What You Propose (Anything for Love #2) (21 page)

"What … what are you doing?"

He cursed for not thinking of it sooner. Above him, with her honey-gold hair hanging loosely around her shoulders and her small round breasts that were a perfect fit for his palms, she looked like a goddess sent to lure mortal men into a life of debauchery and sin.

"Move with me," he instructed, his hands settling on the soft curve of her hips. "Like this." He groaned as the muscles in her core hugged him tight.

Her face flushed, but as soon as he began moving inside her she abandoned all reservations and with his help settled into a steady rhythm.

His fingers found her sweet spot, and he stroked back and forth, fighting desperately against the need to thrust hard. He loved the way she moved with him, loved the glazed look in her eyes that overshadowed the pain and sorrow.

Her movements grew more desperate as the passion he could feel deep within drove her forward. Her breath came fast. The short pants breezing out of her parted lips were like music for the soul.

"
Marcus
."

As soon as the first shudder shook her, he flipped her back over again and drove hard and quick.

"
Bloody hell
." The whispered words were accompanied by his roar of satisfaction as he withdrew just in time to spill his seed over her stomach.

They lay on the floor, her head on his chest, his arm draped around her shoulder as his fingers traced light circles on her back. It had been the hurried coupling of a man in his youth. But it had brought a level of satisfaction to surpass all else. And as his breathing settled and the soft pulse of sated desire ebbed, he tried to address his feelings.

He was in love with her.

It wasn't a shocking revelation. He had known from the very beginning, from the moment Tristan helped her down from the carriage and their eyes had met. Perhaps even before then, even before he knew of her existence. Somehow he had always known they would meet, and his life would take a new direction. He would have a new, infinitely more rewarding purpose.

And that was why he could not deceive her.

If they had any hope of creating a future together, then it must be built on honesty, trust, and respect.

"There is something I need to tell you," he heard himself say before the logical part of his brain had a chance to protest. The shiver that rippled through her body shook him too.

"Judging by your rather grave tone, I suspect that whatever it is it won't be pleasant." Trembling fingers on his chest belied her playful tone. "Just give me a moment to dress."

As he threw on his shirt and breeches, he could sense her pulling away from him, emotionally withdrawing as a means of protection. Each layer of clothing covering her body acted as a barrier to reinforce her defences. An uncomfortable silence filled the room, the air around them feeling heavier, denser.

"Does it have something to do with the minstrel, with Samuel Lessard or Lenard?" she asked apprehensively. "Lucy Tullier told me about Lenard's problems with his daughter, and I can't help thinking that's why he's involved in smuggling."

Marcus frowned. After the recent turn of events, he had almost forgotten about the smugglers. "I know his daughter keeps to her room, but he never mentioned why."

Anna attempted to brush the creases from the front of her dress. "His daughter is ill. The doctor wants to break her leg and reset it. I assume the bill is more than Lenard can afford."

"Why do I get the sense you're chastising me for a misdemeanour?" He threw his hands in the air. "What do you want me to do, Anna? Ignore the crime? Tell Coombes I was mistaken when I informed him they were ready to ship out?"

She stepped closer. "Should you not take his circumstances into account, Marcus? The man must be beside himself with worry. Could you not speak to him and explain the danger he faces?"

"And let the whole village know I'm an impostor?"

"You could make them understand," she implored.

Damn it all. How had they progressed from the most satisfying moment of his entire life to the most frustrating conversation he had ever been party to?

"Look. This is not about Lenard or Lessard or the blasted minstrel." Anger infused his tone. But it stemmed from a gut-wrenching fear of revealing the real depth of his betrayal.

"Well, what is it about then?" she said haughtily.

Marcus sighed, although the long drawn out sound did nothing to ease his anxiety.

He had no idea how to broach the subject, but he knew he needed to make her understand the bond he shared with Dane. "Whenever I've taken on a new assignment, I've always known there's a chance I could lose my life. When you work so closely with other gentlemen you develop a code of honour. You learn to depend on them. Indeed, Dane bears a scar on his chest. A scar he received whilst defending me."

Anna shook her head. "If you're telling me Lord Danesfield saved your life, then after what I've witnessed I am not surprised." She gave an indifferent shrug. "But I don't understand why you're telling me?"

"I owe Dane and his associate, Dudley Spencer, a debt. They assisted me when it mattered most, and I am duty bound to do the same." He brushed his hands through his hair as he began pacing the floor as a way to stop his racing heart from shooting up to his throat. "I just want you to understand the implications of such a debt."

"Why do I get the sense you're preparing me for something? What is it you wish to tell me?" she asked, and he did not need to look at her to know her eyes were wide or to know fear had replaced the look of wonder he'd seen just a few moments earlier.

"Dudley wrote to me. He wants to know where he can find Miss Beaufort." He almost gasped with relief when he'd finally spoken the words. "You must know, my only thought was to protect you. When you told me you'd spoken to Victor's accomplice, I feared the worst."

When he found the courage to look into her enchanting blue eyes, he could see pain; he could see sorrow.

"What have you done, Marcus?" He heard a trace of disdain in her voice.

He took a deep breath. "I told Dudley I would exchange information. I would reveal what I know of Miss Beaufort's whereabouts. In return, he will discover all he can of Victor's accomplice."

She shook her head and laughed. "But it is of no consequence as you do not know where Miss Beaufort is. And I would never break a trust in a bid to save myself. Surely, after what has passed between us, you must know that of me."

"God damn it, Anna. I know where Miss Beaufort is." Shame and guilt fuelled his anger now. "One does not have to be skilled in the art of manipulation. It is a simple case of piecing together the facts."

Her mouth fell open, and she stepped away from him, her hand coming up to cover her heart. "But I haven't said a thing about Miss Beaufort. You couldn't possibly know—"

"I told Dudley to search the village of Marlow near High Wycombe. I told him to look for a cottage next to the church."

Marcus had experienced pain many times in his life: physical pain in the form of severe beatings. Indeed, he still bore the scars on his back. Emotional pain in the form of losing the only person who had ever mattered to him. But he had never experienced anything like the torturous feeling when witnessing the look of disappointment on Anna's face.

"You … you told him about Marlow, even though you knew my feelings on the matter?" She shuffled back, gulped, gasped for breath. "You betrayed my trust. You let me believe in you. You let me believe in us." She waved her hand back and forth between them, but the corners of her mouth curled down in contempt.

"I did it for you." His argument sounded weak, a pathetic attempt to justify his actions.

"You should have given me the opportunity to decide what was best." A tear trickled down her cheek. "Do you know what Miss Beaufort went through because of me? I came to the aid of a girl, a girl who reminded me of myself in every way. As a consequence, Miss Beaufort almost lost her life, almost became the property of a depraved madman. Do you have any idea what would have happened to her if Victor had gotten his way?"

"But Dane is in love with her. He has no intention of hurting her, just as I have no intention of hurting you."

Anna snorted, waved her hand to the floor, to the place where they had consummated their love. "Lying with a man is not love. Trusting a man, knowing he has your interests at heart, that you can always depend on him, that is love. Miss Beaufort wanted time to think, time to consider what she truly wants. Not what society dictates. Not what serves Victor, Lord Danesfield or her brother!"

"I was thinking of you," he repeated as he closed his eyes briefly.

"No, Marcus. You were thinking of your duty to your comrades. You ignored my wishes. You deceived me into believing I could trust you, into believing there was hope for … for …"

A sob broke suddenly, and she could not finish the sentence. Without another word, she turned and fled.

"Anna!"

Marcus did not go after her. She needed time to accept that her welfare had been the only motivating factor in his decision. She needed time to realise he was not Victor, not an evil monster of a man, but a man in love.

A man who would sell his soul to save her.

A man who would turn his back on everything he'd ever known for a chance to put it right.

Chapter 18

Anna ran through the cloisters, tears streaming down her face. They were the unshed tears of the innocent girl from Marlow. They were tears for all the unbearable days and nights she had spent at the mercy of a cold-hearted devil. They were the painful tears of heartbreak, of knowing the wonderful dream one always hoped for would never come to pass.

She knew of only one place she could go.

A chill breezed over her as she entered the chapel. Despite the darkness, there was an illuminating presence in the small room. She stared at the stained glass window, at the figure looking up to the heavens, at the golden glow surrounding him, and tried to rouse just a flicker of faith.

But she felt nothing.

How could she when the Lord refused to grant her even the smallest mercy? Perhaps she only had herself to blame. Sinners were supposed to repent. An image of Marcus nestled between her thighs flashed into her mind. In the eyes of some, she truly was a whore. But she had given herself to a man she loved.

Was that so wrong?

"Give me a sign," she whispered as she put her hands together in prayer and tried to regulate her breathing. "Show me the way. Tell me what to do."

She did not expect to see a host of angels; she did not expect to hear the rapturous sound of a harp or to feel her soul soar. But she did hear her name echoing in her mind.

Marie Labelle … Anna Sinclair.

She stopped being Marie Labelle the moment she thrust the knife into Victor's back. In truth, she stopped being Anna Sinclair the moment she accepted the position of governess to a lying scoundrel.

She despised both of them for being so weak, so vulnerable, for bowing so easily to the demands and desires of men. As if it wasn't enough to have two women competing for prominence, now she had a third.

Now she had the woman who had come to an old monastery, who had fallen in love, allowed her lover to see the real person hidden inside. The woman who had lost more than her freedom or reputation. The woman who had lost her heart.

Then the answer came to her.

She had to leave. She had to go as far away as she could. She could not reclaim her reputation or her heart, but she could reclaim her freedom.

Without allowing any other thought to penetrate her addled mind, she raced to her room. There was no time to pack the few meagre belongings. All she needed was her Bible, money and her thick cape.

But her most prized possession was not on the side table. Frantically, she searched the floor, under pillows, in drawers. Panic flared.

Her mind replayed the moment she had last held it in her hand.

Shaking her head, she rushed along the corridor to the room at the end of the hall. Barging into Marcus' private quarters without knocking, she scoured the chamber. Where else could it be? Who else would know of her attachment to it?

Anna heard the thud of booted footsteps coming towards her. Marcus appeared in the doorway. Her heart lurched. She wanted to run into his arms and forget all about the cottage in Marlow, pretend she'd never heard his confession.

But she was tired of being weak and merciful.

"Where is it?" she blurted before he could ask what she was doing rummaging around in his drawers. "What have you done with it?"

Marcus shrugged. "With what?"

"My Bible. Don't pretend you don't know what I mean. The brown leather-bound book I keep by my bed."

Her pulse was racing; her throat felt tight. Each word sounded more croaky than the last.

Marcus frowned as he stepped into the room. "Why would I have it? Why would you think it is in here? What motive would I have for taking it?"

Distrust flowed like hot lava through her veins, consuming what remained of all logical thought. She raised her chin. "Perhaps you were the one I heard that night in the stables? You're the only one who knows my name. You're the only one who knows of my previous profession. Perhaps you thought by scaring me I'd be forced to trust you. And then I would tell you what you want to know. I would tell you where to find Miss Beaufort so you could run back to your friend and act the dutiful hero."