Mary And The Marquis. Janice Preston
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Lucas opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. His head hurt, his shoulder ached, his leg throbbed, his mouth tasted foul and his throat was as dry and rough as the bark of a tree. With an effort, he moved his head on the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain that speared through his temple.
When he opened his eyes again, she was there.
In the chair, by the bed. His bed.
She was familiar, but a stranger. How could that be? Where had she come from?
The south. But how did he know that?
He studied her, allowing her restful presence, her alluring features, to distract him from his aches and pains. She might not be a classic beauty, but she was enchanting. Her skin was smooth and creamy, with a smattering of freckles across her small, tip-tilted nose. The colour of her eyes was hidden, but he knew they were the deep blue of cornflowers. Her long, pale lashes rested on cheeks as lush and inviting as sun-ripened peaches. Her lips—soft pink, full and tempting—were parted and, as rotten as he felt, still his loins stirred at the thought of tasting them. He frowned, a memory floating a fraction beyond his reach.
Her lips. He could feel them, he knew their taste—silky as rose petals, sweet as honey. But how? He licked his own lips, paper-dry and sour. The answer eluded him as he continued his perusal of the woman by his bed.
Her hair. He paused, feeling his forehead pucker. Why had he thought her hair to be guinea-gold? It was not. It was more beautiful by far—the soft golden colour of corn ripening in the August sunshine. Not brassy, not a mass of curls, but soft waves where it escaped from its pins. He wanted to see it loose, flowing down her back.
He frowned again as he watched her sleep, striving to remember, fragments of memories teasing at his mind: the woods, a child’s cry, Sultan, with a woman—this woman—astride, leaving him, deserting him. And something else. What else?
A pistol shot! Reivers! Stealing his sheep, his livelihood, his future!
Galvanised, he threw back the covers and made to rise. His torso barely cleared the mattress before he collapsed back in exhaustion, panting with the effort, as the pains racking his body intensified tenfold. He heard himself groan and stifled it, but it was enough to rouse the woman.
‘Shh,’ she whispered as she rose to her feet and leant over him, a smile on her lips. ‘Lie still. You’re still very weak.’ She placed a cool hand on his brow; it was familiar, comforting. He looked up into her eyes—cornflower-blue, as he had known they would be—compassion shining from their tranquil depths.
‘How...how long...?’ His voice was croaky, as though it hadn’t been used for a long time.
‘It is five days now, since you were shot,’ she said, pulling up the bedclothes, smoothing them. ‘Do you remember?’ He nodded. The faint scent of lavender assailed his senses. ‘You have been in a fever. You have been very ill, my lord. You will need to rest, to recoup your strength.’ She went to a table set up at the foot of the bed and returned with a glass. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘You must be thirsty. Let me help. Drink this.’
She slipped her hand behind his head and supported him as she placed the glass against his dry lips.
He gulped the cool liquid, but she removed the glass before he had drunk his fill, saying, ‘You shouldn’t have too much all at once. Give your stomach time to settle. You may have some more in a while.’
He watched her, drinking in every detail of her as she replaced the glass. She wore a blue dress that matched her eyes and showed her figure to perfection, as it clung to the roundness of her breasts and her hips. Her manner and her movements spoke of neatness and restraint, calmness and competence. But her face and her body! He studied her with appreciation: her satiny skin, her eyes, her soft, lush lips, the thrust of her breasts, the sway of her hips. They proclaimed the exact opposite: wild abandon, passion, excitement.
He turned his head on the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut against the unexpected hurt that surfaced. He had known another such a woman. Her beauty had promised so much, yet it had been an illusion. Julia! How weak he must be, to allow that witch to affect him after all this time.
Had he really been so befuddled by his vice-ridden lifestyle? Had his senses been so dulled by the opium he had once blithely consumed, not to see through her looks to the reality? Not to see her for what she was—a greedy, grasping widow on the prowl, targeting naïve young bucks to fleece? He had fallen in love with an illusion of his own making.
Why think of her now, after so many years? He had thought all memory of her long buried. He conjured up the image of her face: her white skin, guinea-gold hair and large cornflower-blue eyes. Of course! No wonder she had been on his mind—Mary’s eyes were the exact same shade of blue as Julia’s...
Mary!
Sensible Mary! He remembered. He frowned again. At least, I remember some of it.
He kept his eyes closed, struggling to recall. The quiet sound of her moving around the room brought him back to the present from time to time, even as, bit by bit, pieces of the puzzle fit into place. The sheep! The men and the dogs, driving them up the hill; the wild gallop after them; the shouts; the shots; the searing pain. His gut twisted and the fear that had plagued him for months reasserted itself as he realised the implications of losing those sheep. The estate simply could not afford...
‘Shorey.’ His voice, still weak, sounded no louder than a whisper. ‘I remember...you promised...’
She returned to his side and lifted his hand, murmuring, ‘Hush. Do not worry. I gave him your message and he and Hooper rounded up the sheep. They also brought the cattle closer to the Hall, in case the thieves try again. There are none missing and they are keeping a close watch on them until it’s time to take them to market.’
He relaxed. The fear subsided but it did not disappear. It would not leave him, he knew, until he was free of his father’s legacy of debt. He curled his fingers around Mary’s hand, relishing the touch of her skin. He frowned. The skin on her palm and fingertips was roughened. She acted, and spoke, as a lady. But her hands—they spoke of work. He studied her face as she stood by the side of the bed, gazing down at him, her expression serious.
‘All is well, my lord,’ she said, releasing his hand and smoothing his brow. ‘There is no need to fret. I am sure you will be up and about in no time.’
Her gaze was direct and reassuring. He was comforted by her presence. He closed his eyes, all at once exhausted.
The sound of the door opening caught his attention and he forced his eyes open. Mary was at the door, speaking in hushed tones to someone outside. Lucas strained his ears, but could not make out what was being said.
‘What is it?’
Mary glanced back into the room. ‘It’s nothing, my lord.’
Was it his imagination, or did she sound furtive? He struggled to raise himself on one elbow.
‘Go and ask Susan to come and sit with his lordship,’ he heard her hiss. ‘I shall be there as soon as I can.’
Lucas frowned. Who on earth was she speaking to? He didn’t want Susan to care for him. He wanted Mary. He opened his mouth to object, but remained silent as he heard Mary’s words. ‘I know, lovey. I love you, too. Go on, quickly now.’
Lucas, an unexpected feeling of betrayal in his heart, fell back to his pillow. The words that had sprung to his lips remained unspoken.
It’s you I want, Mary.
* * *
‘Who is she?’
Lucas watched Trant as the valet finished putting his clothes away in the wardrobe later that day. Mary had not returned to his bedchamber since Susan had come to relieve her that morning and he was curious to discover more about her. He’d had little else to occupy his mind, trapped in his bed as he was.
‘Who