Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage] (11 page)

C
atherine awoke to the delectable scents of butter and honey. Her hollow stomach growled. The sound of feet treading on carpeted floor greeted her. She peeled open her eyes.

“I thought this might tempt you to join the living,” Marcus offered smoothly while he set a tray with a mug and two steaming bowls onto the bedside table. He wore his raven hair tied back with a leather strap, yet it still hung past his broad shoulders.

Catherine’s cheeks flamed as she recalled every stirring curve and bulge of his glorious creamy flesh, and she was simultaneously relieved and disappointed that he was clothed. Yet, cobwebs of confusion made her memory a hazy spattering of images and she was having trouble distinguishing dream from reality.

Still, in the light of day—relatively speaking since the draperies were closed and the only light came from the candelabrum across the room—she felt improved. Yet, she couldn’t help but notice the impropriety of his wear
ing only a simple white shirt and brown loose-fitting breeches in her presence. As if he assumed her beneath such consideration.

She bristled; it felt better being angry than embarrassed. “Where’s the other man?” her tone was tart.

“Oh, Tam? He’s out getting you something to wear.”

Her eyes widened as her hands groped beneath the covers. She was bare as the day she was born!

“Don’t look so appalled, Cat. I certainly didn’t take advantage.”

Because he wasn’t tempted? Horrified and embarrassed she sputtered, “Where are my clothes?”

“You mean that dreadful uniform?”

She nodded and winced at the ache in her head. She raised her hand to her forehead and tentatively fingered wrapped bandages, wondering what had happened to her.

“My father took it back to Andersen Hall,” Marcus explained.

Her mouth dropped open. “Headmaster Dunn was here?”

Lifting a spoon, he stirred the porridge. “Of course, he came to see for his own eyes that you were all right.”

“And he left me here?” she shrieked.
Naked
and
alone with you
?

Marcus sat on the bed and Catherine had to lean her weight away to keep from rolling toward him. “You’ve taken a nasty knock to your head, Cat. It’s not a good idea to move too much and my father recognized that fact.”

“He really was here?” she asked skeptically.

“He left you a note.” He raised a black-winged brow. “If, perchance, you didn’t believe me.”

Opening the drawer to the bedside table, he lifted out a scrap of foolscap and held it out to her. He waited patiently for her to accept the missive, so close she could
smell his sandalwood pomade and his own spicy scent.

What a fix; to accept the note she had to reach out from under the covers! To ignore it, well where was the benefit in that?

Marcus’s smile was amused as he unfolded the paper and held it up near her face. She tried to ignore the indignity of it all and scanned the paper. It was difficult to read in the dim light, but she would know that scratchy handwriting anywhere.

She scowled; Headmaster Dunn was assuming that she wouldn’t give Marcus a chance to vindicate himself. Well, she’d already given him lots of opportunity and thus far it was
he
, not
she
, who’d failed.

“That doesn’t explain much,” she groused, wishing Headmaster Dunn wasn’t so blind as far as his son was concerned. “Especially why he left me here.”

“Do you believe that it’s wise for you to ride in a bumpy carriage, or better yet, on a loping horse? Or would you rather walk the distance back to Andersen Hall?”

Just thinking about the options made her head swim.
And she felt so weak that breathing seemed a bit of an effort.

Marcus slipped the note back into the drawer. “Putting more information to paper is unwise, so Father hoped that I could be more persuasive this time.”

Alarm bells sounded in her mind; she was naked, weak as a babe, trapped and alone with a man she couldn’t tryst.
I mean trust!
she mentally corrected herself.

Marcus picked up a napkin from the tray and set it across her lap. “You haven’t eaten in two days. Let us get your belly full so your ears can do their best work.”

She blinked; he sounded more like a nursemaid than a blackguard. And the man intended to feed her himself? This was too bizarre. Perhaps that knock in the head was worse than she’d suspected and she was still unconscious. Under the blankets she pinched her thigh. She winced; it hurt like the dickens. Oh, dear heavens, this was real. She almost groaned from the ignominy of it all.

“Don’t worry about your feebleness, Cat. I’m going to get you back on your feet again.”

“Why you?” she couldn’t disguise the panic in her voice.

“Would you prefer Tam?” Smiling, Marcus lifted the bowl from the tray. “Although he’s quite good with a needle and thread, I thought you might prefer me.” He was so close she could smell the mint on his breath and see the even white squares of his teeth as he smiled. How could he be so blasted blasé about this abysmal situation?

Needing to know more, she swallowed. “I’m in the boardinghouse, aren’t I?” It was a male-only establishment. There weren’t even any maids. She’d recalled thinking that it was a good idea not to have officers returning from war tempted with supposedly easy pickings.
Now it seemed like the worst of arrangements. “You brought me here from the alley?”

“Yes.” The smile vanished from his features as he added seriously, “I’m glad you remember. I was a bit worried since head injuries can be tricky and you were out cold for a while. Your recovery should be fairly quick, I’d warrant.”

Blast, he was sounding like a nursemaid again!

Desperately her eyes scanned the room, seeing nothing helpful. Perhaps she could take the sword leaning in the corner, slit her throat and end the misery now. She pushed aside the idiotic musing; she’d never been prone to dramatics; it was not the time to start.

If only Jared weren’t off in Reigate. He would certainly be preferable to a hulking brute she hardly trusted.

“Now, let us sit up.” Marcus reached for her, but aghast, she shrank backwards.

“Don’t—” she sputtered.

“You haven’t had any complaints about my care thus far,” he teased.

“I was unconscious!”

He smiled. “Yes, and you were an excellent patient.”

Not thwarted by her protests, Marcus slipped his hands under the covers and cupped her bare shoulders.

“Unhand me!” she screamed, but winced as the sound ripped into her head, making her see stars.

“You were unquestionably more cooperative when you were out cold,” he muttered. Warm, long fingers eased under her shoulders and lifted her up to sit. Horrified, she struggled to cover herself, as he reached behind her and adjusted the pillows. Her skin flamed from her head to her toes and she was speechless, she was so horror-struck. She didn’t dare meet his eyes.

Gently, he eased her back onto the pillow. “There. Isn’t that more comfortable?”

She was too mortified to say a word.

Marcus lifted one of the steaming bowls and sat down on the bed beside her. Spooning out some porridge, he gently blew on it, sending the delectable odors of honey and cream wafting toward her. She swallowed, trying to ignore the pit of hunger in her belly.

The steam rising from the spoon soon dissipated and Marcus held the utensil out like an offering. “It was my mother’s favorite recipe when she was ill…”

He’d
cooked
for her?

“Well?” he waited.

She supposed if he could be nonchalant about this bizarre circumstance, then so could she. “I can feed myself,” she muttered, looking anywhere but at him.

“Excellent.” He placed the warm bowl on her lap and held out the spoon.

Suddenly she realized that she’d have to expose her arm to eat. Lifting her chin, she decided that some things would have to be suffered to have a little dignity. Besides, the man had obviously seen it all already, and, gallingly, didn’t seem remotely affected.

Carefully, Catherine wrapped the blanket deep into her side as she lifted out her arm. The cool air greeted her bare skin.

“Would you like me to light the fire?” he asked.

“No.” She didn’t want to stare at his curvaceous bottom as he bent over the hearth. It was hard enough regaining her equilibrium as it was.

The first bite of the porridge was like heaven on earth. Buttery, creamy grains slid down her throat so delectably she almost closed her eyes. Suddenly she realized that he was studying her, and chided, “Stop watching me.”

Marcus shrugged and stood. “As you wish.” He walked over to the closed red drapes and peeked out, allowing
golden afternoon sunlight to spear across the emerald green carpet.

She tore her eyes away from his broad back and swallowed another bite. “How long have I been here?”

“Not very long.”

“How long?”

He peered over his shoulder at her. “Two days.”

Two days?
The orphanage, the children!

“My father said not to worry; he would take care of Andersen Hall for the interim. He only asked that you please recover soon.”

She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or dispensable.

Marcus turned back to the window, staring out the glass. A casual observer might see his pose as relaxed, but she noticed how his eyes never stopped scanning the street below.

Surveying his profile, Catherine could easily see the bump on his nose where it had been broken, lending him a brutish air. Still, the golden sun kissed his chiseled cheeks and softened the strong angle of his jaw, making him devastatingly handsome. A man had no right to look that deuced gorgeous. She didn’t want to know how weather-worn she must look.

Suddenly the memory of vomiting came back to her. That must have been Marcus holding her shoulders while she heaved. Oh, the indignity! But there was naught she could do for it now. So she pushed the memory from her mind and focused on the delectable porridge and on obtaining answers.

“What happened to me?”

He let the drapes drop and faced her. “A wild shot knocked a brick loose and you happened to be standing beneath it.”

Ah, so that was the cannonball that had landed on her head.

“Who were those men?” she asked, licking her lips.

“That was what I was trying to find out when you came upon us.”

Her spoon stopped midair. “So you purposefully led them into the alley?”

“Yes.” His piercing blue gaze met hers. “I just wonder why you came after me.”

Catherine looked down at the empty bowl, unwilling to explain herself.
Where had all the porridge gone?
Thankfully, Marcus had had the foresight to get two bowlsful. Catherine bit her lip hoping that the second helping wasn’t for him.

Suddenly he stepped near and reached toward her. She started, shocked. Unruffled, he removed the empty bowl from her lap and replaced it with the full one. Her cheeks flamed once more and she chided herself not to be a skittish rabbit with him. The man could have molested her a thousand times over and obviously had not. But that still did not mean that she trusted him. And how did he always seem to know what she was thinking?

“You’ve a very expressive face,” he explained, as if reading her thoughts. “Especially in the eyes.”

She scowled, feeling at a disadvantage on so many different levels she wanted to scream.

“Also,” he added, “I make it my business to read people.”

“What business exactly is that, Marcus?” She waved her spoon, anger spiraling through her. “And while I’m asking, why are you so coiled up in lies? The sham with your leg. It’s unconscionable leading others to believe that you are wounded.”

“I catch spies.” He approached the tray and lifted the mug. “Tea with milk and honey?”

She blinked, flabbergasted.
Spies?

Grasping her hand in his large, warm fingers, he
slipped the mug into her palm. The heady vapors teased. Slowly, she sipped the tea, trying to sort out his comment. Another lie, perhaps? But for what end?

The Bohea was delicious; a better quality of leaf than she’d had in years. The orphanage purchased their tea leaves used. These obviously had not yet infused another’s cup. It tasted positively decadent.

“Where does all of your money come from?” she asked suddenly.

“I have my officer’s pay.” At the look on her face, he added, “But to be frank, I’m enterprising. I find out what people want and deliver it. For a price.”

“You mean spies?”

“No.” He shook his head, emphatic. “That I do for my country. Oh, I take my wages, don’t get me wrong, but there’s no custom for me there.”

“Who are you trying to catch?”

He turned and easily lifted the armchair from near the fire and set it beside the bed. Dropping into it, he crossed his long legs. “Someone in London.”

She grimaced. “Obviously. If what you say is true.”

His smooth lips lifted, amused. “You still don’t believe me.”

“Why should I? You’ve lied about everything since the day of your return.” The tea was like liquid gold to her taste buds. She stifled a sigh of contentment.

“Even though my father clearly supports my efforts here in town?”

“Your father cannot see clearly where you are concerned,” she replied dismissively.

“And they call me cynical,” he muttered.

“That is, by far, one of the gentler terms I’d use for you.”

F
rom the armchair next to the bed where Cat lay, Marcus studied the perplexing young woman as she sipped her tea. When he’d just placed the mug into her hand, he’d finally realized what her skin reminded him of: rose petals. And like a rose, Cat was silky soft but guarded by barbed thorns.

What had happened to her to make her so prickly? Why was she so suspicious of people’s intentions? Andersen Hall was a decent place, far better than many other foundling homes he’d seen. So what had happened to her that had ensured that no one got too close to the lovely Catherine Miller?

Without understanding his own curiosity, Marcus had recently asked his father how Cat had come to Andersen Hall. According to Dunn, Cat and her brother had come to the orphanage claiming to have been orphaned when their parents had died in debtors’ prison. Apparently, her parents had been tutors to fine families, hence, Cat and her brother’s superior education and manners. Then her fa
ther had gotten into debt, so deep that nothing could get him out. He and his wife had been sent to prison while the children had stayed behind with a servant friend. Both parents had died of a fever while incarcerated. But that had been ten years ago; why was she still so bitter?

Well, she wasn’t exactly bitter, Marcus corrected himself. Prickly, mistrustful, sharp, but not embittered. And so lovely he had to wonder why a man had not yet come along and swept her off her feet.

A wise man would have seen past the wayward hay-stick hair and wretched clothing. He would have found a way to silence that barbed tongue. Just the idea of giving Cat’s tongue another occupation caused him to shift uncomfortably in his seat.

He’d been fighting his errant passion ever since he’d met Cat. Now that he was alone with her in his bedroom, naked, no less, the struggle had evolved into a full-blown war. But he’d be damned if he’d take advantage of a helpless innocent in his care.

Extending her milky white arm, Cat tried setting the empty mug on the table.
Stiff-necked lass.
If he focused on her mind and not her body, he might just win this skirmish yet.

Reaching forward, he removed the mug from her hand and placed it on the tray. Quickly, she slid her arm back beneath the covers.

During his visit, his father had suggested offering Cat the whole, uncomplicated truth to finally make her understand. Even though unusual, Marcus decided to give his father’s advice a shot.

Sitting up, he rested his hands on the arms of the chair, as if to convey his open dealing. Over the years he’d learned that it was just as important how one appeared as what one said.

“My father suggested I be honest with you, as I have been with him,” Marcus began. “Obviously he believes me. But then, again, Lord Wellington set the stage well—”

“The letters,” she breathed, her eyes widening. Cat would definitely be a flop if she tried her hand at Drury Lane.

“So you knew about those.” He shook his head. “My father assured me that no one saw those missives.”

“I didn’t read them,” she replied defensively. “I simply figured out from whom they were sent.”

She was a sharp tack, he had to admit. “Well, I am on a clandestine mission to catch a traitor to the Crown. Hence, the reason for my return.”

Her smoky gray gaze was incredulous. “At an orphanage?”

“My question, exactly, when they gave me my orders.”

Her lips pursed. “So you did not wish to come home?”

“No.”

“But you came anyway.”

“I had little choice.”

“Because they ordered you to?” her tone was doubtful.

“They made me a proposal I could hardly refuse.” He looked away, remembering Horace’s proposition: Captain Luke Hayes’s life in exchange for assuming the mission in London. His superiors knew him well enough to recognize that once he’d committed he would give it his all. But in negotiating Luke’s release, Marcus had also demanded the return of the young captain’s commission and a promise that Luke would never have to serve in the same regiment as that bastard Major Blackstone.

“What was the offer?” she asked, tilting her head. He liked how she cornered the facts and re-sorted them until she was satisfied. It was a refreshing change from some of the goosish women he’d known.

Cat’s mind was worlds above his recent paramour’s, he realized. But to give Angelica her due, he’d never been particularly interested in that aspect of a woman; it only complicated his existence.

“The offer,” she prompted, pulling Marcus from his convoluted musings.

“What does it matter?” He looked away, adjusting his legs. “I had no choice.”

Her pink bowed lips pinched into a stubborn line.

“All right,” he admitted. “A friend was in a fix. It was the only way to get him out.”

Her brow relaxed. “That’s the first thing you’ve explained that truly fits your character.”

“What do you know of my character?” he retorted. “We hardly knew each other years ago and I’ve been gone now for ages.”

“Some characteristics are…immutable.”

“What do you mean?”

“I remember Willy Limpkin.”

Marcus remembered him, too. The sandy-haired, troubled lad had gotten caught stealing a neighbor’s chickens. The penalty was twenty raps with a switch, and having to compensate the victim. Willy had taken this punishment in stride, but everyone had known that Willy could sooner write his name as put two pence together. The lad had never been quite right in the head.

“You gave him some tasks—” Cat said.

“The lad washed my shirt, for heaven’s sake,” Marcus interrupted, looking away. “It was nothing.”

“You found a productive use for his time, and gave him the chance to pay his fine. Until the day he died he was proud to have made his own retribution. It was never charity.”

“What’s your point?”

“You have a certain code of honor when it comes to your comrades. Helping a friend in need is probably the only reason that you could give for your return that I would believe.”

“I’m so glad you approve,” he retorted dourly, yet deep inside he was pleased that she saw something redeeming in him.

“But I still don’t understand why your mission would bring you to Andersen—” Alarm suddenly infused her features. “Is there any danger to the children?”

“No.”

Her features softened with relief. She really was quite pretty, with those wide luminous eyes and that perky upturned nose, and those bowed pink lips…He wondered if they’d taste sweet…

When she wasn’t arguing, stabbing a finger to make a point or emphatically waving a spoon…These were good thoughts that drew him from his licentious musings.

“So why did you have to be placed on the board of trustees?” she asked.

“For the entry that I need.”

“To get to whom?”

“That is one fact you do not need to know.”

“Does your father know who it is?”

“He is taking my lead in this matter in all respects.”

“Of course he would; he’s not nearly devious enough to manage this affair.”

He didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered. Still, it was nice that she finally believed him. It felt somewhat uplifting having her know his secret. She was bright, and surprisingly easy to talk to.

Worrying on that lower lip, she muttered, “On the board of trustees we have Hardgrave, Belton, Foxworthy, Renfrew, Griggs…”

Dunn had been right about Cat; she puzzled things until they fit. Not a healthy trait for a civilian. “Don’t go there, Cat,” he warned. “This is dangerous business, as you have regretfully learned firsthand.”

“Most of the trustees contribute to the orphanage in a steady stream,” she stated slowly, ignoring him. “It ebbs and flows, but usually remains somewhat constant once they are on the board.” Her lips pursed. “Except for two. Mr. Griggs recently donated a large sum to the orphanage, more than three times his annual gift. Lord Renfrew, on the other hand, reduced his donation, by more than half.”

Marcus knew this since he’d studied the lovely script of her neat account books.

“I’ll lay odds it’s Renfrew,” she declared. “Griggs is too ‘Hail to the King’ and all that. Renfrew on the other hand is always jumping from one cause to the next. He believes that he knows best and that he needs to enlighten the rest of us. Did someone perhaps add kindling to his fire?”

He couldn’t help but be impressed with how neatly she’d sized up the situation. Still…“This is no child’s game of wage-war, Cat. It’s certainly no place for a young woman.”

Beneath the covers she crossed her arms. “I saved your life.”

“I didn’t need your help,” he replied gruffly. “I was doing just fine on my own until you came along.”

She shrugged. “Five men against one, and you were doing reasonably well—”

“Thank you for the endorsement.”

“But the man had a pistol at your back and I dispatched the knave.”

It was kind of nice having her calling someone else a knave rather than him. Still…

“Besides,” she added. “If someone on the board of
trustees is exposed as a traitor, a threat to Britain…things will not go well for Andersen Hall.”

“I did not choose to fight on this field—”

“Can’t you just pack the traitor up and haul him off or something? Without anyone knowing what he’s done?” she asked hopefully.

“My superiors were adamant; I must have clear and solid proof before I act overtly.” He frowned. “I need to be circumspect in my enquiries until then. ‘Kid glove treatment’ is how they described it.”

“No matter how you try to keep it quiet, if a traitor is found, Andersen Hall will be besmirched.” Her face was tinged with anxiety.

“Andersen Hall has a strong foundation. It will survive.”

“You cannot expect me to lie down and let those I love suffer.” Her voice rose with conviction. “I will not let that happen again!”

“Again?”

Looking down at the covers, she did not meet his eye. “I cannot sit on the side if it is in my power to do something about it.”

He decided to ignore her outburst. What he needed was her cooperation, and she obviously did not wish to discuss it. “Look, Cat. My father almost had an attack of the heart when he saw you injured.” Marcus did not bother explaining how terrified he’d felt. “He’s asked me to promise to keep you safe. I can’t do that if you get the idea in your head that you need to get involved in a military operation.”

“But I can help—”

“Doing what?” he asked gently.

“Headmaster Dunn says that I’m excellent with puzzles of any kind.”

“This is far from a game, Cat—”

“Well…I can certainly find out more information if I
could attend one of the board meetings. I can be quite a credible actor, you know.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. A deep, rumbling boom escaped from his belly and it felt so wretchedly good he had to let another loose. And then another. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d laughed so hard.

She scowled. “Well, I am. Headmaster Dunn says so, and so does Mrs. Nagel. And Dr. Winner—”

His laughter echoed in the intimate chamber.

“Well, I am,” she grumbled. “Just, apparently, not with you.”

Standing, he stepped over and lifted the tray. “I’m going to take this back to the kitchen. Is there anything else I could get for you while I’m about?”

She scowled at him.

His smile widened. “Oh, Cat, I’m sorry, but that’s the first good laugh I’ve had in months. I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

“Well, I’m glad that someone did. It’s not nice to laugh at another’s expense.”

“No, of course not.” He forced his lips down. “How can I make it up to you?”

She looked away, not meeting his eye. Obviously she wanted something.

“Please, Cat, let me know how I might make amends?”

“I’d really…” She bit her lip, looking so distressed he had to hide his grin.

“What? You can tell me.”

“I’d really like a bath.”

His lips fell.

“Is that possible?” She peeked up from beneath thick sooty lashes. Men would slay for a sweet glance like that.

“Your wish is my command,” he murmured, not laughing any longer. It looked like the mêlée of his passions was about to launch a new offensive.