What You Propose (Anything for Love #2) (13 page)

Marcus exhaled, shook his head to bring his mind back to the present.

"Anna, I need you to do something for me."

"Whatever you need," she said. Her willingness to trust him caused his heart to soar.

"In a moment, I want you to shout at me, slap me hard across the face, grab your cape and march out of the door." He ignored her gasp. "Once outside, I want you to walk to your right, around to the side of the inn and wait for me there. Can you do that?"

Anna nodded though the confusion in her eyes suggested she had a thousand questions.

"You must make it look realistic," he continued. "Feel free to proceed whenever—"

The loud crack stung his skin. Even though he'd been expecting it, he almost jumped from the chair.

"Leave me alone," she cried, leaping up and throwing her cape around her shoulders.

"Anna, wait!" He called after her as she opened the door and disappeared out into the night.

Good, he thought, as numerous heads dropped as he met their curious gazes. Shrugging into his greatcoat, he threw a few coins on the table and raced out of the inn in search of his enchanting accomplice.

Chapter 11

Her hand stung. Her fingers throbbed where she had slapped him hard across his cheek. It had happened quickly. She'd been too scared to wait. The violent act prevented her from doing the only thing she desperately craved. It stopped her pulling him into an embrace in a bid to soothe the pain she knew festered like an open wound deep inside.

Wrapping her cape tightly around her, she turned right as instructed, stopping halfway along the outside wall of the inn to wait for him. The sound of her ragged breathing cut into the stillness of the night. Her emotions were raw, fragile, but it had nothing to do with the haunting memories of Victor.

With trembling fingers, Anna touched her chest. The wild, erratic thumping was a result of two conflicting emotions: shock and her desire for Marcus Danbury. For days, she had tried to ignore it, pushed those thoughts aside. Her feelings were harder to identify or define, having felt nothing but disdain for most men.

The obvious questions demanded her attention.

Could she trust him?

Were his amorous protestations genuine?

Or in the end, would he prove to be a worthless scoundrel?

Before she had a chance to rouse a coherent response, he charged around the side of the inn, his greatcoat flapping behind him like huge brown wings. He appeared every bit the Devil's angel: dark, brooding, a dangerous disciple on a mission to wreak havoc.

He tapped his finger to his lips as he came to stand in front of her. "We must whisper now," he said, his broad frame swamping her.

She tried to focus on the assignment. After all, it must surely be the reason behind his odd request to hit him. But his unique masculine scent filled her head, travelled through her body sparking every nerve to life.

He pressed closer. "I'll just take a look around the back of the inn."

She felt the loss instantly, her body shivering as if exposed to a bitter breeze. Why tonight? Why was she suddenly so aware of him now? Hearing his sad tale had affected her deeply.

Then he came back, standing closer still, his head just a few inches away from hers. His soft breath brushed across her cheek like a lover's caress.

Good heavens.

Was it the wine?

"The men are moving contraband from the cellar," he whispered against her ear. "There's a wooden hatch in the ground back there. We need to listen for a few minutes."

His muscular thigh brushed against her leg causing a bolt of heat to pool, her core throbbing and pulsing in response.

"How … how many men are there?"

God help her! Surely he must hear it in her voice — the overwhelming need, the deep longing.

"Two, plus Lenard."

In the darkness, she couldn't see the raised red imprint of her hand on his cheek, yet she imagined the size and the shape as a way of focusing her mind.

"Shuffle closer," he said, tugging the edge of her cape and pulling her nearer to the end of the wall.

Deep masculine whispers drifted through the air, the odd curse, a few groans, but she felt no fear.

Why would she?

She had lived with a devil for years. Nothing could ever surpass the horrors she had witnessed. Besides, she felt safe with Marcus. Just knowing he would protect her with his life caused her heart to swell.

Indeed, it proved to be the biggest revelation of all.

She had never trusted anyone. Yet despite his arrogant facade, she knew she could depend on him. Desire hit her again as she gazed up at his chiselled jaw, at the wavy locks tied at his nape, and she felt forced to clear her throat to suppress it.

"Shush," Marcus whispered.

"Did you hear something?" Lenard's voice received a mixture of replies from his devious counterparts. "Someone's out there."

"Bloody hell," Marcus cursed. "Forgive me." She was about to ask why, when he pushed her back against the wall. "If you want to live don't fight me."

He claimed her mouth without any hesitation, without the teasing nips and caresses she'd expected. He didn't give her a chance to tell him she had never kissed a man. Victor had brushed her lips roughly on occasion, but nothing more.

Marcus angled his head, traced the line of her lips with his tongue and then plunged deep inside — wild and frantic. She tried to calm her breathing, tried not to choke on her inexperience. He tasted of wine, of some other potent flavour that made her head feel light and dizzy.

He tore his lips from hers, moved to nuzzle her neck and she almost sagged to the ground. "You had better start kissing me back. Else I'll be dragged off you and beaten to a pulp."

He parted her cape, his hand drifting over her hip as he claimed her mouth again. This time, she tried to clear her mind, tried to draw from the desire she felt for him. Heavens she couldn't tell him the truth. She would have to act as though she knew what she was doing.

When his hand moved slowly up to cup her breast, things became much easier. The throbbing between her thighs returned, a frisson of excitement ran through her and so she followed his lead. Putting her hand on his hip, she tugged the shirt from his breeches, dared to let her fingers roam beneath the material, dared to let her tongue dance with his.

She sensed the shift in him immediately. The groan resonating from the back of his throat gave her more confidence to experiment. His skin felt hot to the touch, searing the tips of her fingers as they drifted over the rippled muscles in his abdomen, but his waistcoat prevented her from exploring further. Instead, she moved her hands to his nape, threaded her fingers into his hair and tugged gently.

In the distance, she heard a low chuckle, French mutterings, someone saying to leave them be, that they'd best be on their way.

She expected Marcus to pull away when she heard them slam the wooden hatch. But he continued his sensual assault, cupping her cheeks to deepen the kiss.

"God, Anna," he whispered as he stopped to catch his breath. "You make me insane with desire."

She felt her face flush, shocked at the realisation that she wanted him to kiss her again.

Without thinking, she stood on the tips of her toes and brushed her mouth softly across his. The taste of him, the earthy masculine smell that clung to his skin was like a potent elixir. The addictive essence fed her craving.

"I was expecting another slap." He raised an arrogant brow as his heated gaze lingered on her lips. "Although you seemed to be a willing participant."

"What choice did I have?" Her body still ached for his touch. "You jumped on me before I had a chance to protest."

The corners of his mouth curled up into a sinful smirk. "I have to admit I was a little surprised. I liked the way you feigned naiveté just for my benefit."

If she told him the truth, he would never believe her.

"I'm pleased you approve," she said offering a coy smile to disguise her embarrassment. "I thought it best to add a little more authenticity to our charade."

The lie fell easily from her lips. She couldn't imagine there would be a need to kiss him again, so he need never know any different.

Without any warning, he lowered his head and kissed her once: a soft, chaste kiss on the mouth. Perhaps he had heard her thoughts and wished to protest.

"What was that for?" she asked playfully, despite feeling a frisson of fear. She wanted him to kiss her a hundred times. This strange and sudden need she had for him felt like a living thing growing inside, increasing with every touch, with every sinful look, every kind, thoughtful word.

He shrugged. "I don't know."

"Oh." She'd expected him to say it had something to do with the assignment. "What are we to do now?"

"I know what I want to do," he said as his gaze drifted over her face. "I'm just thinking of a way to pretend it's part of our plan to avoid rousing the men's suspicion."

She tapped him on the arm. "I was talking about the assignment. Are we to follow them?"

"Who?"

"Lenard's men." She couldn't help but laugh. "Are we to follow them to the cottage?"

"No. Not tonight. All I needed was confirmation Lenard is involved." He took her by the arm and led her out onto the street. "We'll go home where we can talk privately without fear of anyone overhearing, and I'll tell you my plan for tomorrow."

Anna nodded, knowing she would struggle sitting so close to him. On the journey to the inn, she'd been forced to hold her breath, to stare out into the darkness in the hope the nervous fluttering in her stomach would subside. On the journey back, whilst squashed between his muscular thighs, the same questions flooded her mind.

Why now? Why him?

Why hadn't she felt an attraction to Tristan? He was far more affable, behaved much more gentlemanly. Until a few days ago, she would have said he was more handsome.

"Tristan told me about his love for Isabella," she said as they rode back to the monastery. He had settled his horse into a walking pace, the prolonged contact forcing her to think of a way to distract her mind. "How do you think he will fare when he sees her again?"

"Did he tell you she married Lord Fernall? Two weeks after she'd been caught eloping with him."

The contempt in his voice was unmistakable.

Anna pulled her cape tightly across her chest as the night air felt much cooler now. "There must have been a reason for it. A woman does not profess her love for one man and then marry another. Not without just cause."

He snorted. "Perhaps money and a title proved too tempting to resist."

"Trust you to be so cynical."

"I'm not cynical. I'm just a little distrustful of people and their motives."

She knew why. The trauma of losing his mother under such circumstances was the cause of all his negative character traits.

"Perhaps Isabella found herself in a difficult situation," she said with a sigh.

"She had a home, Anna, people to care for her. What possible reason could there have been to induce her to marry a man she didn't love?"

She glanced up, noting his stern expression. "Things aren't always so simple." Her own experiences caused a mixture of sadness and regret to infuse her tone.

What possible reason could
she
have had for choosing to live in a brothel? But there had been no choice. She'd had no one to care for her, and consequently, there had been no one to question her failure to return home from the Servants' Registry Office.

An icy shiver ran all the way down to her toes as she remembered the elation burning in her chest at being offered the position of governess in the home of a French comte.

"You may lean in closer if you're cold," Marcus said teasing the horse into a canter. "We'll be home in a few minutes."

The word
home
roused a mixture of emotions.

Home had been a small country hamlet — a place where love blossomed, where happiness and contentment were part of everyday life. Since meeting the comte, home had become a distant, painful memory.

The hulking black shadow of the monastery loomed into view. For some unknown reason, the place had begun to feel like home. Being safe and living without fear had brought about a change in her. Never before had she contemplated her own needs and desires.

The time spent out in the garth had given her an appreciation for the simple pleasures of life. In the chapel, she had found a way to soothe the pain of the past. Spending time in Marcus Danbury's company had awakened a deep need in her — a sense of longing she had never thought to experience.

Her heart was akin to a bird recovering from a broken wing. The first flutter felt strange, still painful. She fought against it, frightened to acknowledge the fact it might never fully heal, that she would always be a little less than whole. But the more desire flowed through her, the more her heart soared, the stronger she became.