The Lady of Secrets (30 page)

The man had such beautiful, deft, large hands and such a skilled mouth. As Meg recalled the way he had teased and caressed her to the brink of sanity, her skin tingled and she emitted a languorous sigh.

“Mmmm.” She nestled her head into the lee of his shoulder and felt him stir out of his half-slumber.

He brushed a kiss against her hair and mumbled, “Did you just purr?”

“No … well, perhaps.”

She glanced up to find him regarding her with a sleepy grin, his eyes half open in an expression that was seductive and unbearably smug.

“I gather I must have performed entirely to milady’s satisfaction.”

“Perhaps,” she repeated coyly, entwining her fingers in the dark hair that matted his chest. “I might describe for you exactly how well you performed, but I fear it might make your head entirely too big with vanity.”

She felt his chest rumble as he chuckled. “No, my dear. I don’t think my head would be the part of my body in danger of swelling.”

“Seraphine told me you would be a good lover and she was right, which should please her, because there is nothing she likes better than being ri …” Meg trailed off, the thought of her friend striking her like a basin of cold water.

Blackwood smirked. “The countess is obviously a woman of great discernment.”

“And a fierce temper.” Meg pulled out of his embrace and bolted upright with a groan. “Oh, God, I just disappeared yesterday and left no word of where I was going. ’Phine must be nigh frantic searching for me. When she finds me, she’ll kill me.”

“Well, don’t expect me to protect you, love. That woman frightens me to death.”

She scooted toward the edge of the bed, but Blackwood sat up and restrained her.

“Nay, stay. The damage is done. I am sure young Tom will arrive later to check on me. We can send him off with a message for her.”

“You would hardly wish for the boy to find a woman naked in your bed.” Meg bit her lip as the unwelcome thought occurred to her. “Unless he is accustomed to it.”

“He would have to knock first. This is London, not your sheltered little island. I never leave my door unlocked at night.” Blackwood pressed her back down against the pillows and smiled at her. “So no, the boy is not accustomed to catching me abed with a woman, but for a far more important reason than that I have a stout bar on my door. I am not a saint where the fairer sex is concerned, Margaret. I have never pretended otherwise. But I satisfy my lusts elsewhere. This chamber, such as it is, is my home, my castle. I have never allowed any woman to breach these walls. Until now.”

He brushed her hair back and caressed her cheek. “But you are not a mere woman, are you? You are the legendary Lady of Faire Isle, an enchantress of unsurpassing—”

“Oh, stop. Don’t talk nonsense. You know right well I am no mystical being. The title has never suited me.”

“So I am not to call you your highness?” he teased. “Most august and magnificent one?”

“Just Margaret will do.”

“Very well, then,
my
Margaret.”

His Margaret. On Blackwood’s lips, her name became a caress, a tender endearment, and she liked the sound of it far too much. He tumbled her back down upon the pillow and she caught his hand, entwining her fingers with his. She frowned when she noticed the black spot on his thumb, as though his flesh had been seared.

She touched the wound lightly. “Does this still hurt?”

“No, it feels numb as though the area had gone dead. But better a bit of skin than me.” He grinned. “Who would ever imagine that such a pretty little flower would be capable of inflicting such damage?”

“I think that mark will be permanent. I am not sure. I have never known anyone to survive the poison before.”

“Which I did, thanks to you. Allow me to demonstrate my gratitude once more.”

His mouth claimed hers in a kiss that sent a rush of warmth through her, but not enough to assuage her guilt. She held him back, peering up at him gravely. “It was also my fault you nearly died. That rose was never meant for you.”

“Who was it meant for? You?” Blackwood’s amorous expression faded to be replaced by concern. “You believe someone is trying to kill you? Who?”

“I think the rose was left for me by one of those same witches who are threatening the king, but I don’t believe I was meant to die. She would know that I would recognize the danger. She must have meant the rose to be a sign or a warning.”

“She?”

“My mother.”

“The same mother you watched drown when you were a little girl?”

“She could still be alive. That is the reason I risked coming to England. I had to know.”

“Margaret,” he began slowly. His voice was kind, but his incredulity was written across his face. “I do not know how you came by such a notion, but you should not get your hopes raised.”

“My hopes or my deepest dread? My mother is the figure of nightmares. You of all people should understand that.”

“What do you mean?”

Meg hesitated and then admitted, “Tom told me about your past.”

“What!”

“Gilly Black, the executioner. He is your father, is he not?”

Blackwood relaxed a trifle, but he grumbled, “Damn that rattle of a boy. You should take no heed of anything the lad says.”

“Please don’t be angry at Tom. He admires you and cares about you deeply.”

As do I,
she nearly added, checking herself just in time.

“I am glad Tom told me. You have nothing to be ashamed of regarding your past.”

“Don’t I?” Blackwood’s mouth twisted in a bitter expression.

“Not compared to me. Your father may be an executioner, but my mother was a witch and she expected me to …” Meg faltered, suddenly remembering Seraphine’s caution.

“You need to take another lover, but next time keep your heart and your secrets to yourself.”

“Expected you to what?” Blackwood asked when she hesitated.

She was spared the decision of what to tell him when the chamber door suddenly burst open. Blackwood swore and cocked one eyebrow at her. “
Someone
forgot to bar the door last night.”

“I am sorry. I was a trifle preoccupied.” Meg could already feel the heat of embarrassment flood her cheeks at the thought of facing Tom’s wide, innocent eyes.

Blackwood rolled away from her, positioning his body to shield her from view.

“Tom, lad, you need to wait—oh, bloody hell!”

Blackwood’s broad back went rigid. Meg risked a peek around him and gasped in dismay. It wasn’t the boy who had bounded into the room. That would have been bad enough, but not nearly as daunting as the sight of Sir Patrick Graham, the man’s face a mask of shock and rage.

S
IR PATRICK STOOD FROZEN ON THE THRESHOLD, THE COLOR
drained from his cheeks. Meg experienced an urge to hide herself beneath the coverlet, but it was far too late for such a childish and futile gesture. Sir Patrick’s eyes blazed in her direction and then he looked quickly away as though he could not stomach the sight of her.

All Meg could do was to draw the sheet up to her neck and strive for such dignity as was possible in such an embarrassing situation. Only Armagil was able to retain some semblance of his customary nonchalance.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, stretching his arms and feigning a yawn. “Graham. This is a surprise. Not that I wish to appear inhospitable, but this is not a convenient moment for me to receive morning callers. You may return, say, in an hour from now, and next time, use one of those admirable fists of yours to knock before bursting in upon me.”

Sir Patrick glanced down at his clenched hands and slowly uncurled them. A hint of color returned to his face, but he made no move to leave.

“I burst in upon you because I was in fear for your life. When I returned home this morning, I was regaled with some garbled tale about you summoning Mistress Wolfe because you were dying.”

“And so I was.”

“You appear to have made a remarkable recovery.”

“With all due thanks to Margaret.”

Sir Patrick raked her with a glance of scathing contempt. “Aye, I can see exactly what sort of medicine she has been administering.”

“Mind your tone, Graham,” Blackwood said softly. “And take care what you say.”

“I am sure it is understandable that Sir Patrick should be concerned,” Meg began, but she was cut off by both men.

“ ’Tis no concern of his,” Blackwood snapped.

“I need no understanding from you, madam. Indeed I hardly know what to say to you.”

“Farewell will suffice.” Blackwood jerked on his breeches. Meg found her shift at the foot of the bed, but saw no modest way of donning it with Sir Patrick present.

“Get out, Graham, and let the lady get dressed,” Blackwood said as he shrugged into his shirt.

“If you please, sir?” Meg hoped her gentler request would be more persuasive than Blackwood’s blunt demand. But Sir Patrick merely turned his back on her.

“Proceed, madam. I would be only too pleased if you would cover your shame.”

His words stung, but Meg refused to allow Sir Patrick to
turn what she had shared with Blackwood into something common and sordid.

Scrambling into her shift, she said, “I do not believe that a woman who finds pleasure in the loving embrace of a man has anything more to be ashamed of than he does.”

Blackwood snorted. “That will hardly serve as a reproof for Graham, my dear. I am sure he expects me to don a hair shirt and do penance as well.”

“It scarce matters what I expect,” Sir Patrick said. “You have little respect for my opinion.”

Blackwood started to retort, but Meg stayed him with a shake of her head. This situation was uncomfortable enough without the two men quarreling.

She hastened to don the rest of her clothing, her fingers fumbling with the lacings of her gown. Blackwood hurried to her rescue. She should have discouraged him. Helping her to dress was such an intimate, loverlike gesture. It could only further provoke Sir Patrick, and Meg feared that was exactly what Blackwood had in mind. But as he deftly worked her lacings, he smiled down at her with such warmth and reassurance it was as though Sir Patrick was no longer even there.

Sir Patrick turned around in time to witness the tender moment between them and it did nothing to mollify his temper.

“So what did you do, Gil?” he demanded. “Feign some false illness to lure Mistress Wolfe to your bed the moment I was out of the way? Or was the excuse for this tryst concocted between you?”

Blackwood smoothed his hands down Meg’s arms. “I was not aware that either of us is obliged to make excuses to you. While we might be friends, Graham, I never gave you leave to dictate what company I keep. I never promised you—”

“No, you didn’t, but much good it would have done if you had. You are not the sort of man to ever keep your vows, are you?”

Blackwood flinched at the gibe. But Sir Patrick didn’t appear to notice as he went on. “For once I hoped that for the sake of our friendship, my wishes might have been of more import to you than the pursuit of some strumpet.”

“Damn you!” Blackwood started toward Sir Patrick, but Meg managed to get in between them.

“Stop it, both of you.”

“You call her by such a name again and I swear—”

“Armagil. I said, stop! You both need to calm down and allow me to explain to Sir Patrick what happened.”

Blackwood glowered at Sir Patrick, but he backed away. Sir Patrick likewise subsided, but his jaw set in a stubborn line.

He appeared so different from the man she had met in Pernod. Had his gentlemanly demeanor merely been a mask for his true nature, a man hardened by bitterness and hatred? Or were such strong emotions too long suppressed causing Sir Patrick to unravel? His clothing looked disheveled, the lines of his face haggard as though he had not slept at all last night.

When Meg approached him, he averted his gaze as though he could not bear to look at her. Or was it more that he did not want her looking at him, fearing she might see all the pain and bitterness of a boy named Robert Brody?

“Sir Patrick—” When she tried to rest her hand on his sleeve, he shrank from her touch. Meg let her arm fall back to her side. “Armagil did not deceive you or me. He truly was deathly ill. He had been poisoned.”

“Poisoned?”
Graham appeared in no humor to heed anything
she had to say, but the word gave him pause. “How is that possible?”

“By means of this.” She hurried to fetch the handkerchief in which she had carefully enfolded the remains of the lethal rose. Some of the petals had fallen away, but the flower, which should have been brown and shriveled by now, bore the appearance of fresh bloom, unnaturally preserved.

Sir Patrick’s breath hitched at the sight of it. “Silver,” he murmured. “The petals are silver like the ones that were strewn to frighten the king.”

“The petals in themselves are harmless. It is the thorn that carries the deadly venom. When Armagil found the rose in your garden, he pricked his thumb.”

Sir Patrick cast a stricken look toward his friend. “You truly were poisoned?”

Armagil glared at him. “I said so, didn’t I?”

“And now you are miraculously recovered?”

“Only because Margaret knew the antidote.”

Meg covered up the rose as Sir Patrick frowned, struggling to absorb this information.

“How did that rose come to be in my garden? Where did it come from?”

“Where do you think?” Blackwood asked. “It had to be put there by those same witches who have been terrorizing King James.”

“Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps to alarm Margaret or maybe they were even seeking to poison you.”

“No.
She
wouldn’t—I mean they wouldn’t—” Sir Patrick broke off, looking discomfited as though he realized he had betrayed himself.

It was as Meg had feared; there was some connection between
Sir Patrick and the witches, if only he could be induced to admit it.

Blackwood studied his friend through narrowed eyes. “You know, I find it strange, Graham. I was the one who was poisoned, yet you are the one who looks like you have been wrestling with the devil. It would please me to believe that you unbent enough to enjoy yourself for a change, carousing at the alehouse, but alas, I know better. So what were you doing that kept you out all night?”