By Love Unveiled Page 6

  “Indeed,” Garett replied absently.

  “That Tamara has a strong arm when she’s wielding a vase, but I’ll wager she’s soft as silk when a man’s got her ’neath him.”

  Tamara didn’t interest Garett. But Mina… Mina had a soft mouth too tempting for words. He’d wager it was softer than silk.

  Will threw his master a sly glance. “Do you mean to leave them be like they asked?”

  Garett thought of Mina’s evasions, her strange tale of a noble father, and her obvious familiarity with the people of Lydgate, who mysteriously pretended not to know a thing about her.

  “Not a chance.”

  Chapter Five

  To the glass your lips incline;

  And I shall see by that one kiss

  The water turned to wine.

  —Robert Herrick,

  “To the Water Nymphs Drinking at the Fountain”

  Dawn’s light washed the Falkham House garden with sudden fire, making every dew-drenched leaf and twig twinkle magically, but Marianne spared only a moment to note its beauty. Drawing her heavy cloak more tightly about her, she slipped between the shrubs and onto the weed-choked path, her breath forming misty clouds in the cool fall air.

  When she found the overgrown stretch of rows, she cast a furtive glance about her, but no one stirred in this secluded part of the estate near the apple trees. This had been Mother’s special medicinal garden. Here Marianne hoped to find what she needed.

  She crept forward until she came upon the scarlet berries and deep purple flowers signifying black nightshade. Thank heavens they’d survived the months of neglect. Nightshade could generally be found in fields and ditches everywhere, but this was no common stock. Father had brought the specially grown variety back from France years before. Nothing else was as effective for halting spasms and healing heart troubles, both of which were common among Lydgate’s elderly.

  She withdrew the small spade hidden inside her cloak, then carefully dug up three plants. She’d have to replant them in a less dangerous place now that the earl was in residence.

  Packing the roots with soil, she wrapped them in the wet rags she’d brought and slid them carefully into her pouch. She ought to leave now, but where else could she find so many useful medicinal plants? Mr. Tibbett used powders and dried herbs brought from London, and he didn’t always carry what she required anyway. One of the townspeople had given her a little patch of land for her garden, but it would take months for seeds to take root. She was already here. Why not take what she needed while no one was about to bother her?

  With her mind made up, she crept through the garden, digging up lady’s mantle and woundwort, lad’s love and moonwort. Fortunately, she’d brought plenty of wet rags and pouches. Some of the plants wouldn’t survive, but enough would to make the beginnings of a respectable garden.

  As she worked, she couldn’t help thinking of the earl who slept so close by. What kind of man was he? Ever since she’d met him, she’d kept her eyes and ears open, hoping to find proof of his role in her father’s arrest. Whenever she met his servants in Lydgate, she questioned them discreetly, but they seemed to know little, having been newly hired. His men, whom she occasionally treated for minor injuries, were loyal to a fault, praising him for his just manner and prowess in battle.

  He’d killed men in those battles, of course, but he’d been a soldier, so that proved naught. Was he a villain who would betray an innocent man simply to steal his property? Heaven take her, but she wanted to know very badly. Because if he hadn’t had Father arrested, her attraction to him wouldn’t bother her so much.

  She snorted. Attraction! She was not attracted to the scoundrel. What absurdity. She wanted nothing to do with him.

  So why did she thrill to the thought of how he’d looked at her in his room? Why did she shiver when she thought of his touching her cheek so delicately? And not a shiver of fear, either. That was the worst of it. More like fascination.

  Attraction.

  A groan escaped her. Very well, so she was attracted to the rogue. A little. A very little. And only because she’d had so few dealings with men.

  Though her family had used to attend the occasional ball or dinner, a mere baronet with a supposed Spanish wife could never be the toast of high society. Her family had socialized little with people of rank outside of a few close friends.

  Instead Father had found friends among men of science, whose mutual interest in medicine had made them oblivious to his private situation. So Marianne had grown up surrounded by men so engrossed in the fever of learning that they’d barely noticed her. Even as she’d grown older, she’d been treated by her father’s friends more as a young sister than as a possible conquest.

  Indeed, her mother had worried about her daughter’s prospects, but Marianne hadn’t cared that she might find herself husbandless. She’d always wanted to follow in her parents’ footsteps; she hadn’t needed a husband for that.

  And after Mother had died, there had been little time for dinners and balls. Marianne had had her hands full taking care of Father’s household. Once in a while one of Father’s pupils had noticed her; one had even stolen a kiss. But she’d taken none of them seriously.

  Now, after years of being regarded as a mind without a body, she didn’t know quite how to deal with a man who seemed to see her as a body without a mind.

  No, that wasn’t quite it, either, for he hadn’t disparaged her wit.

  But he’d stared at her with such… hunger. Yes, that was it—like a starved man admitted to a feast for the first time in months. Coping with that look was difficult. So was resisting it.

  “Stand up very slowly if you wish to live another day,” a deep voice said behind her.

  Her hands froze as she recognized the rumbling timbre of that voice. It was as if her very thoughts had conjured him up.

  Something sharp prodded her ribs, making her stiffen. For heaven’s sake, the man was actually holding a sword to her back!

  “Stand!” he commanded.

  She did so, cursing her all-encompassing black cloak, which made her look like any thief in the night. “ ’Tis only I, the gypsy. I mean no harm, my lord.”

  The sword point left her ribs. She gave a sigh of relief, but the silence behind her did nothing to lessen the pounding of her heart.

  “Turn around,” he said tersely, and she obeyed so quickly that she nearly tripped over her cloak.

  Her eyes widened as she saw his finely hewn face, implacable in the early morning light. Underneath the gray cloak draped casually about his shoulders, his clothes were in disarray, as if he’d dressed in a great hurry, but he held his sword in readiness.

  His gaze fixed on her mask, which she’d worn in case a stranger came upon her, then traveled to her cloak, stained with dirt, grass, and dew. She kept her pouches of herbs hidden under her cloak, but they made a noticeable bulge, which he seemed to fix on next.

  “Remove your mask and cloak,” he said, his expression unchanging.

  “I will not! You know who I am!”

  He lifted the sword threateningly. “Remove them!”

  She considered refusing again, but he had every reason to be suspicious, for she’d been trespassing in his gardens. Letting her pouches slide to the ground, she then did as he asked.

  As soon as her cloak hit the ground, she became aware of several things at once. The air was colder than she’d realized. Her hands were smeared with dirt. And though the earl had lowered his sword, he was staring at her in a way that boded trouble.

  His gaze paused only a moment to take in her cheeks pinkened by the cold and her hair tied back with ribbon. Then it slid lower to linger where her chemise of cream muslin bunched over the tops of her breasts.

  A slow smile lit his lips as his eyes swept down the boned bodice of her simple chocolate-brown gown to her waist, and then to her hips. She wore few petticoats these days—there was no place for them in the wagon—so her form appeared much as nature had intended it.

/>   “Enchanting.” His gaze returned to her face. “But I felt certain you would be.” Then he sheathed his sword.

  It took her a second to realize he’d only made her remove her cloak so he could satisfy his lustful urge to gawk at her body, but when she did, she snatched up her cloak. “You, sir, are a lecher!” she cried as she retied it about her neck.

  “And what are you, my dear? A spy? A thief?” He gestured to the pouches at her feet. “Why are you skulking about in the wee hours of the morning, alarming my cook so she rouses me to confront the intruder?”

  She reddened under his scrutiny. “I merely wanted some plants.” She knelt to pull an innocuous one from her bag. “You see? I want to start a garden of my own, and I thought you wouldn’t mind if I took a few of the ones difficult to cultivate. You have plenty, and you obviously don’t use them.”

  Looking skeptical, he stepped close enough to bend and examine the pouches. When he found nothing but plants, he held out his hand to help her rise, which she ignored as she stood.

  That seemed to annoy him. “Would it have been too much for you to humble yourself and ask for the plants? Think you I would have begrudged you a few herbs?”

  She met his gaze boldly. “I really don’t know what you might begrudge me, my lord.”

  He grunted, then scanned the garden. His eyes narrowed. “How did you know where to find what you needed? You couldn’t have been here more than half an hour, yet you’ve clearly put aside a goodly supply.”

  The question caught her off guard. Scrambling for an answer that might pacify him, she said, “I’ve been here before. The former owners allowed me to take what I wished.” With that half-truth, her next words came more readily. “That’s why I didn’t think anything about coming here now. I’m accustomed to gathering what I need when I need it.”

  “Is that why you came at this hour, when you thought no one would see you? I’d say that’s the habit of a thief, not a guest.”

  “I’m no thief,” she said stoutly. “The Winchilseas never called me such. And you don’t care about the garden anyway, so why quibble if I take a few plants? To you they’re just weeds.”

  His mouth thinned as he stooped to pull the nightshade from her bag. “Belladonna is not a weed.”

  She willed herself to remain calm. If he recognized the plant, he had to know its properties. “I use it for poultices,” she said in an even voice.

  “And here I thought it was to make those entrancing eyes of yours look more mysterious.”

  That, too, was a property of the plant—Italian ladies used it to dilate their pupils and give them a sensuous appeal. “I’ve no desire to look mysterious, I assure you, my lord.”

  He laughed grimly. “Yes, that’s why you lurk about in a cloak and mask, sneak into my garden, and steal my plants, particularly the poisonous ones.” When she bristled, he added, “I won’t tolerate your being in this garden without my knowledge. I have enemies—”

  When he broke off, fear curled around her insides. Ah, yes, his enemies, the ones who stabbed him on the highway and made him suspicious of gypsy girls. What crimes had this man committed to make him have to watch his back so fiercely?

  Lord Falkham glanced at the manor. “You knew the Winchilseas?”

  She swallowed. Best tread carefully with this one. “I did.”

  “I know little of them,” he surprised her by saying. “Tell me, what manner of man was Sir Henry?”

  Her desire to paint her father truthfully warred with her common sense, which cautioned her to say as little as possible. The former won out.

  “He was wonderful—kind and gentle,” she said, unable to hide the pleasure she took in speaking of Father. “He cared about everyone here, rich and poor alike. I learned a great deal about doctoring from him.”

  A shadow passed over Lord Falkham’s face. “You seem to have known him quite well. What’s more, you seem to have cared for him. Perhaps you’ve had more experience with protectors than I first realized.”

  It took her a moment to realize his meaning. “For shame! How dare you imply that Sir Henry and I… that we…” She scowled. “Only a reprobate like you would think such a thing! Why, the man was old, and he loved his wife. What would he have wanted with the likes of me?”

  Her response seemed to affect him, for his mood altered. His gaze, gleaming with a familiar light, raked her body. “I can easily answer that, sweetling. A man would have to be either blind or a fool not to consider your form an enticement to all manner of pleasures.”

  His words put her instantly on her guard. She backed around the hedge behind her until she’d put it between them. “I’d best leave now, my lord. My aunt will worry.”

  He stalked her at a leisurely pace. “Let her worry. You weren’t too concerned about her when you came sneaking about here in the first place.” He placed himself between her and her plants, though the hedge still lay between them. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to leave without taking what you came for.”

  “I don’t need them after all,” she lied.

  “Nonsense. You wanted them badly enough to steal them. What can I do with them now that they’re uprooted? By all means, take them.”

  He scooped them up and laid them on the hedge. But before she could snatch them, he vaulted the hedge with ease, landing between her and the plants.

  “You still want them, don’t you?” He laid one hand on the pouches behind him.

  “Yes.” She backed away until she came up against an apple tree, then groaned as she realized he had her trapped.

  He took full advantage of that to move closer. “Then you’ll have them, but for a price.” His voice lowered. “One kiss. That’s all. Then you may take the plants and do as you wish with them.”

  The quick thrill that shot through her roused her anger. She would never even consider touching the lips of this… this killer. Never! “Trust a rogue to ask for such a thing. How dare you?”

  With an arch of his eyebrow, he stepped nearer. “What a little princess you are, with all your indignation. Remember, you trespassed in my garden. One kiss is a small price to pay for my ignoring that.”

  “Since when do rogues stop with one kiss? I’m not so innocent as to let you talk me into such foolishness. My aunt has warned me often enough about noblemen like you, and I plan to take her warnings to heart.”

  His face darkened with a dangerous quickness that made her aware of how alone they were. The servants might be about, but she and the earl were far enough away from the manor that he might harm her without anyone noticing.

  “I should remind you,” he snapped, “that if I wished, I could have you thrust in the gaol.”

  “You would do that for a few missing herbs?” she dared to taunt him. “And because I refuse to satisfy your lust? I should have expected as much from such a varlet. Well, then, call the constable. I daresay he’d rather have me free to help his wife with her sickly newborns than locked up at your whim.”

  She prayed he wouldn’t call her bluff. Although the constable had supported the townspeople’s harboring her, the man would have no choice but to act if the earl brought her to him.

  But her audacity merely seemed to surprise Lord Falkham. “You would risk being sent to the gaol to avoid giving me one kiss. You’re a strange gypsy indeed.”

  Devil take him! Must he always remind her that she acted far differently from what her role would warrant? What would a gypsy girl do? Probably use his passion to eke out some small reward for herself.

  “I merely quibble over your price. These are only plants, hardly worth a kiss. Now, if you were to offer me more of an enticement…”

  Eyes narrowed, he closed the distance between them to press his hands on either side of her and trap her against the tree. “So the gypsy princess shows her true colors.”

  His eyes glittered like winter sleet as they dropped to her lips. “You’re right. One taste of your sweetness would be worth more than mere herbs, but the bargaining is done. You’ll satis
fy my ‘whim,’ sweetling, if you want your plants.” When she eyed him warily, he softened his tone. “Come, Mina, give me my taste.”

  His voice washed over her like sun-warmed water, holding forth a rich promise just as enticing. Annoyed by her reaction, she plucked an apple and thrust it at him. “If you’re hungry, my lord, this will serve your needs better.”

  “Adam may have fallen for that trick, my little Eve,” he murmured, “but I am not so foolish.” He pulled her body up against him, then brought his mouth down on hers.

  His lips demanded a response. She pushed at his chest, but that brought her no respite from his strength. He held her anchored against him too firmly.

  But just as she was feeling panic, his mouth softened and his hands stroked down to hold her waist. Gently. Far too gently. It took her off guard.

  And the kiss began in earnest. He toyed with her mouth, teased it, coaxed it. Her body began to tingle with an odd anticipation. His morning whiskers abraded her skin, but she scarcely noticed, for an unfamiliar pleasure stole through her. She curved into him, her mouth clinging to his like sugar to a pastry.

  Only when he had her resting limply against him did he lift his head, his eyes a tempest of emotion. “Ah, Mina,” he murmured, “you’re even sweeter than I expected.” He kissed her nose, her cheek, the sensitive skin beneath her ear.

  “My lord, please—”

  “Garett.” He nuzzled her neck. “With you I am not the Earl of Falkham, sweetling, but plain Garett, who just wishes to keep tasting you.”

  Falkham. The word rang warning bells inside her muddled head. This was her enemy! How could she allow him to touch her so intimately?

  How could she derive so much enjoyment from it?

  Even as his lips moved to her shoulder, sending warmth like summer’s heat throughout her body, she protested, “One kiss, you said. Only one kiss.”

  “And you said, ‘Since when do rogues stop with one kiss?’ ” He brushed his open mouth over her collarbone. “As it happens, you were right.”