To Rescue a Rogue (24 page)

Mara stopped to stare at him. “Always on watch? Whatever do you mean?”

Ruth was alert now, looking ready to act.

“Can you think I would abandon you to oppression? Slip out of the house at the back, my beloved. I will set you free.” He strode away, leaving Mara gaping.

Ruth came to her side. “What was he on about, milady?”

“Nothing, but…” Mara wasn't going to relate such madness to Ruth. But she hurried back to Yeovil House, eager now to be inside its strong walls.

Always on watch? It made her skin crawl. Then she thought of the mysterious gift of silk. Had that been from
him?
He could have followed her to the warehouse and asked Mr. Lee about something she'd admired. In that note, the giver had said she should make a night robe of it.

She'd burn it. She should have known Dare would never think that blowsy design to her taste.

She hurried into Yeovil House, knowing she must tell Simon about Berkstead, but she winced at the thought. She'd almost rather tell Father, even if it meant telling him all.

“Mara, what is it?”

She was so far away, she almost fainted at coming face-to-face with Dare.

“Nothing.” She laughed shakily. “Just seeing you.”

His brows rose, but he said, “You have a similar oversetting effect on me.”

She laughed again, for happiness.

He looked so much the ordinary English gentleman. Well, never ordinary, but his expression was relaxed, his complexion healthy, and his clothes were the gentleman's casual uniform of dark blue jacket, buckskin breeches, fawn waistcoat, and top boots. He was carrying hat, crop, and whip.

“You've been riding,” she said, delighted.

He passed the things to a footman. “I purchased a new Conqueror yesterday. Would you like to see him?”

“Yes, of course.”

She let Ruth go and walked with Dare toward the back of the house. “How many Conquerors have there been?”

“Four. The last came to grief at Waterloo. Poor horses. Our strife is nothing to do with them. We should fight our wars on foot.”

“And rulers who start a war should lead their armies to battle,” Mara said.

“Napoleon did,” he said.

“Are you admiring the monster?”

“Merely stating a fact,” Dare said as they went through a door into the servants' area. “But he abandoned his army in Russia. Probably necessary, but still vile.”

Mara glanced around. “I think I remember this corridor.”

“Shush.”

She pressed against him in a deliberately flirtatious way.

“Do you want to be ravished in a store cupboard, wench?”

She pressed even closer. “Yes, please.”

He laughed and steered her toward a back door she also remembered. The sleeping alcove was now empty.

“Perhaps when we're married?” she murmured as they went outside.

“Then your wicked wish will always be my command.”

Wicked wishes rippled over her so fiercely that she could imagine her hair standing on end. “I can hardly wait.”

He touched her back to move her through the small area of herbs and vegetables toward a gate into the ornamental garden. More wickedness shot out from that fleeting contact. If they stopped beneath a tree for a kiss, could anyone see them?

Mara glanced up at windows. Probably. But she kissed him anyway, a brief touch of lips to lips, a look from eye to eye that transformed the London garden to Eden.

Smiling, they linked arms and strolled on. This is what our life will be, Mara thought. Walking through gardens. Visiting a new horse in the stables. One day there would be children by their side. Very soon, in fact. They would have Pierre and Delphie.

“Are the children riding yet?”

“A little. For a long time they wouldn't go far from my bedside, but Thea was very good with them. She coaxed them outside, and then to the stables to get used to horses. Once I could go there with them, they began lessons.”

They entered the mews where a magnificent gray was being rubbed down.

“He's splendid,” Mara said.

“One of Miles Cavanagh's.”

“Oh, that reminds me.” With a smile she found the farthing in her pocket and presented it to him. “To fix my purchase, my lord.”

He considered it, then slipped it into a fob pocket, but he held out his hand, palm up. “We should slap hands.”

“Slap hands?”

“To seal the deal.”

Mara took off her glove and slapped his palm. “Does that mean you're completely mine now, bought and sealed?”

He'd captured her hand and raised it for a kiss, his eyes warm on hers. “So it would seem. I am your slave for life.”

She tightened her fingers around his. “I mean to hold you to that.”

The horse's shifting hooves reminded them where they were. They moved apart, fighting smiles.

“He's a hunter,” Dare said. “Will you object to spending time in the Shires next winter?”

She smiled at him again. “Not at all, even though ladies aren't allowed to hunt.”

“Are you saying you'd want to?”

“Are you saying you'd let me?” she parried.

“You own me, not the other way around, but you've always been squeamish. You didn't even like to fish.”

She pulled a face at the memory. “You all teased me about it.”

“Boys will be boys.”

Mara slapped at a fly that buzzed around her face.

“Aha,” he said. “A bloodthirsty creature after all.”

She searched for any hint of battle horrors, but he seemed topaz bright. “I'll kill a fly and even a wasp if I have to. And ruthlessly attack unborn moths.”

They moved closer to admire Conqueror, which preened at the attention. Mara could see the horse was already devoted to Dare. “I brought Godiva to Town, but haven't had a ride yet.”

“Then we must,” he said as they strolled out of the stable. “Tell me, fair lady, do you ride her naked?”

Mara swatted at him. “Godiva, sir, is the horse, and thus always naked.”

His brows rose. “You ride her bareback?”

“No, but a saddle doesn't cover—Oh—” She broke off, red-faced. “This is a ridiculous conversation!”

He laughed, and she laughed, too, for pure pleasure at his wicked teasing.

“We could ride tomorrow,” he said.

“Lovely. When?”

“Ten?”

“Nine,” she countered. “Rides should be early.”

“Eight, then.”

“Seven?”

His eyes danced. “Mara, Mara, you'll never win that sort of challenge. Eight will be early enough.”

She laughed again, not caring if the world heard her love in it. “Eight it is.”

By silent accord they didn't return directly to the house but walked down the lane to the street. He took her hand, skin to skin, and the simple contact carried astonishing power. Didn't they speak of handfasting? Now, weaving her fingers with his, she understood why. Flesh to flesh entwined like the honeysuckle that tumbled over a wall here.

“This could almost be in the country,” she said, looking at the plants that flourished where hooves and wheels never reached. She paused to inhale the sweet scent of wildflowers. She looked at him. “We should go to Brideswell to talk to Father.”

His jaw tightened and he looked away. “I won't marry you while addicted, Mara.”

“When will you be absolutely free? How long before you can be sure? How long before we can be open about our love?”

“Months, at least.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but switched her ground. “I at least want my father's consent. As soon as possible. I mean it, Dare.”

He looked at her with love, but a touch of despair. “What if your parents don't agree?”

She took his hand. “They will. When?”

After a moment, he said, “We're committed to Almack's and then the ball at Marlowe House. After that, whenever you wish.”

Mara realized she could raise the subject of where they'd live. Still holding his hand, she said, “Dare, I've been assuming that we will have a house close to Brideswell. A place in Town as well, but…Is that what you want?”

What was she going to do if he said no?

“Move a St. Bride away from their hive?” he said. “A crime against nature.”

“Oh. I thought you might think…because Simon…”

“Simon doesn't have the same bond, but if he could, his country home would be there rather than at Marlowe. Brideswell is a special place, Mara. Perhaps I'm only marrying you for that.”

“Perhaps I'm only marrying you to become a Rogue.”

He laughed, and they came together for a kiss.

Suddenly, he pulled her hard against him in a fierce, famished kiss. She wanted to return it wildly, but they were in a public place. She broke free to gasp, “Dare, stop!”

He wrenched back from her, looking shocked.

But then she realized someone had dragged him away from her. Dare whirled—to face Major Berkstead.

“You cur!” Berkstead roared and swung a fist.

Though off-balance, Dare slid by it. “Stop it, you madman—” He blocked the next fist with his arm and again turned so that Berkstead stumbled, but the man threw himself back into attack, red-faced and madeyed.

Dare punched Berkstead in the chest. The man staggered back, wheezing, but managed to grab Dare's jacket. They both tumbled to the ground.

“Stop it!” Mara screamed, but then realized Berkstead wouldn't and Dare couldn't. She looked around frantically, but no one seemed to be coming to help.

Berkstead grabbed a stick, a bit of tree limb as thick as Mara's arm and swung it at Dare's head. Dare rolled away and to his feet with the fluidity Mara had seen in the ballroom. He was focused now in the same way, but he let Berkstead struggle to his feet.

Berkstead showed his teeth and swung the stick, then attacked again. Mara wasn't at all surprised when Dare kicked it out of Berkstead's hand and, almost in the same movement, punched him in the belly. When Berkstead staggered back, however, Dare kept going, landing another ferocious blow on the man's body. And another.

“Dare, stop!”

People were running toward the fight now—grooms from the stables, someone behind from the street, but they were too far away. Berkstead was glassy-eyed, but Dare still attacked.

Mara picked up the stick and whacked Dare hard across his back.

He whirled, smashing the stick from her hands with one fist, the other moving toward her, hard-edged as a blade.

He stopped dead, ashen with horror. “Mara?”

She'd flinched, but she said, “It's all right. I'm all right. I couldn't let you kill him.”

She reached for him, but he turned away, slowly, clumsily to where Berkstead leaned heavily against a wall, clutching his body, blood pouring from his nose. Three grooms ran to him, shooting astonished and nervous glances at Dare. On the street side, two older gentlemen had paused, seeing that the action was over, but they were staring, too.

It could only have been minutes. Less than a minute, even.

Mara took Dare's arm. “Thank you. For protecting me.” He was still pale and she could feel tremors running through him. “Come along. Come back to the house.”

He shrugged her off. “Is he badly hurt?” he asked the grooms.

“Maybe cracked ribs, milord—”

Berkstead wheezed. “You're a madman. You should be locked away. First you attacked a lady, then me.”

“He did not attack me!” Mara spat. “It's you who is mad.”

“Kiss him in the street of your own free will, did you?”

“Yes. We're to marry.”

Berkstead's angry color bleached. “No.”

She'd spilled the secret before witnesses, but what else could she have done? “Yes,” she said, loudly and firmly.

“Assist him back to his rooms and do whatever's needed,” Dare told the grooms. “Come.”

He put an arm around Mara and drew her back toward the mews and the house. Faint tremors still ran through his body, and she probably trembled, too. At her words, Berkstead's expression had turned to one of deadly hate.

Mara couldn't have chattered to save her life. Her heart still raced and her breath came shortly, but it was something about Dare that silenced her.

He stopped in the garden behind the house. “Why was Berkstead there?”

“What?”

“Why was Berkstead in the lane? Why did he think he had the right to protect you?”