Chapter 33
Damien woke Emily early the next morning by reaching under the pillow and withdrawing a long white rectangle imprinted with an illustration. “My card!” she said, astonished enough by his discovery to forget her nakedness. She sat straight up to confiscate it from his hand. “I thought I had that hidden. Are you playing tricks on me, Damien?”
He narrowed his eyes in speculation. “Passion? I presume this was meant to crop up in number seven’s reading. Is it a keepsake for you of what should have been?” He lifted his brow in speculation.
“Is this your way of forcing me to make a false confession? You know how susceptible I am when I’m half-asleep.” She was susceptible to him at other times, too, but this was not a welcome awakening. How could that card have reappeared under her pillow by itself?
“Am I going to find a cricket bat in your trunk?”
“If you continue to be unpleasant, I might wish I’d brought one.”
He retreated from the bed, tossing the card across the table. “I suggest you get rid of this before anyone else sees it and makes a connection between a certain countess and a larcenous fortune-teller.”
She reached for the dressing robe twisted around the bedpost. He did not make an effort to avert his gaze as she turned to draw on the wrapper.
“I didn’t make a fuss like this when you told me you wanted to marry another woman.”
“What I told you was that I’d sooner kiss the innkeeper’s arse than kiss her at the altar. She belongs to the past. And so should these cards.”
“I’ll admit they’ve been a nuisance. I know they could be dangerous in the wrong hands. But those cards brought us together.”
She turned again, finding him directly behind her. “Pardon me if I don’t appreciate your hidden reminder of another man.”
“You’re wrong,” she said softly. “I don’t feel anything for Camden.”
“That’s not what you wrote in the letter you planned to give him at Lucy’s party.”
She stared into his eyes. “You lied to me. You promised me you burned the letter before you could be tempted to read it! Oh, Damien, you are a—”
“I didn’t read it,” he said, looking contrite. “I started to, but at the time I didn’t realize how important a part you and Camden would play in my life.”
“Camden isn’t a part of our lives.”
And, yes, she had kept the card, as if it would help her to keep Damien. It reminded her of his heroic intervention in the tower. And what she wished they would come to feel for each other in time.
Passion.
And love.
And a marriage not in name only. She had grown more confident since their wedding. She wanted a true marriage at any cost.
? ? ?
The middle-aged merchant pushed a path through the passengers boarding the stage, jostling Iris from her preoccupied worry and up against a little boy. “Move, move, move,” the merchant said, giving her another jab with his elbow. “Woolgathering women and children cannot be allowed to hold up the line. Some of us have business to conduct.”
Iris was debating whether to answer or overlook this rudeness when, to her relief, Winthrop appeared. She didn’t know where he had come from, but he took her hand and pulled Iris back into her place.
Iris would have protested this physical display, but she could not find the words to express her gratification. Who would have thought that the earl’s valet had such a sense of himself? A presence, that’s what Winthrop had. Even the merchant seemed disinclined to argue his own superiority. Built on the slight side and bespectacled, Winthrop could hold his own.
“Do get inside the coach,” he said with a practicality that ended her musings. “I shall be watching him to make sure he does not insult you again. Besides, we’ll reach the castle before evening. You won’t have to put up with bad-mannered travelers after that.”
No, Iris thought. Only secret assassins and traitors who think it their duty to destroy the fabric of all I hold dear. What about my mistress? she wondered. Is the earl kind to her? Had Emily managed to conduct herself like a proper young lady?
Winthrop nudged her arm. “I’ve received some good news,” he said quietly.
“Oh?”
“The others are doing well.”
“Even—”
He frowned. “Mr. Rowland has made remarkable progress, if that’s who’s on your mind.”
Iris pressed her lips together and turned to the window. She felt guilty that her first thought had not been about Michael. What had happened to her? What would happen to all of them in the end?
? ? ?
Damien walked Emily halfway to the carriage, insisting that she wait inside while he settled the bill. She complied without argument. She was dying for a chance to eat the bacon and scones she had wrapped in a cloth and tucked inside her reticule. Damien had purchased a bottle of wine for the journey. Emily had never indulged in spirits before supper. But after the way Damien had indulged himself in her last night, she realized she would have to adjust to his worldly tastes or fall by the wayside.
Such a sacrifice, she thought, hiding a smile. Not to worry that her mortal life was in danger. Damien made her die a little every time he took her to bed.
She did not intend to become a wallflower wife, even if one glass of wine would go to her head, and she would surrender her dignity at his demand. She would respect her rank as the Countess of Shalcross and hope to leave her rustic habits behind. The prospect made her wistful for Michael and her father, who would be lonely without his children, for all his complaints. Emily couldn’t believe how much she missed her beloved Iris, who had not asked for any of this and was likely at this moment cursing Emily for dragging her into this life-or-death intrigue.
“My lady? A moment, please.”
Emily turned at the carriage step to the mop-capped young woman who had addressed her. Damien had warned her not to look anyone in the eye or engage in a conversation during which she might be recognized. He wanted her to conduct herself in an aloof manner—except when they were alone, and his sensuality knew no limits.
“My lady, pardon me, but I believe you dropped this.”
Emily’s heart pounded as she glanced down at the card the girl held half-concealed in her apron folds. Good heavens, it was an unholy thing. Had it grown wings that it could appear to her detriment again? To think she had kept the card as a rueful memento of how she had met her husband, who assumed it was a token of her lost love. One day she might admit the truth to Damien, but not until she felt confident he would not mock her.
“You may toss it in the rubbish,” she said quickly. “It isn’t mine.”
“Are you sure, my lady?” The maid studied her in anxious silence.
“Yes, I am quite sure.”
“But I saw it fall from your person. I swear I did. The gypsy peddlers sell such items to ladies who are newly married and seeking secret methods to ensure—”
“Then perhaps my maid bought and tucked it away where I did not notice it. More likely it belongs to another passenger. Card games are played for entertainment here at the Sign of the Raven, aren’t they?”
“Not with cards like this. It looks a little naughty, don’t you think?”
Emily refused to look at either the card or the woman holding it. “I don’t think about things like that, and neither should you.”
“If your maid bought it,” the girl chattered on, “I hope she didn’t pay overmuch for the thing. It gives me a queer feeling. I hesitated to pick it up.”
Emily wished that she hadn’t. The card must have become caught in the mantle she had thrown over her arm during Damien’s rush to travel in good light. “Dispose of it, please. My husband will not want it in my possession.”
Which was an apt word to describe what had happened to her since the night the Earl of Entitlement had disrupted the dullness of her life. She felt another pang of homesickness, of nostalgia for the hapless romantic she had been and was still, sadly, at heart.
“You’re sure you want me to get rid of it?” the maid asked again. “It might have—”
“Oh, just give it to me,” Emily said, tugging it from the maid’s hand. “I will pass it along to someone who appreciates it.”
? ? ?
Late evening had fallen by the time they reached the next inn. Damien and Emily took supper in their room, washed, and went straight to bed. It was a chilly night, despite the fire in the grate. Emily had inched closer to her husband, not only to absorb his heat, but because the heavy anchor of his arm around her waist made her feel safe. She was drifting off with her chin on his chest, lulled by his slowing heartbeat. His was a strong pulse, steadier than hers. Now, suddenly the rhythm of his pulse changed. Her breath hitched as he opened his eyes and stared at her.
His face looked angular and alert in the dark. A shiver ran over her skin. “Damien,” she whispered, “weren’t you invited to a game of cards in the colonel’s private—”
He raised one arm from beneath the sheets, his hand brushing her breast, and put his finger to her mouth. “Ssh. Not a word.” He pulled her against his chest. “The door,” he said under his breath.
The door?
She peered over his sinewy arm to the doorknob. Had it just turned? How could he have been disturbed by such an indistinct sound when he was falling asleep? All she had heard was his heartbeat.
Before she could put together another rational thought, he grasped her by the waist and rolled them to the edge of the bed and onto the floor in a tangle of bedding. His body broke the impact of her descent. Then he was on his feet, grasping a sheet to knot around his hips. She was left to huddle under the blanket that he dropped for her.
The doorknob turned again. This time she heard it, too. It seemed, impossibly, that Damien had disappeared. His shadow on the wall vanished from her view. He could not have melted into the furnishings. Was there a secret exit from the room? Would he leave her alone on the floor? She strained her neck to see around the bed.
Heavens, he was crawling half-naked to the side of the door, the sheet spread beneath his body, presumably to protect him from splinters. What a sight. Those chiseled muscles moving with sinuous grace, his lean torso and hips twisting with a purpose that reminded her of his agility in bed.
He turned his head. She swallowed a gasp. The knife clamped between his teeth prevented him from uttering the warning that glittered in his eyes. She drew back beside the bed, listening. Now she could hear the thudding of her own heart. If whoever had turned that doorknob managed to gain entry, he would not encounter an empty room or even a sleeping couple, but an angry, naked, knife-armed man who clearly did not take well to an intrusion of his privacy.
The door creaked as if the person on the other side had decided to force entry. Were two intruders trying to break inside? A maid would have knocked or used her set of keys. Of course, it could be a drunken guest who’d mistaken Damien’s room for his. It happened often at house parties and crowded inns. Sometimes a room was left unlocked for a liaison.
But it could also be that one of the conspirators had recognized Emily, despite all the efforts Damien had taken to protect her. She looked up at the glass and saw his bare body crouched beside the door.
She couldn’t cower naked on the floor, hiding uselessly, acting as helpless as a pudding while he fought to protect her. She stretched her arm to the hearth and reached backward for the handle of the brass shovel. It burned a little from being left close to the fire.
But she ground her teeth, grasped the handle, and prepared to jump up the instant that the door burst open.
It never did.
There was another furtive rattle at the knob, followed by receding footsteps and then quiet. Damien and Emily rose in unison. He blinked when he saw her, hair streaming over her bare breasts and hips, a coal shovel held above her head, her belly smudged with soot.
“Good God,” he said, removing the knife from his teeth. “I have never seen such a sight in my life.”
? ? ?
He stared. He couldn’t help himself. If Aphrodite had launched an attack against Hephaestus when she was banished to Hades as his bride, she would have paled in comparison to Emily. The fire blazing at her back, the deep shadows of the evening, did nothing to dispel the image. “I assure you, Emily, that your state of undress would do far more to distract an intruder than a hearth utensil.” The moment would be forever emblazoned on his mind. She was a goddess who deserved his worship.
She lowered the shovel. “I was not about to hide under the bed while you were set upon by assailants.”
“Assailant,” he said in a clipped voice, searching for her robe. He resented the bastard for terrifying her. “I heard only one pair of boots at the door.”
“Perhaps it was the colonel coming to invite you again to cards. Perhaps he’d had a few too many and—”
“Those were not the boots he was wearing,” he said as he came up beside her. He helped her into her silky Chinese robe. His gaze lowered on her breasts before she covered them from view. “Maybe we should dress at night and stay dressed for the remainder of the journey. I don’t want any other man seeing you like that. Whether he is a friend or enemy.”
She stared at his back as he walked to the dressing screen, his disregard for propriety as fascinating to her as ever. “The thought occurs to me that I don’t wish to share you with other women, either,” she said, the admission startling her perhaps more than it did him.
“What?” He pulled his shirt from the screen and faced her, unconcerned by his blatant state of undress. “What women?”
“I know you wanted to marry another woman. I thought I wanted another man.” She took a breath. “But we were wed so quickly there wasn’t time to discuss whether you will take a lover during our marriage. I know it’s done. I detest the practice. Infidelity destroys a woman’s heart.” And even though her mother had not deliberately betrayed her father, she had broken his heart.
He put on a fresh shirt, regarding her in irritation. “I have more than enough on my hands, what with preventing an assassination and protecting you, than to even consider taking a lover,” he said. “Do you intend to take one, detesting the practice aside?” he asked, pulling on his trousers.
“Excuse me?”
He advanced in her direction, not put off when she dropped onto the bed and settled against the mound of covers in the middle as if claiming sanctuary. He merely moved to the bottom of the bed, resting his shoulder against the post as if to suggest there was no escape.
“Someone might have just made an attempt on our lives. And you’re worried about a woman who doesn’t even exist?”
“Is passion ever rational?” she asked philosophically.
“You were madly in love with another man when I met you. What reason would I have to believe your feelings for this young man have changed?”
“Well, I’m married to you, for one thing.”
“All you know about me is what I’ve told you. Quite honestly I know a little more than nothing about you. Never in a century would I have pictured myself with a wife so desperate for marriage that she resorted to using a love potion to ensnare her victim, and then bungled the job with snail poison. At least you could have bewitched the right man.”
She shoved the bed covers between his legs. “Is that right? I’ve paid the consequences for what I did.”
He pulled away the covers she had thrown at him, lowering his head to hers. “You’ll be paying those consequences for a long time.”
She raised her chin. “So will you.”
“I’ll survive.” He glanced down at the crumpled bedding. “I might even thrive. Don’t go back to sleep. I’ll have hot water sent up for a bath. You have left soot marks on the bedding. I have never seen such a mess.”
She frowned. “Where you going?”
The playful edge faded from his voice. “Just down the hall into the middle of the stairs.”
“Do you think we were followed here?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised that your theory about a fellow traveler seeking company is correct. Don’t bother getting dressed. It would please me to watch you in your bath.”
She blushed. “You want to—”
“I want to see your body wet.” He swept his gaze over her. “And I would like to wash you. You may do the same to me.”
She nodded. “If you like.”
“Hand me my jacket, please,” he said quietly. “And here, take this.”
Emily numbly passed him the jacket on the chair beside the bed. “What do you want me to do with this?” she asked, staring at the pistol he had laid carefully at her side.
“Do not unlock the door for anyone else. If it is forced open, take aim and, if necessary, fire. I will be within earshot. Do try not to shoot me.”
“What if it’s the chambermaid making sure this room meets your precise standards?”
“Standards?” he said in exasperation, balancing his hip on the bedpost to put on his boots.
“The fresh towels for one thing and the bathwater for another. Then there is the wine and the sheets that are to be freshly washed, pressed, and folded between dried herbs.”
“You need not make me sound like a cosseted dowager, Urania. I asked for those accommodations to make your life as pleasant as it can be for a bride dragged from her wedding bed and involuntarily enlisted in covert affairs.”
She softened. “Damien, I’m trying my best to understand. Only last month I was playing whist with my neighbors and wishing I were a married woman whose only concern was to please my husband and host parties for strangers to enhance his reputation. Now I am married to a stranger who is entrusting me with a gun and referring to me as Urania when he knows perfectly well that is not my name.”
He straightened. “Why is it that women wait until the worst time to hold a serious conversation?”
“With you it’s always the worst time. There isn’t a minute when we can feel truly safe.”
He gave her a grim look. “I can’t deny that.”
“I’m sorry I said it.”
He smiled. “What a beautiful mess you are with your tousled hair and smudge marks on your skin. Are you still sorry that I walked into your tent?”
“Do I act like a woman with regrets?” She smiled up at him. “Are you sorry?”
He glanced away. “I’ll only be sorry if anything happens to you because I intruded in your life.”