The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel (20 page)

“Superior investigative skill,” Marlowe offered.

Marcus reached into Fordham’s coat pocket. “Blonde or brunette?”

“Both.”

“Naturally,” Marcus answered.

Marlowe exhaled loudly. “Did you happen to see a gray and white dog out front when you arrived?”

“The looks of a greyhound, only smaller?” Marcus asked, lifting a folded piece of foolscap from Fordham’s pocket and standing.

Marlowe nodded, standing. “A servant identified the dog as belonging to Fordham. The beast follows his master everywhere, apparently.”

“And was it the blonde or the brunette?”

Marlowe snatched the foolscap from Marcus’s hand. “Just so we’re clear, I do indeed possess superior investigative skills—and it was the brunette.”

Marcus feigned concern. “Carmichael never mentioned how—” he paused for effect “—sensitive you are, Marlowe.”

“Bastard,” Marlowe muttered, unfolding and reading the note. “Nothing more here than a request that Fordham come to this fine establishment—date, time, but no signature.”

Marcus gave the deplorable room one last assessing look before stepping over the body and stalking toward the door. “It’s a start. See if your source knows who delivered the letter. And search the room one last time. There may be something of use that we’ve missed.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Marlowe answered sarcastically.

Marcus opened the door and stepped out into the hall, pulling it shut behind him.

“Sensitive, my ass,” he heard Marlowe mutter aloud, and he could not help but smile.

Marcus made his way quickly down the shadowed
corridor, taking the narrow stairs with minimal pain in his leg.

He paused in the tavern, searching for the innkeeper. The lumbering fool stood behind the counter, near the back, shoveling stew of some sort into his mouth as he carried on a colorful conversation with a patron.

Assured that Marlowe would have sufficient time to complete the task upstairs, Marcus bid farewell to the hellhole and made his way outside to where Pokey was tied.

The horse snorted the moment he caught sight of Marcus.

“Do not start with me,” Marcus said sternly, untying and slipping the leather reins from the iron ring set into the rough wooden post. “Your reputation may have suffered from appearing outside the Cock’s Crow, but you’d do well to remember that it is I who had to venture inside.”

As Marcus set his boot in the metal stirrup and swung into the saddle, he spied the little dog curled up against the rough wall of the alehouse.

The dog appeared bereft, his thin tail beating dejectedly upon the worn dirt.

“You’re an idiot,” Marcus muttered to himself. Pokey shifted in agreement.

Marcus stepped down from the saddle.

He looped the reins over his arm and ducked under Pokey’s neck, walking to the thin canine.

“Well,” he addressed the dog, “would you like to come with me?” Marcus bent his knees, leaning over to hold his hand out for him to sniff.

The dog instantly rose, his slim pink tongue darting out to lick Marcus.

Marcus gently settled his free hand on the dog’s head, rubbing the silken, short fur between his ears. The dog
leaned into Marcus’s touch, his eyes closing with delight.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Marcus said with a satisfied grin.

Reaching around the dog’s midsection, he lifted the lean canine into his arms and turned back to his horse. “Pokey, meet …” He paused, eyeing the dog. “Bones.”

The chestnut sniffed the dog from head to tail, then resumed looking bored.

Bones shook and buried his head in Marcus’s armpit.

“Come now, if Pokey had wanted to eat you he would have done so already,” Marcus assured the dog, prying him from his chest.

Marcus once again placed his foot in the iron stirrup and lifted himself into the saddle, the little dog balanced in his arms.

Once over his initial shock, the dog settled into his makeshift mode of transportation nicely, his lean head resting on Marcus’s thigh.

“Pokey, Bones here will require a slower pace. Understood?”

Marcus could have sworn that the chestnut rolled his eyes.

It wasn’t that Sarah was angry.

She stood impatiently in the middle of Cove Road, the sun just finishing what was surely a glorious setting, but she’d hardly had the patience to turn about and enjoy it.

Perhaps it
was
that she was angry, though she feared she really had no right to be.

She’d learned from Lord Weston’s stable boy, whom she’d met on the road into town, who’d heard from Mary the cook when he’d ventured in to break his fast, who’d in turn been told directly by Lord Weston’s valet,
that the earl had left for Bournemouth at the break of dawn.

“This,” Sarah insisted out loud, “is precisely why he needs me.” If their roles had been reversed, he’d hardly have possessed the connections necessary to have discovered Sarah’s whereabouts.

Sarah had a niggling suspicion that he’d have simply asked her father, who, in truth, had become quite attached to the man. Marcus’s interest in both brandy and astronomy had made him irresistible to the baronet.

Sarah kicked at a stone in the dirt road. She was growing more irritated by the second.

A horse and rider appeared in the distance and Sarah squinted her eyes in an effort to see.

They drew nearer, the horse’s hooves raising a small dust cloud close behind.

Sarah recognized the massive chestnut’s build, and then the rider, his golden hair tousled from a long ride. She was delighted to see he wore a small smile.

Which only irritated her more.

“Miss Tisdale,” Lord Weston said, as he drew the horse to a stop. “How lovely to see you. Here, in the middle of the road. At sunset.
In the middle of the road.
”

“How dare you,” Sarah hissed.

His eyebrows arched in inquiry. “I beg your pardon?”

“You cantered off to Bournemouth without so much as one word to me.”

Lord Weston dismounted. Sarah stood so close to Pokey that Marcus loomed over her when he turned to face her, the lapels of his riding coat nearly brushing the bodice of her gown.

“We had an agreement,” Sarah ground out. “An understanding. You were to help me and I was to—”

“Miss Tisdale,” he interrupted, so near that Sarah felt
his words stir the curls at her temple. “I was simply protecting you.”

“Protecting me? I am the one meant to protect you, Lord Weston.” Sarah bristled with offended pride. “I know who can be trusted in this county and who can—”

“Fordham’s dead,” Marcus said bluntly. “Stabbed in the back by, I can only assume, someone involved in the smuggling scheme.”

Shocked, Sarah could only stare at his grim face. She was too stunned to speak.

“And, with all due respect, you were never meant to protect me,” he added with finality.

Sarah shoved her fear down deep inside and instead gave vent to her anger at his dismissal of her participation in their partnership.

“I am just as capable as any man when it comes to such things, Lord Weston, and you’d do well to not forget that.” And with that, she rolled up her fist and punched him in the center of his waistcoat, just above his watch chain.

“Awa, ye crabbit besom.” He sucked in a breath, his burr thickening his deep voice.

And then she kissed him. Cupped his annoying, frustrating, much-too-dear face with both hands and pressed her lips to his.

It was not artful, as she’d hardly had enough practice to become an expert, but it was certainly enthusiastic.

She pressed herself against him, the curves of her breasts flattening against the planes of his hard chest, her nipples tightening with excitement.

Sliding her arms around his neck, she tugged him closer and twined her fingers in his soft, golden hair.

For a moment, he didn’t react. As if shocked into immobility, his lips failed to mold to hers and his arms hung loosely at his sides.

But Sarah had dreamed of this for too long. There were so many things she’d wondered about, puzzled over, daydreamed of—and with anger and sheer excitement fueling her actions, it didn’t occur to her to stop. His lips were warm and firm against hers. She inhaled his scent and instantly needed to know if he tasted as delicious as he smelled. She parted her lips, the tip of her tongue tracing the seam of his mouth.

With a muttered curse, Marcus wrapped her in his arms and pressed her even more tightly to him. His lips parted and he sucked the tip of her tongue with sensual greed, coaxing her deeper.

Sarah instinctively pressed nearer, the cove of her hips cradling the harder angles of his.

He groaned and swung her into his arms, carrying her away from the lane and into the woods until they were out of sight of any chance passerby. He set her on her feet under an oak and pressed her back against the thick trunk.

“You are playing with fire, woman,” he whispered, his voice deeper, rasping with arousal. He trailed his lips down the arch of her throat and lower, until his mouth reached the upper swell of her breasts just above the low neckline of her lace-trimmed bodice.

She didn’t protest when he tugged her gown lower, air cooling her hot flesh until his warm hand closed over her breast. For a brief moment, she panicked and her hands gripped his biceps. “Tell me you want me as much as I want you,” she demanded, her voice husky with desire.

“More,” he growled, meeting her gaze with his. The heat in his eyes scorched, aroused, and reassured her. His mouth closed over the tip of her breast and he sucked, drawing the sensitive nipple into the wet heat of his mouth.

Instinctively, Sarah wriggled, trying to fit more tightly
against his hips. In desperation, she rose to tiptoe, and then hitched one knee around his waist, nearly groaning in relief when the new position pressed him deeper between her thighs. He shifted and began to move rhythmically back and forth, applying pressure exactly where her body most needed it. Heat built, fire racing through her veins and centering low in her abdomen.

She wanted to touch him. Lost to all reason or propriety, she tugged at his cravat and pulled it loose. Marcus helped her, making swift work of the buttons on his shirt.

Too impatient to wait for him to finish, she slipped her hands between the loosened edges of linen and flattened her palms on warm bare skin. He was marvelously made, with tanned skin that was supple and satiny beneath her sensitive fingertips. Powerful muscles curved over his shoulders, padded his ribs, and tapered to a trim waist.

She pressed herself against him, the feel of his skin on hers magical.

She wanted more.

“Please,” she murmured, not knowing what it was that she needed so desperately.

He leaned into her, his mouth reclaiming hers in a deep kiss. One hand closed over her calf and urged her leg a fraction higher around his waist. Then he smoothed his hand beneath her skirts, stroking up her outer thigh until he reached her bottom. His hand lingered, tested, savored, then he pressed her hips tighter against his.

His other hand pushed her skirt higher and he flattened his hand on the slight curve of her belly, his thumb testing the shallow indent of her navel. Then he stroked lower and she gasped, clutching at him.

One finger brushed lightly against her curls and Sarah started with surprise.

His hand stilled at her response.

But Sarah was desperate, poised on the knife’s edge of desire, and she pulled him closer, pressing her mouth and body tighter against his.

His finger resumed the teasing torture, until it slipped in between the wet folds and continued with a slow flicking motion.

It was the most exquisite feeling of frustration and need that she’d ever experienced.

The delicious tension built until Sarah was sure she would die. The fire of sense and satisfaction finally exploded within her, and she cried out for what felt to be an exquisite eternity. Then she sagged against the tree, her body pulsing with hypersensation.

She opened her eyes, to find him looking down at her, his breath coming hard as he stared into her eyes.

And then, just as Sarah’s senses were returning, a dog barked.

“Aye, now he barks,” Marcus growled.

His hand smoothed down her thigh and reluctantly lowered Sarah’s leg, gently rearranging her gown until the hem covered her ankles. He stood, tugged her bodice into place once more, and then bent his knees to look into her face. He brushed an errant curl from her brow, his hands gentle, fingers lingering to trace the curve of her ear.

“Marcus,” she whispered. “I—”

“Hush.” He silenced her with the tip of his forefinger laid gently over her lips. “Come meet your new dog,” he urged, taking her hand in his and pulling her toward the road.

Sarah was confused. Having never before been so intimately engaged with a man, she knew not what would be considered normal behavior—though she was fairly sure that, under most circumstances, a dog was not involved.

“I’m sorry, but, what?”

“Your new dog,” he repeated, stopping once they’d arrived at Pokey’s side. He released Sarah’s hand and reached into the saddlebag to pull out a smallish dog. The little canine looked as confused as Sarah felt.

Her mind was reeling. “Where did you find him?”

“He’s Fordham’s, I’m afraid. Which,” Marcus paused, setting the slim dog into Sarah’s arms, “explains his need for a new home.”

The dog settled in against Sarah’s chest, his muzzle coming to rest on her arm.

“Oh, poor little, little …”

“Bones.”

“Poor little Bones,” Sarah cooed, distracted for a moment by the soft dog and its pathetic state.

Marcus turned to Pokey, buckling the bag closed once again. The movement pulled her attention back to earlier events.

“I hate to belabor the point, but
what was that
?” Sarah demanded, her gaze flicking to the tree and back to Marcus.

“You don’t know?” he asked, clearly either genuinely surprised or entertained, Sarah could not decide which.

She could see no advantage, at this point, in evasion. She’d offered her body to the man—or he’d taken it, though she was glad either way—and she’d little left to lose.