Mary And The Marquis. Janice Preston

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      ‘Family?’

      ‘Yes: a wife? Children?’

      ‘No!’

      Rothley’s response to her idle question was swift, in a tone tinged with abhorrence, stirring Mary’s curiosity. Why so hostile? Mayhap it was as well, she thought, as she continued to dress his wound. Better by far, to her mind, that the rakes of this world remained unwed and saved some poor woman, and their children, a life of misery.

      She banished his attitude to the back of her mind and concentrated on the task in hand, listening with increasing anxiety to his shallow breathing. He groaned as she lifted his arm to pass the bandage beneath, wrapping it around to hold the pads in place.

      ‘Why...do you...ask?’

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘Why ask...about...family?’

      She smiled at his suspicious tone, secure in the knowledge he could not see her expression. Did he imagine she wished to discover if he was wed? Did he fear she might set her cap at him on the strength of his title alone?

      ‘I wondered if someone might be out searching for you.’

      ‘Not...’ His voice faded.

      Alarmed, fearing he was about to pass out, Mary glanced up at Rothley. His eyes were riveted on her chest. She glanced down and felt a blush rise as she realised how much of her décolletage was revealed to his gaze as she leaned forward to bandage him. He glanced up and caught her eye.

      ‘Merely...distracting...myself...S...Sensible Mary.’

      Mary felt a tingle deep inside at the heat she glimpsed in those dark eyes. It had been a very long time since a man—rake or not—had viewed her as a woman and not simply as a burdensome wife.

      ‘Let me see your leg,’ she said, striving to sound unaffected as she quelled her unwelcome response. Rothley was a rake and a drinker. It was a combination she despised. How could she react to him in such a way? It must be sheer animal attraction; he was, after all, very striking: all brooding, sensual masculinity.

      She gently cut the material of his breeches away from the wound, wishing she had some means of cleaning the hole where the bullet had entered the fleshy part of the back of his thigh. There was no exit wound. That was bad. She bit her lip as she bandaged his leg.

      Rothley groaned softly and Mary looked up with concern. His eyes were closed and harsh lines bracketed his mouth and furrowed his brow.

      ‘My lord?’ He did not respond. She laid her hand on his forehead. Not too much heat there. Not yet, anyway, she thought grimly, but he needs a doctor. The sooner the better.

      ‘My lord?’ Mary raised her voice, laying her hand against his cheek. His stubble scratched against her palm. She patted him, gently at first, then firmly.

      He groaned again and opened his eyes. She could see the effort he made to rally, jaw clenched and nostrils flaring as he inhaled several times.

      ‘Inside...brandy...’ He indicated his jacket.

      Mary felt inside what was left of his jacket. The muscles of his chest jerked in reflex as she brushed against them.

      ‘Haven’t you had enough of this already?’ She retrieved a small flask, recalling the stench of alcohol she had noticed before. No doubt she had already become accustomed to the smell.

      He thrust his hand out and, when she handed him the flask, he unscrewed the cap with his teeth and spat it out before taking a long swig. Mary shuddered, the smell again reviving unhappy memories. She forced herself back to the present, to the situation in hand.

      ‘Which direction is Rothley Hall?’ she asked. ‘How shall I find it?’

      ‘To right...follow path...turn left on road.’ He paused, tensing, then raised dark eyes, racked with pain, to hers.

      ‘Big gates...a mile...on right. P...please...Mary, be quick!’

      ‘Don’t fret, I shall go soon,’ she replied. Taking his hand between hers she squeezed, her heart going out to him. ‘But first, I shall fetch my cloak. It will keep you warm until help arrives.’

      Toby and Emily were both awake and the relief on Toby’s face when he saw Mary wrenched at her heartstrings.

      ‘Stay quiet, both of you,’ she warned as she raised them to their feet. ‘I shall only be a minute, then we will take the horse. The man you saw before—he is injured. We must fetch help for him.’

      ‘Are we rescuing him, Mama?’ Toby asked in an interested voice.

      ‘Yes, Toby, you’ll be a real hero,’ she replied as she pinched his cheek.

      She hurried back to Rothley. He was drifting in and out of consciousness, much as Michael had done on that fateful night when he had fallen from his horse in a drunken stupor on his way home. Simon Wendover, his drinking companion, had brought him home, leaving him on the doorstep for her to care for as best she could. Mr Wendover, Simon’s father and Michael’s employer, had sent the doctor the following day to see what could be done, but it was too late. He had died three days later.

      Gently, she laid the cloak over Rothley.

      ‘Angel...’ he murmured, but did not fully rouse.

      Mary studied his features. He looked younger in repose, his surprisingly long lashes dark against his pale skin, his lips relaxed and slightly parted. He looked nothing like the wild rake she knew him to be. She laid her hand gently on his forehead. The silky texture of his hair slipped through her fingers as she brushed it from his brow. His eyes flickered at her touch and she snatched her hand away, feeling her colour rise. She leant close and put her lips to his ear.

      ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ she promised, sending a quick prayer that rescue would arrive in time, before heading back to Sultan and the children.

      * * *

      His angel was gone!

      Lucas tried to rise, aching to follow her, to continue to bask in the glow of her comforting presence, but he was dimly aware his body would not obey his will. That he did not, in fact, move. He tried to call to her, but only a low moan sounded to his straining ears. The angel was no more, leaving a gaping void, as cold and as black as the loughs on the nearby hills, filled with pain.

      He frowned, his thoughts slippery and evasive. Who is she? The wavering image of her face swam into view, reassuring yet tantalising: clear skin with a smattering of freckles, cornflower-blue eyes and soft lips, all framed by wayward wisps of soft gold, glimpsed as they escaped her bonnet. Why is she here? In the woods? The image of her face sank again, submersed in the inky black depths of his mind.

      Julia!

      The name surfaced, conjured up from the past, dragging the old feelings of hurt and rejection with it.

      He muttered, uncertain of anything any more but the ever-present pain. Was it Julia? How could it be? The face of an angel. The face that belied a heart as black as coal.

      He СКАЧАТЬ