanted to do it again—

“No!” She nearly choked on the word.

“No?” The sheriff’s forehead creased as he stared at her.

“No. I mean
know
,” she amended, floundering around for some solid ground in the quagmire of her traitorous, deviant thoughts. “Do you know who…who shot Mr. MacDougal?” she finally managed to say.

The mayor and sheriff both shook their shining, balding heads. “That’s why we’re here, to see if Mr. MacDougal has any ideas, any reason someone ’round here might wish him ill.”

Sarah could not prevent her gaze from darting toward Marsh. They both knew she was the only one who had reason to wish him ill. But she would never—
never
—go so far as to shoot him.

But did he know that?

Their eyes met and held for one long, troubling moment. Then he turned his attention back to the two village officials. “As I told you, I can think of no one who has reason to fear me.”

“It mightn’t be fear,” the sheriff replied, holding on to his lapels and rocking back on his heels. “How’s about robbery?”

Marsh shrugged his uninjured shoulder. “Robbery? Perhaps. But shooting a man in broad daylight for a few coins seems unlikely. Although I have been told there are highwaymen in these parts.”

Again his glance flickered to Sarah, then away. But it was enough for her to feel the weight of his accusation. Did he still think she’d masterminded the attack on him? More to the point, did he feel that she was stealing his heritage, his family history? His entire past?

For the first time Sarah considered their agreement from his perspective, what he was giving up. But with the sheriff there to ask questions, there was no time to dwell on that subject. The sheriff quizzed her on what she’d heard and seen, and also commended her on her cool head and swift action in fishing Mr. MacDougal from the river.

She accepted his praise with as much good grace as she could muster. If he only knew what her true nature was, the sheriff would be aghast. As would the mayor also, and anyone else who found out how devious and wanton a creature she actually was. By the time the two men left, her neck and shoulders ached with tension, and a headache had begun to throb in her temples.

“Could we speak a moment?” Marsh asked her once they were alone. At her nod, he took her arm and steered her away from the watchful Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Erskine. She tried not to read too much into it when he released her arm as soon as they were out of earshot of the two servants.

“So,” he said in a cool tone. “It seems the sticking point to our agreement is now moot.”

“Yes. So it is.” Sarah stared straight ahead. To anyone watching, they probably appeared a gentleman and a lady taking a leisurely stroll to while away time on a pleasant spring morning. How she wished that was all it was. “I suppose all that remains now is to make arrangements for the transfer of funds from my account into yours.”

He cleared his throat. “I’ll have my agent contact you with the details.”

She nodded but did not speak. A bee circled them once, then flew away. They had nearly reached the low stone wall that separated the east field from the house grounds. The silence became almost painful. “How am I to be certain you will hold to your end of our agreement?” she finally asked.

He looked down at her, and she felt the heat of his anger. “You have my word. That will have to suffice.”

Inside she was trembling. Outside, however, she held herself so stiffly she betrayed nothing. “You will be returning to America soon?”

“Immediately. Today.”

The trembling escaped to her hands. She knotted them together in one big fist. “Today. That is probably for the best.”

“The only thing that holds me back is the identity of my attacker.”