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‘I expect I have a hard head,’ she said lightly, watching her breath puff into the frigid air.
‘You were lucky not to have been killed,’ Marcus said, a snap of anger in his voice. ‘How could he have hit a woman
?’
‘Perhaps he did not know I was one?’ Nell suggested. ‘My candle blew out almost immediately. But to believe that, you would have to accept I am not in league with him.’
‘I do accept it.’ The pair broke into a trot and were ruthlessly reined back in.
‘But you still do not trust me.’
‘Give me your word that you are hiding nothing from me, Nell, and I will take it.’ The silence stretched on while she wrestled with her conscience. They were out of the parkland and into the woods before Marcus said, ‘I thought as much. You mistrust me as much as I do you.’
‘I might not tell you my secrets, but I do not lie to you,’ she said bitterly. ‘Admit that, at least.’ She wanted him, wanted his trust and his belief and, impossibly, his love. She wanted to believe his father innocent of any wrong, to believe that he had only followed his conscience and his honour. She wanted her father to have been innocent and faithful. She wanted, she knew, the moon.
Nell twisted on the seat, clumsy under the thick rug, her knee bumping against his. ‘Marcus—’ she began, not knowing what she meant to say. The words died in her throat as she saw his face, unguarded. There was pain there, conflict. Need. This was not any easier for him, so fiercely protective of his family, than it was for her, she realized.
‘Marcus,’ she repeated, and he pulled up the pair, turned and looked down into her face. Neither of them spoke. But the vapour in the air betrayed the sharp breath he had taken and the look in his eyes stopped her heart for one dizzying moment.
They were at a fork in the road. Without speaking, he turned uphill, the pair working hard in the traces to manage the slope of the rutted track. After a few minutes they emerged into a clearing with a view down through the trees to the vale below. With its back to the woods stood a strange tower built of split flints, its battlements crumbling, its one window and door facing west.
‘The folly,’ Marcus said, driving the team into an open-fronted shack by its side. ‘We picnic here, almost all the year round.’
Without explanation, he helped her down from her seat, threw rugs over the horses and reached up to take a key from on top of a beam. Heart pounding, Nell followed him through the fake medieval door into a charming but chilly room in the Gothic taste with a stone floor, arched ceiling and a fireplace. Tin trunks and rustic tables and chairs made up all the furnishing.
Nell went to the window and rubbed at the small panes. ‘It is very clean and tidy.’ She had to say something, anything.
‘As I said, we use it a lot.’ Marcus was on his knees on the hearth, stacking kindling and wood shavings from the pile standing ready. The fire flamed into life as he added more wood. She stood watching him as he worked—his kneeling figure, his bent head, the vulnerable skin between his hair line and his collar that she wanted to touch so much—and felt the room grow warmer, far warmer than the blaze he was kindling justified.
When he stood, turned to face her, she found there were no words, not even a question. She knew why she wanted to be there, why Marcus had brought her there, and she knew, if she turned and walked away, he would let her go.
Nell laid the muff and hat on the table and unwrapped the scarf from round her neck. Her hands, as she peeled off her gloves, were suddenly quite steady. She loved him. She wanted him, and she was so tired, so very, very tired, of being alone. This would not be for long, she knew that; he would not want her again, once he had taken her. She had no arts, no experience of lovemaking to hold a sophisticated man of the world. What had happened to her would make her stiff and awkward in his arms however hard she tried to relax. But she would know, just once, what it meant to lie with a man in mutual desire and passion, and that memory would last for a lifetime of loneliness.
Marcus lifted the lid of one of the trunks and brought out blankets and cushions which he spread and heaped before the hearth into a makeshift bed and then slowly, his eyes on her face, he began to unbutton his greatcoat.
She followed his actions, her coat joining his on a chair, her fingers fumbling with the laces on her stout shoes as he sat and pulled off his glossy brown boots. He had more garments than she, but his were easier to remove—coat, waistcoat and neckcloth discarded while she was still undoing the buttons on her spencer.
And then he did move, stepping round the bed to draw her to the fire, holding her close, stilling her fingers on the fastenings of her plain wool gown.
There was cold air at her back and heat from the fire in front. She did not know whether she was hot or chilled until she felt the warmth of his body and slid her arms round him, holding him close, suddenly too shy to look up into his face.
‘Nell.’ Marcus knelt, bringing her with him, pulling a blanket up around her shoulders. ‘Don’t be frightened.’
She shook her head in denial that she could fear him. Her hands found his shirt, pushed it open, the buttons slipping free easily, and then she was inside the linen, her palms skimming the hot, smooth skin over his ribs, and he caught his breath with a sound that was almost a sob.
Impatient, she pushed the shirt back to reveal the muscled torso she had glimpsed on that nightmare carriage ride after she had shot him. There was a light dressing still on his shoulder; the bruises had faded, but the scars over his ribs still gleamed white.
‘What happened?’ Wanting to understand his body, she touched them lightly with her fingertips.
‘A riding accident when I was eighteen. I took a header into a freshly cut and laid hedge. I was lucky nothing went straight in—there were enough spikes and sharp stakes.’
‘Oh.’ She pressed her palms to the marks as though she could sooth the long-ago pain. She brushed her fingers over the dark hair, shying round his nipples. She traced the line of his collarbone, the hint of a cleft in his chin, lifting her hand to stroke between his brows. ‘You are not frowning now.’
‘No.’ Marcus smiled at her with his eyes, unmoving as she explored, daring to touch, too uncertain to caress. It was as though he understood that she needed to reassure herself that it was him, not that other man from her nightmares.
‘May I?’ He touched the buttons of her gown and she nodded sharply, feeling her body jerky with nerves and desire. ‘Oh, Nell.’ He seemed to find the sight of her bare shoulders, the curve of her breasts, in some way remarkable, for his hand remained where it was, a fraction above her skin, his gaze intent.
Nell tugged at the plain, worn chemise, suddenly conscious that he would be used to smoothing the fragility of silk and lawn from the pampered skin of his mistress, not much-washed cotton that was regrettably now less than snow-white.
