To Rescue a Rogue (10 page)

“Your husband will doubtless be grateful.” Dare looked to their guide. “Where now, sir?”

Mara appreciated his willingness to carry on, but he looked distressed. He might even be sweating.

“I'm sorry,” she said, “but can we leave now? I'm quite fatigued and we can always return.”

She saw the flash of relief before he hid it. He tipped the warder and they walked briskly out of the Tower. As they passed through the last arch, Mara felt able to breathe properly again.

Their footman awaited. “The carriage is at the Yeoman Inn, milord. I'll run and get it.”

“Wait.” Dare turned to Mara. “Perhaps you would like refreshments before we return. It's already gone noon.”

The sense of oppression had lifted, but Dare still seemed strained, so Mara agreed. They strolled to the inn, the footman running ahead so by the time they arrived a private parlor was ready for them plus an adjoining room containing a washstand and a very welcome chamber pot.

Mara returned to the parlor to find pie, cakes, and tea laid out, but no Dare. She resisted an urge to run in search of him, but couldn't stop pacing the room.

She forced herself to sit and pour a cup of tea. She added more sugar than usual, drank it, and did feel better. But where
was
he? There was no clock in this room but she felt as if they'd been apart for an hour.

She tried to tell herself she'd imagined Dare's distress, but she knew she hadn't. It had felt as if their minds were joined, as if she experienced his fears.

Had he been imprisoned? By whom?

The French? But why, and they had lost the battle, so if he had briefly been imprisoned, he would soon have been freed.

The Belgian widow? She had nursed Dare back to health, but he'd said she was evil. Had she kept him prisoner? How?

And where was he now?

Of course he hadn't wandered off like a lackwit.

Of course he hadn't fallen ill somewhere.

Of course he hadn't been kidnapped!

All the same, it was as if she tasted his distress in the air.

Then he strolled in, so completely in order she wanted to hurl the plate of cream cakes at him. He didn't even apologize or explain, but simply sat and said, “I don't think the Tower lived up to your expectations.”

He couldn't have been absent as long as she'd thought. She was an idiot deranged by love. She found a smile and poured him tea. “I'm not sure what my expectations were, but I'm glad we came.”

Yes, she was. This was the longest time she'd ever spent alone with Dare, and here they were, taking tea in a cozy parlor. Like husband and wife.

She wanted to ask important questions—about opium and about imprisonment—but it would be better to keep things light. “The Tower was excellent research for Castle Cruel,” she said.

He helped himself to pork pie. “How far have you progressed with that?”

Mara had hardly given it a thought, so she said, “I'm stuck on problems. Anne can't be a village maiden. The villagers would object to her ill treatment.”

“In these egalitarian days, perhaps. In Caspar's time they'd be cowed in terror.”

Mara finished her pie. “True, but Canute the duke would hardly be marrying a village maid. It makes no sense.”

His eyes twinkled. “You expect this to make sense?”

“We have to try. I think Anne is Caspar's ward and was betrothed to Canute when they were children, but then he disappeared and was presumed dead.”

“Perhaps, then, he should be the captive corpse.”

“He can't be. He's the hero.”

He raised a brow. “Mara, Mara, are you saying that only the male can have the active part?”

She paused, a forkful of cream cake half way to her lips. “He's the captive, she's the rescuer? Oh, Dare! I do like that.”

“I thought you might.” He slid back and contemplated the beamed ceiling. “Poor Canute's a captive, trapped in a loathsome crypt/ Brave Anne Whyte seeks him, although by scorpions nipped.” He smiled at her. “I've been working on my iambic pentameters.”

“So I see, but scorpions?”

“If we cannot be brilliant, we can be unique.”

Mara finally put the cake in her mouth, savoring its light sweetness, but also the lightness of Dare. She tried to come up with more poetry. “Virginal Anne faces scorpion sting….” She pulled a face. “Virginal Violet would have a better ring.”

“No—even though you proposed it so poetically.”

“I did, didn't I? But why not Violet?” He looked mischievously secretive, so she added, “Tell, Dare.”

“There's a rather notorious lady called Violet Vane. She's not at all virginal, with or without a Y.” He laughed. “That could become deeply philosophical, couldn't it? Do we know the
why
for poor Violet's fall from grace?
Why
is she not a blushing violet, but instead a blatant one? Can,” he added pensively, “a violet blate?”

“Stop it!” Mara protested, in danger of choking.

“I was just getting into the flow of it,” he complained. “But very well. Our heroine must remain Anne Whyte, Y not I, who is fighting off a scorpion.”

“I or Y?” Mara asked.

“I,” he said, frowning at her. “And a headless knight—”

“I or Y?”

“Perdition! There must be monsters who are I-less.”

Mara grinned. “A mad, blind monk.”

Dare applauded. “Which our heroine—don't say it—must fight—don't say it—while Canute, the poor laggard, cannot.”

Mara laughed again, feeling sublimely happy. Dare was back.

“We've made him a corpse,” she pointed out, “so his laggardliness is not entirely his fault. Do you think he'll mind being rescued by his lady?”

“If I needed rescuing, I'd feel churlish to quibble.”

Mara winced. Dare
had
been rescued by a lady—a woman, at least. She ate the last morsel of her cake.

“Despite the delicious sound of the word ‘corpse',” she said, “it makes no sense to hold a corpse captive. What can it do?”

“Rise to haunt. We need a new title.
The Ghastly Ghoul of Castle Cruel
? A rhyme, begad, to boot.”

“He moans and groans and trails his drool/ He is the dread Canute!”

“Bravo!” He applauded and smiled brilliantly at her, and for a moment, she felt faint.

“What if Anne were the ghoul,” he asked, “sneaking around disguised as a ghost in search of her beloved?”

“Terrifying the servants.”

“Methinks,” he said, “you base the lady on yourself.”

She looked at him. “Simon told you?”

“That you walked the monastery ruins on Halloween one year, dressed as a white nun? I wish I'd been there.”

“I, too,” she said lightly, but meaning it deeply. She pushed the plate of cakes toward him. “You really should have one of these. They're delicious.”

“Obviously. You've had two.” He rose. “We should be on our way or Ella will send out a search party. I'll order the coach brought around.”

Mara watched him leave, feeling pulled out of paradise. When she considered his plate, she noticed he'd eaten only one small piece of pie. Once, he'd loved cakes.

She pulled on her gloves and followed, unwilling to let the darkness creep back in. As she settled in the carriage, she said, “I think this novel should be a cooperative effort. We're far more inventive together than separately.
The Ghastly Ghoul of Castle Cruel
, a novel in verse by…”

“Dara Saint Mara,” he suggested lightly. But there was definitely some dimming of his former brilliance.

“Perfect!” she declared. “We need to do more research as well. What about Westminster Abbey tomorrow? It must have crypts. In fact, I think it has effigies of famous monarchs.”

She waited, breathless.

“Why not?”

“And torture chambers at the waxworks.” Days stretched ahead, days just like this one, their fanciful novel their excuse. “Thank you for bringing me here, Dare. I particularly enjoy seeing more of London. I like to be aware of the wider world.”

“I could say
be
ware.”

“We can't spend life being wary,” Mara stated.

“Many do and the result is often blessed.”

She had to ask. “Do you wish you'd not gone to Waterloo, Dare?”

He flinched.

“I'm sorry—”

“No. It's all right. I had no choice, especially with Con returning to the army.”

“But he was a soldier from sixteen, wasn't he?”

“He sold out in 1814 and thought he was done with the bloody trade. He had the experience and the training, however, and was needed.”

“Because the veterans had been sent to the Americas.”

He nodded. “I lacked both experience and training, but when I knew how much he hated the thought of more fighting, I couldn't hold back. I was young, healthy, and expendable.”

When she protested, he said, “A younger son with an older brother already father to a son. The only reasons to stay at home would have been indolence or cowardice.”

“That's not fair. Few men who weren't trained officers went to fight at Waterloo.”

“Those who tried weren't welcome. I probably wasn't, but I'm a duke's son with many strings to pull. I could go, so I did, but I wasn't being sacrificial, Mara. I remember a fierce desire to be in on the game.”

“But do you
regret
it? Oh, I'm sorry. That's a stupid question.”

“No, it's not. I don't. Any victory is a consequence of a million small acts. Perhaps one of mine made a difference. I remember being good at what I was doing.”

Mara wasn't sure this discussion was wise, but she treasured his sharing such matters with her. “What were you doing?”

“Riding hell for leather here and there carrying messages.”

“You were always a magnificent rider.”

He returned her smile. “Mad, you said once, I remember.”

“When you won that race to Louth. You jumped the tollgate!”

“It was in my way.”

Mara couldn't help but ask. “What happened? In the battle.”

He grimaced. “I wish I knew. I think I remember my horse going down, but beyond that, it's hard to be sure what's real and what's the result of wanting to remember. Of the early time after the battle, nothing, which is probably a blessing.”

What do you remember from after?
she wanted to ask.
Were you imprisoned?
But something about him choked off the question and an awkward silence settled.

“Was last night your first visit to Covent Garden?” he asked.

It was clumsy, but she grasped a safe subject. “My first to any London theater.”

“Did you enjoy the play? And what,” he asked with a lighter expression, “did you mean about barnacles?”

She laughed and described the Scilly brothers. They went on to discuss the play and some of the better ones they had seen.

Then Mara remembered some good news. “We're finally going to Almack's next week. Will you attend?”

“Heaven forbid.”

“But then who will dance with me?”

“Half the men in town. If you've ever unwillingly sat out a dance, Imp, I'd be astonished.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Oh, very well, but it's only because I'm a good dancer.”

“It's because you're pretty and charming.”

Something inside did a somersault. “Am I? Truly?”

She held her breath, but he merely gave her a look, just as one of her brothers would.

“A lady needs constant reassurance of her charms, you know.”

“You lack a mirror?” he asked.

“At the moment, yes.”

“I assure you, the visit to the morbid Tower has not dimmed the glow of your complexion or creased it with wrinkles. It has left your lips full and pink, your eyes clear and bright, and your figure, as best I can see”—his eyes traveled up and down her, leaving a sensation almost of fiery touch—“in charming perfection.”

“Perfection!” she declared over a racing heart. “Alas that it must fade with my youth.”

“No. Yours is a beauty for the ages, Mara, because time cannot dull the spirit.”

Clever repartee fled. Mara licked her lips, trying to read his features. “That didn't sound as if you think of yourself as my brother.”