What You Propose (Anything for Love #2) (12 page)

Anna inhaled deeply, and he felt a shiver run through her.

It took a tremendous amount of effort not to jump up and punch the air. The fact she may desire him coupled with the illicit thoughts running through his head were almost his undoing.

Good God.

He was starting to think like a boy from the schoolroom. He sniggered at the thought. While his head might be lost in a hazy cloud of excitement and anticipation, when it came to their coupling, they would meet as skilled experts in the art of giving pleasure.

"We'll head straight to the inn, spend an hour or so there." When he took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm, she made no protest. He cast a sidelong glance, noting the look of concentration dominating her countenance. "Remember, you are supposed to be my mistress. You should try to look as though you're enjoying the experience."

She turned to him. "What would you like me to do? Should I stroke your overinflated sense of importance? Drool at the sight of your muscular shoulders?"

Marcus smirked. She could stroke the only part of his anatomy he considered overinflated. "You think my shoulders are muscular. That's a start. Although I would rather you bite down on them while shuddering with the effects of your release."

Miss Sinclair sucked in a breath. "Do you always speak in such terms to a lady?"

"Only to those I wish to bed."

She yanked her arm free.

"What?" He held up his hands. "Would you prefer I lie? Besides, now we do look like lovers. Who else would quarrel in the middle of a street while people watch from their windows?"

She shook her head and strode off in front. He watched her stomp along the muddy lane. Even in the darkness, he could imagine the gentle sway of her hips hidden beneath the cape. He caught up with at the door of the inn.

"Are you coming inside?" he said. "Or would you prefer to wait out here?"

She nibbled her bottom lip. "Will there be other women in there?"

Marcus shrugged. "A few. No one will pay you the slightest attention. It's a small village. People care more about filling their coffers with coins than what's deemed proper."

"Very well," she nodded. "If I'm to play the role of mistress, I assume you've chosen a name you think fitting, something a little prettier than Ned."

He turned to face her, placed his hands on her upper arms and stared deeply into the blue twinkling gems staring back at him. "I think I'll call you Anna. After all, you are the only woman I want in my bed. Why not indulge my whimsical fantasies."

As soon as the wooden door scraped against the tiled floor, all eyes were averted to the arched entrance. All conversation came to an abrupt halt as the villagers' narrowed gazes drifted over them. Ushering Anna inside, Marcus offered Lenard a curt nod. From behind the counter, Lenard gave his usual lopsided grin in a bid to disguise the fact he had but a few teeth.

"Mr. Danbury, sir," came the immediate response from the scrawny landlord. "Give me a moment and I'll be right with you." He finished cleaning the tankard with a rag that had once been white and now looked a grimy shade of grey.

"Lenard is English?" Anna whispered.

Marcus nodded. "His wife is French."

After the crowd offered numerous nods and grumbled greetings, one by one, they turned their backs, the low muttering soon growing into a loud din.

"We'll sit over here," Marcus said pointing to a spot near the door and in full view of Lenard.

Anna nodded, acknowledged the few people she knew and sat in the chair Marcus held out for her. "For a moment, I thought they were going to chain us to pillory and leave us for the crows to feast."

He sat forward, brushed his fingers across the soft apple of her cheek, aware of her sudden intake of breath. "Shush," he said. "You must get used to a certain level of familiarity if others are to believe our deception."

She gave a derisive snort. "In London, a gentleman does not openly court a lady. Not even his mistress."

Marcus glanced around, noting a butcher, farm labourer, the blacksmith's apprentice. "But we're not in London, Anna, we're in France. This is not high society. The people here are far more accepting. Now, would you like something to drink?"

Her cheeks flushed. "I'll have wine or ale or whatever you think is safe for consumption."

Marcus laughed as he pushed out of the chair. "I'll go up to the counter. It will give me a chance to gauge Lenard's mood without him being distracted by your beauty."

He did not give her a chance to respond and was soon back with two small pewter mugs and a copper jug half-full of wine.

"Wine is easier on the stomach," Marcus said, sitting down at the table and pouring them both a drink.

Anna took a sip from the mug, shivering visibly as the potent liquid slid down her throat. "Easier on the stomach but not so on the head, I fear."

"Lenard always serves me his best."

He watched with keen interest as she took a few more sips. Was it nerves that drove her to drink more quickly? It occurred to him that they should use this time together productively. A man should delve a little deeper into a lady's mind and heart if he stood any chance of winning her favour.

"So, what will you do when you leave here?" Marcus said, relaxing back in the chair. "Will you go back to London?"

There was no chance of him doing so. Marcus vowed never to set foot on English soil again. Not while his father was alive.

Anna shrugged. "I'll never go back to London. I'm afraid I will always be regarded as Madame Labelle, proprietor of a bawdy house." She stared at the candle on the table, at the drop of wax trickling down its length. She tapped her finger to the hot liquid, rubbing it against her thumb until it solidified. "I like the country air, the lush fields and rolling hills. It brings back happy memories of my childhood."

A vision of a pretty girl with honey-gold hair flashed into his mind. He imagined her smiling, carefree, running against the wind. "How will you provide for yourself?"

In the countryside, she'd hardly find the type of work she was used to. There were no houses of ill repute desperately searching for a new madam. And there were not many men willing to take a wife with her chequered history. However, he believed her bewitching beauty was as valuable as the best debutante's dowry.

"I have a cottage nestled in a quiet country village. I have enough money put aside to give me a comfortable life."

The inquisitive, manipulative part of his brain jumped to attention. The cottage she mentioned must surely be the same place where Miss Beaufort was hiding. It made perfect sense. Anna had fled to France while Dane's lady had fled to some quaint village to look after her cottage.

Interesting.

He was about to pry further when she said, "What of you, Marcus? Will you continue in the same vein without Tristan? I imagine you'll find working on your own far more difficult."

For some reason, it hadn't occurred to him that Tristan might not come back. A hollow void opened up in his chest, and he feigned arrogance in a bid to banish it. "I work better on my own. Tristan is too cautious, too sensible to be of any use."

Despite trying to infuse a hint of contempt into his words, he knew she did not believe his pathetic protestations. She stared into his eyes as though they were open doors to his soul. "And you're far too rash, far too reckless, which is why the two of you work so well together. I can see you'll miss him terribly."

Bloody hell
.

Was she some sort of mystic? Or was he just so easy to read?

He took a large gulp of wine whilst using the opportunity to observe Lenard.

"Perhaps you judge me too harshly without knowing all of the facts," he finally said, confident Lenard was simply going about his work.

She smiled and arched a brow. "I believe your scars speak volumes."

Panic flared. "Scars?" he repeated.

"There's a small one just to the left of the dimple on your chin." She pointed to the offending article. His heart thumped in his chest for an entirely different reason now. Anna had studied him sufficiently to notice his faint battle marks.

"This one came from the tip of a blade," he said running his finger over the thin line cutting through the bristles. "Dane was with me at the time. We were ambushed whilst rescuing a lady from an asylum."

Anna's eyes widened. "Good heavens. Why were you rescuing her from an asylum?"

Marcus sighed. "It is difficult to explain. But suffice to say, the lady was not mad at all, and had been put there at the behest of her husband."

Married women were just as helpless when it came to dealing with selfish men.

"I have a few scars, too," she said pulling up her left sleeve and turning her arm to show him her elbow. "I've one here. Can you see it?"

"This one?" He traced the pale pink line with the tip of his finger. "Is it a battle scar?"

"Yes, in a way." She yanked her sleeve back down. "I fought with Victor over a girl he brought to stay. I helped her to escape. He couldn't prove I had anything to do with it, but he still knocked me to the floor in a violent rage. I hit it on the grate."

Marcus gulped to swallow the lump in the back of his throat. If Victor were still alive, he would hunt him down and gut him like a fish.

"I'm sorry." The words tumbled from his mouth.

"Why?" She looked puzzled. "It's not your fault."

When she took a sip of wine, he nodded to her hand. "I noticed a mark on your thumb. Is it another battle scar?" Part of him did not wish to hear another tale of the cruelty she'd suffered. Part of him wanted to know every intricate detail about her.

Placing her mug back on the table, she held her hand to the candlelight. "Two gentlemen were arguing over Maudette. Sometimes men imagine the girls are in love with them. One of them threw a vase at me when I asked him to leave. I covered my head with my hands but it hit the wall next to me, and a piece grazed my thumb."

"What was his name?" His voice sounded harsh, unyielding. "The man who threw the vase."

"Why?" she laughed. "Will you sail all the way to England in a bid to avenge me?"

"No. I'll get someone else to do it on my behalf."

She stared into his eyes. "You're serious."

"I am."

Her gaze softened, and she swallowed visibly.

"I have a similar scar." He turned his hand over and showed her the mark on the pad of his palm just below his thumb. "From a woman who'd convinced herself she loved me. She charged at me with a broken perfume bottle."

She took his hand in hers and examined it beneath the flame. "You were lucky. An inch lower and it would have pierced a vein."

"An inch lower and a woman would have succeeded where many men have failed."

"Love is a dangerous business, is it not?" She gave a weak smile. "I must say I find these coincidences a little unsettling. Thank goodness I don't have scars on my back else I would be worried. I assume you received them during one of your mysterious assignments?"

A dark cloud descended, surrounding him, swallowing him whole until he almost choked on his disdain. Bitterness and resentment surfaced. He wanted to close his eyes until the feeling passed and he could breathe easy again.

"You don't need to tell me," she said, concern evident in her tone. "Forget I mentioned it."

Was he so transparent? Could she see the pain in his eyes?

"The marks have nothing to do with an assignment." He couldn't look at her, yet felt compelled to reveal his secret, to let her know why he behaved the way he did. Staring at the naked flame as it flickered back and forth, he said, "I was eighteen when my mother died at the hands of that bastard."

He stopped as raucous laughter filled the room: a response to some silly joke. Yet in his warped mind, it sounded like his father's mocking jeers.

Anna put her hand on his sleeve. "You speak of your father?"

"He is no father to me." He covered her hand with his own, the heat warming him to his core, and she did not object. "He provided the necessary funds for us to have a reasonably comfortable life. My mother was so pleased when he agreed to pay for my education. But he grew angry when I refused to visit him during the holidays, stopped paying the rent whilst I was away at school. She died in the workhouse, and I knew nothing of her plight."

He could feel his throat closing tight until he gasped for breath.

She leant forward and brushed the lock of hair from his brow. By God, he wanted to take her in his arms as a way to banish the Devil from his door.

"She died alone, Anna. I never got the chance to thank her for all she'd done for me."

A tear trickled down her cheek, and she pursed her lips, pressing them together tightly.

"When I confronted him, he had his valet hold me down while he horsewhipped me for my insolence. I have not set eyes on him since that day."

He stared into her brilliant blue eyes, taking in their radiance as though they held a magical ability to heal all pain. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the two men walk behind the counter and disappear through a door at the back.