Surrender Becomes Her Part 10

She tilted her head and teased, "And no scolding?"

His eyes glittered and he pulled her closer. "No, no scolding. I have other methods of chastising an unrepentant little termagant like you." His lips caught hers, and desire for her never far from him, exploded into being. His mouth hardened and he kissed her thoroughly, making no effort to hide his sudden, rampant arousal. Feeling as if he would split his breeches, Marcus fought for control, but like a caged animal sensing freedom, his body had other ideas and he crushed her next to him, kissing her with an escalating urgency.

Isabel, as helpless as he, returned his kiss with fervor, delighting in the feel of that tall, hard body pressed so tightly against hers, delighting in the drugging sensation of his lips and tongue taking her mouth. Her nipples hard and aching, her lower body aflame, her arms closed around his neck and she pushed herself even closer to him.

They kissed pa.s.sionately, the depth of their hunger for each other growing with every pa.s.sing second. Rational thought clouded by the most basic needs pulsing through him, Marcus sought her skirts and lifted them, growling softly when his seeking fingers found the soft, naked flesh beneath. He cupped her b.u.t.tocks, positioning her against the swollen rod between his legs and rocked against her, but it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

Tearing his mouth from hers, he glanced around for a place to lay her down and it was only when his gaze took in their surroundings that his thoughts became lucid. Christ! He was in Manning's sitting room and he was preparing to make love to Isabel on the baron's sofa!

Struggling to regain control, he determinedly set Isabel from him. It was difficult. Her face was sweetly flushed, the beautiful golden-brown eyes were drowsy with desire, and her soft mouth was far too appealing for his peace of mind. But the knowledge that Manning lay possibly dying in the other room acted as a douse of cold water.

Isabel blinked and Marcus knew the exact moment that reality came cras.h.i.+ng back to her. She gasped and spun around to look at the opened doorway. Her face horrified, she looked back at him. "Dear heaven! How could I forget, even for a moment..."

Marcus grimaced. "We are both not ourselves tonight."

She gave a half-hysterical laugh. "Indeed. That is an understatement." Fighting to regain her composure, she shook out her skirts, her face flaming as a thrill shot through her remembering Marcus's big, warm hands moving across her b.u.t.tocks. Her spine ramrod straight, she forced herself to sit down again on the sofa and deliberately took a sip of her tea. It was cold, but drinking it gave her something to do.

Needing something stronger, Marcus spied several decanters and gla.s.sware atop an intricately carved lowboy on the other side of the room. Crossing to the lowboy, he splashed some brandy into a snifter, tossed the liquor down, and poured another.

After taking in a deep, steadying breath he returned to his chair. Seated again, he took a sip of his brandy and cast his mind about for a topic to take their minds off of each other and the old man in the other room. Recalling his adventure tonight-last night, actually-he grinned.

"I have something for you," he said and, putting down the snifter, reached into his vest pocket. The gold locket he had taken from Whitley in his hand, he offered it to Isabel. "I believe this is yours."

Isabel blanched and shrank away from the object in his hand as if it were a deadly cobra. She sprang to her feet and, looking terrified, she ripped her gaze away from the locket and stared at him. Her voice thick and rusty, she croaked, "Where did you get that?"

Marcus frowned. This wasn't the reaction he had expected. He glanced down at the locket, studying it for the first time. What was there about this piece of jewelry that caused her such alarm? What secret did this object hold? More important, what secret could it contain that Whitley felt she would pay anything to keep hidden?

Chapter 10.

Marcus stared from her to the locket, frowning. His gaze settling on her face, he said, "I'll say it again-don't you think it's about time you tell me what is going on? Whitley obviously felt that this locket holds some power over you." His gaze narrowed. "Is this what you were looking for in his room?"

She hesitated, looked at the locket, then away. "Not exactly," she finally said. "I told you the truth when I said that I didn't know what he had, just that he meant me harm and that he had something that could, indeed, harm me."

"And this locket could harm you?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes. No. Oh, I don't know!" She took a deep breath. "But I couldn't take the chance that Whitley did possess something, some item that would..." She looked away again, biting her lip. "It is very complicated," she finally said.

Marcus snorted. "Apparently." His gaze traveled over her averted features. "I don't suppose you'd like to explain this complicated matter to me?"

She gave a bitter laugh. "No, I wouldn't." Her gaze hard and direct, she added, "I will not lie to you; if I can avoid telling you, I will. If I have my way, it will go to the grave with me." At the objection she saw on his face, she sighed and said wearily, "I know. And before you say it, I'll agree that it is unfair and obstinate of me, but believe me, Marcus, if our positions were reversed, you would do the same thing." She looked at the locket and asked softly, "May I have it?"

He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment and then wordlessly handed it to her. The locket was warm from his hands and Isabel stared down at it for a long time, her gaze tracing the intricate pattern engraved on it. Memories came flooding back and tears filled her eyes. Pressing the locket to her bosom, she smiled shakily at him. "Thank you," she managed in a thick voice. "It is very precious to me."

Marcus bowed. "You're welcome."

"How," she asked, the locket still clutched to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, "did you get it from Whitley? He would not have easily given it up."

Marcus grinned. "You're quite right about that, but I can be, ah, very persuasive when the necessity arises." His grin faded and he crossed the room to stand in front of her. His expression grave, he said, "Isabel, you know that I will never allow Whitley or anyone else to ever harm you. Are you certain that you will not tell me what is going on?"

She hesitated, and then Edmund, having wandered into the room, said from behind them, "Mother, Grandfather is sleeping quietly right now. Do you think I could leave him long enough to wash my face and dress for the day?"

Isabel started, guilty relief flas.h.i.+ng across her face. Rus.h.i.+ng over to her son, she said, "I think that is an excellent idea. You run along and I'll go sit with him while you are gone."

The moment lost, Marcus made no move to stop her when she sent him an uncertain smile over her shoulder and disappeared into Lord Manning's bedroom.

By mid-morning, though the baron continued to sleep, it was apparent to everyone that he would not be dying within the next few minutes, and the vicar, Jack, Marcus's mother, Mrs. Appleton, and Bishop Latimer departed for their homes. Mrs. Appleton would be back almost immediately. Her plump little chin quivering, she told Marcus, "I shall return within the hour. I need only to see my trunk packed and my brother settled before I return." Her eyes filled with tears and, in a choked voice, she said, "This was not how I envisioned my first time staying here."

Marcus patted her on the shoulder and murmured, "Do not despair, Madame. Lord Manning may confound the physician yet."

A less woebegone look on her face, she dabbed at her eyes with a dainty sc.r.a.p of lace and exclaimed, "Oh, I do so hope that you are right!"

The house seemed quiet after their exodus, but shortly, the news having spread through the neighborhood, friends of the baron came to call, expressing their dismay and inquiring after his health. Marcus calmly dealt with all of them, having told Isabel that the best place for her was at the baron's side. Smiling faintly, he said, "Go to him, my dear. It is where you long to be." She'd hesitated and he'd said, "Naturally, if you wish to handle this yourself, I shall leave you to it and go see to Lord Manning's needs myself."

It was the right thing to say and Isabel fled up the stairs leaving him in command of the lower floor, which was, she thought with amused irritation, precisely what he planned.

Of course, the news of the unexpected wedding had also spread, and in between expressions of concern for the baron there were congratulations given to Marcus on his marriage. It was, he decided wryly, a most bizarre situation: accepting condolences and congratulations at the same time.

His own trunk arrived from Sherbrook Hall along with his valet, Bickford, who was currently upstairs busily unpacking in the large bedroom Isabel had selected for Marcus. "I've told Deering to put you in the bedroom adjacent to milord's," she said, "and Mrs. Appleton will be directly across the hall." She glanced at him. "It is all so very strange, is it not?"

"Indeed. I'm quite certain I did not envision the first nights of marriage sleeping alone in a bedroom next to my wife's ex-father-in-law," Marcus replied dryly.

Isabel suppressed a giggle that bordered on the hysterical and disappeared up the stairs once more.

In between the comings and goings of the various visitors, Mrs. Appleton, her maid, and several pieces of luggage had returned and a solicitous Deering had escorted her to her bedroom.

There was a slight lull and Marcus, feeling the effects of a long, anxious night, rang for Deering and requested a pot of very strong, very hot coffee and a decanter of cognac. As if by magic the pot and decanter had instantly appeared and, after taking a sip of the coffee liberally laced with the cognac, Marcus asked Deering, "Everything under control upstairs?"

Deering allowed a faint smile to cross his face. "Yes. Edmund and Mrs. Man-Sherbrook are both asleep on the sofas in Lord Manning's sitting room. Mrs. Appleton and the physician are with him."

"Any change?"

Deering's smile vanished. "No, but he appears to be resting comfortably; even Mr. Seward said so."

"Well, then, we shall have to hope that Mr. Seward knows what he is talking about."

Deering was not gone five minutes and Marcus had just settled himself in a large overstuffed chair when he heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. Sighing, he rose to his feet and glanced out the window at the spanking pair of black horses pulling an elegant Highflyer that swept up to the front door. He wasn't surprised to see Garrett Manning handling the reins.

A moment later, Deering showed Garrett into the green salon and departed. Observing the other man's elegant cut-away deep blue jacket, buff breeches, and gleaming Hessian boots, Marcus felt rather grubby in his old bottle-green coat and crumpled cravat and thought longingly of a hot bath, followed by several hours of sleep.

"My dear fellow! A wake and a wedding all on the same night," Garrett exclaimed as he crossed the room. Sticking out his hand, he asked, "Do we mourn the old man or celebrate your wedding? Or both."

The very real concern in the blue eyes robbed the question of any flippancy and, shaking Garrett's hand, Marcus said, "No mourning. The old man is holding his own."

There was no disguising the relief in Garrett's face. He gave a sharp laugh. "I know you will find it hard to believe but I do have affection for him."

Marcus nodded. "And he for you, although he wishes you just a bit less of a rake."

Garrett shrugged. "One seldom gets what one wishes for." He quirked a brow at Marcus. "So I am to wish you and the lovely Isabel happy?"

"Yes. Your uncle wanted to see us married before he...and we obliged him."

Garrett looked at him keenly. "Do you think he's dying?"

"It was a near thing, but as of now, no, I don't believe he is dying. The physician may disagree with me, but I think that if he was going to die, he would have done so by now." Reluctantly, he added, "But he has not escaped unscathed and I fear he will never be the man he once was."

Marcus relayed the events of the previous night and the extent of the effects of the stroke. "He may recover completely," Marcus said as the topic came to an end. "But only time will tell that."

"May I see him?" Garrett asked.

Marcus considered him. Lord Manning loved his nephew even if he disagreed with his lifestyle and Garrett appeared to have deep affection for his uncle. He shrugged. "I have no objection. Let me ring for Deering to show you upstairs."

"Ah, a moment, if you please?"

"Of course, what is it?"

Garrett made a face. "I'm not sure." Looking uncomfortable he muttered, "You may think me meddling in something that is none of my affair, but I feel compelled to speak." He half smiled. "After all, you could say that we are now related and I am only looking out for the best interests of the family."

Marcus nodded, wondering where this conversation was going.

Garrett cleared his throat, clearly ill at ease and not certain of his ground. "I don't usually go around sticking my nose in what doesn't concern me," he began reluctantly, "but I would be remiss if I didn't warn you to be careful of that fellow Whitley, who is staying at the Stag Horn in the village."

Marcus's gaze sharpened. "And why is that? What do you know of Major Whitley?"

Garrett pulled on his right ear where the diamond stud gleamed in the morning light filling the room. "Last night, after I left your mother's dinner party, I rode into the village looking for some amus.e.m.e.nt." He grinned at Marcus. "I'm afraid that I find country life somewhat dull and I was not inclined to drink alone. I stopped at the Stag Horn, thinking to nurse an ale or two before calling upon, ah, a lady that I visit from time to time when I am home." He smiled ruefully. "There was a convivial group gathered in the tap room and, with one thing and another, I never did get to her house." Looking reflective, he continued, "It must have been somewhere around four o'clock and I had just decided to leave when there was a great commotion and Whitley staggered into the inn. He was in a terrible state. He was disheveled, his clothing damp and hanging on him by mere strips; his face was bruised and he was screaming that he had been robbed and attacked by a madman who had tried to drown him."

Marcus's lips twitched, but his face the picture of concern, he murmured, "How shocking! The poor fellow."

"Hmm, yes, it was shocking, especially since we don't as a rule have that sort of thing happening in the neighborhood," Garrett said slowly, not having missed that slight twitch of Marcus's lips. "Once Keating had ordered a warmed blanket for Whitley to wrap around himself and poured him a generous brandy, the major had quite a tale to tell. He claimed he was riding home from visiting a friend, a female friend he declined to identify, when he was attacked. The robber, not content with making him empty his purse and having slashed his clothing with a knife, leaving him perilously close to naked, had also tried to drown him. He was rather vague about the location where all this occurred, yet had no trouble recalling other less important details." Garrett made a face. "Perhaps I am too hard on the fellow. He certainly had a bad night and, once the robber made off, his troubles were still not behind him. Unbeknownst to him, this nefarious individual also cut the girth of his saddle. The girth gave way a few miles from the site of the attack and he had been dumped onto the road. His horse naturally galloped back to the stables, leaving him to walk in his ruined boots, also cut to pieces and soaking wet, I might add, to the inn."

"What a deplorable incident!" Marcus said with what he hoped was enough outrage to still any suspicion that he had anything to do with Whitley's misfortune, though why Garrett should think he had escaped him. "I'm sure that Whitley must be thinking of leaving for London at first light."

"No, he's not," Garrett said, his gaze fixed on Marcus. "After the first flurry of excitement had died down and the crowd had dispersed leaving him alone, I joined him by the fire hoping to find out more, if I could."

"And did you find out more?" Marcus asked in a bored tone.

Garrett's lips thinned. "No one else was around and so he spoke more freely than he would have otherwise. Whispering and constantly looking over his shoulder, he intimated to me that he believed that you were his robber and he swears to get his revenge on you."

Marcus's brows rose. "Now that's the silliest d.a.m.n thing I've ever heard! The man must have lost his wits. Why would I attack a man I barely know? I only met him one time and, quite frankly, did not care for him. Allow me to a.s.sure you that the Sherbrook fortune is large enough and safe enough that I have not been forced to repair the family coffers by stealing from the likes of Whitley."

Garrett studied him for a moment. "Which is exactly what I told him, but I warn you, Sherbrook, you have an enemy there and he is determined to do you harm."

Marcus bowed. "And I thank you." He did not know Garrett well, but Marcus was beginning to think that given the chance, Lord Manning's nephew might make a very good ally. Garrett might be wild and reckless, but it appeared he had qualities that would make him a good man to have at your back in a fight and Marcus liked that. It was clear that Garrett didn't quite believe that Marcus had been Whitley's attacker, but he didn't disbelieve it either.

Smiling at him, Marcus said, "Indulge me if you would.... Is Whitley a particular friend of yours?"

Garrett snorted. "Never laid eyes on the man until the other night."

"Yet he told you, a virtual stranger, that he suspected me? For all he knew, we are great friends. I wonder why he was so free with his suspicions with you?"

"He was half drunk by then and knew from our previous conversation that I was related by marriage to Mrs. Manning." Garrett grinned. "He was exhorting me to do all within my power to stop the wedding and save Mrs. Manning from a disastrous marriage. He had, he said, being an old friend, only her best interests at heart and he would be devastated if she married a man he labeled a blackguard and a robber in the bargain."

Marcus's gray eyes glinted. "Is that right? I may just have to go pay Whitley a visit and set him straight on a few points."

Garrett laughed. "Not necessary. I promised to show him how handy I was with my fives and vowed to put a fist in his bone box if he spread such a rumor around the neighborhood."

"It seems I am in your debt," Marcus replied lightly.

"My pleasure." He cast Marcus a troubled glance. "Be careful, Marcus. He means you harm."

"Again, thank you for the warning." Reaching for the bell rope that hung nearby, Marcus added, "If there is nothing else, perhaps you would like to see your uncle now?"

Following Marcus's lead, Garrett nodded and said, "Yes, I would like that very much."

After Garrett, escorted by Deering, had departed, Marcus settled down in a comfortable chair, poured himself another cup of coffee, and sipped it, his mind busy with what he had just learned. He'd made no real attempt to hide his ident.i.ty and so he wasn't surprised that Whitley had guessed who he was. That Whitley had voiced his suspicions aloud to Garrett did surprise him, though. Why? On such short acquaintance did he think Garrett was of his same ilk? Or had Whitley been too drunk to watch his words? Marcus decided that it was most likely the latter, but it was also obvious that Whitley had been casting about trying to cause trouble in any manner he could. He took a sip of his coffee. Yes, that sounded like Whitley. Thinking of the wedding ceremony performed some hours ago, he smiled. Whitley was going to be very, very unhappy when he heard the news.

The day that followed was without incident. Beyond the occasional caller that afternoon and messages of congratulations and concern, the household settled into a more normal routine. Lord Manning slept most of the time, but he roused enough to drink some barley broth and weak tea several times throughout the day. In the afternoon, his valet carefully bathed him and helped him into a fresh nights.h.i.+rt. Lord Manning was weak and tired, but Marcus felt confident that the old baron was no longer at death's doorway.

As he had said to Isabel, Marcus had not expected to spend what was technically his wedding night sleeping alone in a bedroom adjacent to his wife's ex-father-in-law, but as he sank into the welcoming softness of the feather bed that night, he decided it was just as well. He'd been over twenty-four hours without sleep and he rather doubted that he'd have been up to the memorable wedding night he'd envisioned. As sleep caught him, he smiled. He might be exhausted at the moment, but he suspected if Isabel's snug little body had been pressed next to his that sleep would have been the last thing on his mind.

Marcus rose the next morning feeling much refreshed, and a bath and a change of clothes only helped his sense of well-being. Entering the morning room shortly thereafter, he learned from a beaming Deering that Lord Manning had pa.s.sed a restful night and had even insisted upon leaving his bed to eat his breakfast at a table hastily set up in his bedroom. Heartened by the good news, after a breakfast of rare sirloin and ale, Marcus went to visit Lord Manning. While he found the baron much improved, it was apparent that the old man was facing a long recovery. Marcus chatted with Lord Manning and Mrs. Appleton, who sat by the bed with a lap full of knitting, for a few moments and, having satisfied himself that Lord Manning seemed to be improving, he took his leave and returned downstairs.

Learning that his bride was in her office in the stables, he was on the point of leaving to find her when Jack rode up astride a big gray gelding. As he slowly walked down the last few steps to greet Jack, from the taut expression on his cousin's face Marcus knew that this was no casual visit. Something serious was afoot. An icy dagger slid through his bowels. He couldn't help but think of the suddenness in which the baron had gone from a strong, vital man to an invalid; his mother was no longer a young woman.... "My mother?" he demanded. "Is she all right?"

"My visit has nothing to do with your mother," Jack said hastily, swinging out of the saddle. "I left her in a fine mettle."

Marcus kept silent as a groom came up and took the reins from Jack's hand. The groom walked off with the horse and the two men entered the house. As soon as they were closeted in the green salon, Marcus demanded, "If Mother is all right, why the devil are you here-and looking, I might add, as if the end of the world is near?"

Jack gave a short bark of laughter. "Surely not that bad?"

Marcus permitted himself a slight smile. "Near enough. Now what is it?"

His expression once again grim, Jack said, "Sherbrook Hall was broken into last night."

Marcus stared at him. "Broken into? Housebreakers?" he asked, astonished.

Jack shrugged. "Could have been, but I rather doubt it. This housebreaker seemed to have very specific tastes and bypa.s.sed all the silver and plate and appeared to be most interested in what the library and your office might contain. Both rooms were thoroughly searched and left in a shambles." Carefully, he added, "Your mother and Thompson and the housekeeper a.s.sure me, from what they can see, that nothing was taken. An odd sort of housebreaker, don't you agree?"

Throttling back his anger at the invasion, Marcus snapped, "You think the housebreaking has something to do with Whitley, don't you?"

Again Jack shrugged. "This is a quiet neighborhood. Housebreaking is uncommon, especially housebreaking in occupied houses and, having gone to all the trouble to break in, to take nothing...."