The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel (14 page)

“I’m honored, I think,” Marcus replied skeptically, regarding the bird with a wary eye.

Sarah smiled before turning back toward Buckingham. The warmth of her curving mouth and amused eyes struck him speechless for a moment.

“And where do you think you’re off to?” Sarah asked.

Marcus gathered his wits, looking over his shoulder in time to witness Nigel creeping toward the door.

“Answer your sister,” Marcus pressed.

Nigel turned back to face the two. “Not you as well,” he said to Marcus, looking utterly betrayed.

“You laughed at the bird,” Marcus offered in explanation. “I owe you one. Now, I believe you also owe your sister an answer.”

“Just a spot of fun with the boys, Sarah,” he replied sheepishly.

Marcus looked at Sarah, whose lips were pursed adorably, though he suspected the effect was unintentional.

“Fun?”

“Oh, all right,” Nigel responded, waggling his eyebrows. “It’s dangerous, bloodcurdling fun,” he said dramatically, “the details of which are hardly appropriate for such delicate ears.”

His sister rolled her eyes. “Off with you, then.” She made a shooing gesture, using both hands. “Take Titus with you.”

“I’ll just lighten the kitchen of Cook’s apple turnovers, then be on my way.” Nigel sketched an awkward bow and sped away, disappearing out the barn door with Titus on his heels.

“What was that all about?” Marcus asked, disguising his interest with mild amusement.

Sarah patted Buckingham’s large head. “Nothing, really. Nigel and his friends fancy themselves smugglers.”

Marcus adopted a look of disinterest and joined her at the bay’s stall. “Smugglers?”

“Yes. It’s all far less romantic than they make it out to be.”

The horse sniffed cautiously at Marcus’s fingers when he held out his hand. “A bit dangerous, wouldn’t you agree?” Marcus asked casually.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said distractedly as she watched Buckingham slowly accept Marcus. “From what I gather, Charles only employs the boys for minor errands and such.”

“You know the smugglers by name?” Marcus asked, his years as a Corinthian allowing him to make the interrogation seem as innocent as casual conversation.

Sarah held out her hand, palm flat, for the horse’s perusal. “Let us just say that Nigel is not the most tight-lipped of smugglers,” she replied, an affectionate smile curving her lips.

Marcus nodded. “He won’t be rising in the ranks, then—supplanting Charles then taking hold of the operation from …” He paused, as though searching for something. “I’m sorry, what was the ringleader’s name again?”

“I have no idea who the local smugglers report to,” Sarah answered simply, rubbing Buckingham’s nose. “I’m not even sure if Nigel does. It’s all become rather secretive over the last few months.”

“I wonder why,” Marcus mused, his tone carefully idle.

She patted the bay one last time before turning away, gesturing toward the exit. “I don’t know. Smuggling has always been a part of our coastal life—nearly an accepted vocation, much like fishing or trade. Perhaps the customs officials have grown weary with boredom and have finally decided to make inquiries.”

Marcus followed her down the aisle, cutting a wide swath when they passed Percival’s stall.

Charles, though not the man in charge, was a start. And perhaps Nigel knew more than he realized, Marcus thought. Following the boy might be worthwhile.

Sarah paused to blow out one of the lanterns, and then moved on before halting abruptly. She turned, her green gaze questioning as she searched Marcus’s face. “You seem keenly interested in the smuggling business, Lord Weston.”

“Caw.”

“It was Percival calling in the woods that day, wasn’t it?” Marcus asked, the bird’s call suddenly clicking in his mind, and not a moment too soon. He needed to distract her from her questions about his interest in smuggling.

“Yes, it was,” she answered. She frowned, clearly not swayed. “About the smuggling—” she continued.

“And you were in the woods as well?” he interrupted.

She blinked rapidly, her cheeks slowly pinkening as she stared at him. Then she turned on her heels and nearly ran toward the door. She barely paused to snuff out two more lanterns before hurrying on.

“Miss Tisdale, do you recall our bargain?” he said lazily, strolling in her wake.

She lifted a lantern from its spot on the broad windowsill.

“Our bargain?” she asked, retreating until her back was pressed against the rough, whitewashed wall.

“Yes,” Marcus confirmed, stalking slowly nearer. “The one we struck when I found you hiding from Mr. Dixon that day on the lawn.”

“I told you, Lord Weston, I do not hide.”

“Yes, well, in any case,” Marcus continued, enjoying himself far more than he should, “we made a bargain, whereby you are to grant me one wish, within reason.”

Only one lantern continued to glow, leaving them
standing in a pool of golden light, the stable beyond cast in shadows. “Oh, yes, that bargain. Now I remember.”

Marcus halted in front of her. “I’d like to collect.”

He could see her pulse beating wildly at the base of her throat, her breasts moving with her quick breaths beneath her charming striped gown. She licked her lips and he thought she was going to answer.

And then she blew out the remaining lantern.

“Were you in the woods with Percival that day?” Marcus asked, leaning in so that his lips brushed the shell of her ear as he whispered.

“Is that all? I answer honestly and the debt is paid?” she countered, relief in her voice. “Why then, yes, it was I—and Percival, of course.”

Marcus threaded his fingers into the silky strands of her hair. “That was too easy,” he murmured.

“I know,” she agreed, then bit her lip. “That is, I’d assumed you would ask for more.”

“Such as …” Marcus licked her earlobe and nearly growled. “This?”

“Oh.”

“Or this …” He ran the tip of his tongue down her soft, warm throat and over the faint upper swell of her breasts just above the neckline of her gown. He tugged at the fabric with his teeth.

She dropped the lantern.

“Oh,” she whispered, voice dazed. “Um, yes, something like that.”

“Pity I’ve used my one wish.” His voice was deeper, rasping with arousal as he tested the frantic, pounding pulse at the base of her throat with his tongue, then brushed tender, damp kisses up the inward curve of her throat and the vulnerable, soft underside of her firm little chin. Unable to resist tasting her, he took her mouth with his in a searing, purely carnal kiss.

She moaned, wrapping her arms around his waist beneath
Marcus’s coat and pulling him tighter until the cove of her hips cradled the harder angle of his.

“Sarah,” Nigel’s voice called across the lawn.

She stiffened, her mouth going still beneath Marcus’s before she pushed back, taking her lips from his.

“Hurry,” she hissed, grabbing his hand to tug him with her out of the darkened stables.

“There you are,” the boy said, running up to meet them. “Mother caught me sneaking in and insisted that I fetch you at once.” Nigel gestured wildly. “Come along. Before she accuses Lord Weston of compromising you and insists on a wedding in the morn,” he joked.

“Really, Nigel,” Sarah chastened as the three approached the house. “You’ve quite the imagination.”

If this was the current state of smuggling, Marcus found himself thinking as he followed the three boys through the moonlit wood later that night, then Napoleon hadn’t a prayer of succeeding.

Pokey picked his way along the path quietly, obeying Marcus’s slightest cue. But his habitual stealth was wasted on the boys—Marcus doubted they would have noticed a Highland clan painted for war.

The three were far too busy contemplating the excitement of the night and Charles’s promise of a task much more worthy of their ability—if they proved themselves ready.

The conversation dissolved into stories of amazing feats, each boy attempting to outdo the other.

Marcus had said his good-byes to the Tisdales and mounted Pokey, following the drive as far as the bend, then doubling back and waiting for the boy near the quiet stables. He’d been rewarded for his patience when Nigel finally appeared, running as fast as his lanky legs would carry him across the lawn, past the stables, and deep into the wood, where his two friends waited.

But now the memory of Sarah Tisdale’s sweet, hot mouth beneath his tormented Marcus. The feel of her soft curves against him when she pulled him close. The scent and taste of her skin beneath his tongue—God, the woman made him as randy as a youth.

And that made her dangerous. She threatened the very aspects of his personality that he’d fought to hide for so long—and won.

The ton had wondered at his self-control when he’d first arrived in London, as though every Scotsman worthy to wear a tartan was a ravenous animal waiting for the opportunity to strike.

He’d proven them wrong with his accomplished charm and self-control.

But Miss Tisdale, whether she intended to or not, was systematically destroying years of hard-won control.

In the barn, earlier, he’d wanted nothing more than to raise her skirts and bury himself deep within her.

And sensing that she’d wanted the same had only made him burn hotter.

A woman had never pushed him to the brink of control like Miss Sarah Tisdale.

He’d seduced before in the interest of the Corinthians, and he’d do it again, of that Marcus was sure.

He had to be. He was a Corinthian.

Marcus watched as the boys walked into a clearing, the sound of the sea informing him they’d arrived at the cove. The three ceased talking, the light from Nigel’s lantern suddenly disappearing from view.

Marcus waited for a few minutes until the boys moved out of sight, then he urged Pokey slowly forward. They were next to the cliffs, the smell of salt and seaweed filling Marcus’s nostrils as he peered down.

He eased himself from Pokey’s back, landing silently on the hard-packed earth, and tied him in a concealing copse of green brush and woods. Stealthily, he moved
from the shelter of one tree trunk to the next until he could peer out into the clearing where he’d last seen the boys.

A crude path was cut into the side of the cliff, and Marcus located the light of Nigel’s lantern as it bobbed up and down in the distance, marking the boys’ progress as they wound their way down the path to the beach.

A small fire burned on the shore, and the low voices of men traveled over the sound of the waves, the rough murmur reaching Marcus’s ears.

He craved a closer look but knew his injured leg would not withstand the demands of the rocky path.

Marcus turned back, reaching Pokey and pulling himself into the saddle. “It’s a start,” he whispered to the chestnut, then returned to the woods from which he’d come.

“Sarah, wake up.”

Sarah wrapped her arms around her feather pillow and burrowed farther into its downy softness.

“Sarah, now. Please.”

She reluctantly opened her eyes. The dim light filtering through the edges of the heavy damask bed curtains told her it was barely morning.

The grave look on Nigel’s face told her it was not going to be a good day.

“Nigel, what is it?” she asked, sitting up hastily.

Her brother swiped the hair from his eyes, revealing anguish and fear. “It’s Jasper. I can’t find him.”

“He’s most likely in bed,” Sarah answered, swinging her legs off the four-poster bed and standing.

“I’ve been to his house, and Clive’s. No one’s seen him since we left last night.”

Sarah put her arm around Nigel’s shoulders, her worry growing as the boy accepted the support with uncharacteristic ease. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

“Well,” he began, sagging against Sarah, “when we arrived, Charles was in a nasty temper—going on about a lord’s demands or some such nonsense. He asked Jasper to stay behind while he sent Clive and me off to the Boot. By the time we returned Jasper was gone and Charles told us to go home.”

Sarah squeezed Nigel’s shoulder. “And?”

“The two of us did as we were told, but I …” Nigel paused, his cheeks growing red.

“You were worried about Jasper, as any true friend would be,” Sarah finished for him. “So you went looking for him.”

Nigel nodded. “As I said, he’s not with Clive or at his home.”

“And the cove?” Sarah asked.

“I didn’t want to go alone,” Nigel whispered, tears welling up in his eyes.

Sarah released her brother and rushed behind a dressing screen, quickly removing her night rail then slipping into the breeches and shirt she kept on hand. Quickly returning, she cradled Nigel’s face in her palms, tilting his head to search his eyes. “You did the right thing, Nigel. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.

“Come.” She reached for her boots and took his hand, padding across the blue and rose carpet. Silently easing the door open, she peered up and down the hall, sighing with relief when she found it empty.

The two crept silently down the hallway to the stairs, avoiding the third step from the bottom, which always squeaked on contact. Reaching the landing, Sarah checked the longcase clock in the hall, reading half past four.