To Rescue a Rogue (31 page)

As when his mouth settled around one nipple, to tongue and suck. A cry escaped her.

“Hush,” he murmured, and she heard the beloved laughter in it. So she hushed, even when he worked the same magic on her other breast, and when his hand slid into the folds between her spread thighs, finding the pleasure places there with a gentle, almost teasing touch.

She moved hungrily against him and tangled fingers in his hair to make him look at her. “This time I want you inside me. Promise me, Dare. I must be yours completely.”

“Oh. yes.”

His agreement soothed her mind but not her urgent body.

“Now.” She spread her thighs wider and moved against him. He settled there, breathing hard, nudging her wider still, pressing closer still. Mara sucked in breaths as if the air was thin as his hardness began to fill her hot ache. Then it hurt, and she couldn't help a caught breath.

He sealed her mouth with a kiss, then thrust, so her short cry was caught there. Then he stilled and smothered any memory of pain in a searing kiss, one hand pleasuring her breast until she thrust up against him, wanting more. Wanting everything.

He met her, then slid in and out. “Yes,” she gasped. This was what she wanted, had wanted in her secret knowing places for so long. With Dare. With Dare. With Dare.

She was thrusting against him now, as fiercely as he thrust into her, trying to hold back cries of effort and mindless pleasure, vaguely praying their exertions couldn't be heard, as her heart thundered in her chest and then her mind spun wildly into blank brilliance.

Still locked, Mara grabbed Dare to her and kissed him, heart still hammering, fire still pulsing through her veins. Then hard mouths turned soft to trail over sweaty skin, to suck, to lick, to love, and the world steadied around them.

A different world.

A better, more perfect world.

“Forever and ever. Amen,” she murmured against his chest.

Then later: “You finally showed me a volcanic eruption.”

He laughed, rather helplessly and rolled to lie on his back.

She coiled into him, hooking a leg over a strong thigh, running a hand over his hard abdomen. “That was perfect.”

His hand cherished her hair. “With daylight and sanity, we may regret it.”

“No, we won't. What does it matter? We're to marry in weeks.”

Silence reminded her that he'd intended to wait until he'd won his battle, but then he kissed her hair. “You are truly precious to me, my dearest lady and I won't betray this trust.”

They slid into comfortable talk of their future, then made love again, slowly, gently, but no less volcanically, before Mara had to slip back to her bed to catch a few hours' sleep.

Alone, Dare lay facedown where Mara had lain, inhaling her smell, absorbing her warmth, of spirit as much as flesh. Their lovemaking should not have happened, but he couldn't regret it.

How could he regret heaven? He gathered up his shirt, now marked with a streak of blood. He'd meant to burn it, but he couldn't. He folded it and packed it carefully away.

Then he picked up his glass, shivered, and drank.

T
hey arrived back in London after dark. Everyone was exhausted, but they had made it in one day. Mara was as relieved as her parents to arrive, for she'd not anticipated being separated from Dare nearly the whole way. It had simply been taken for granted that Dare would travel with her father in one chaise, and Mara with her mother in the other. There'd been no rational argument to make so they'd met only for meals.

At those meals her parents had insisted on a half hour to digest their food before “rattling off again,” as her disgruntled father put it. But Dare needed most of that time for opium, and though Mara wished he'd let her be with him then, she knew he'd hate it.

Thirteen hours apart had hurt as much as torn skin, especially after the wonder of the previous night, but when the post chaises entered the walled courtyard of Marlowe House, Mara realized that torment wasn't over.

Simon and Jancy came out to greet them. They'd already moved here, and so, therefore, had she. In any case, with her parents here she'd have to live with them. How could she have been blind to that?

She climbed down close to tears. Dare had left the other chaise with her father and was talking to Simon, but in moments that chaise would take him on to Yeovil House.

He looked unhappy about it, too. But then she realized it must be something else. He looked as if he'd received news of a death. She hurried over. “What is it?”

Simon answered her. “A woman's turned up who claims to be Delphie's mother.”

“No.”

“Unfortunately, yes. She presented herself only hours ago at Yeovil House.”

“I must go there,” Dare said and walked rapidly to the waiting chaise.

Mara pursued, ignoring her family. She dashed in before the steps were raised, and then they were off. “It won't be true,” she said, gripping his hand. “It's probably someone trying to get a reward.”

“What reward?” He was looking forward as if that could force the carriage to make better speed through the London streets.

“You'd pay her to go away, wouldn't you?”

He turned to face her. “How could I do that if she truly is Delphie's mother? I've always known The´re`se would have snatched the children without care for other people's suffering.”

Mara chose silence and prayer. When they arrived, she wanted to race into Yeovil House, but Dare was superficially composed, so she matched him.

When had he last taken opium? He'd need it for this. Probably when they'd stopped for dinner two hours ago. Not too bad a time of day for disaster, if that made any sense.

They were directed to the library by a footman, who looked upset despite his training. There they found the duke and duchess, and a young woman in shabby black sitting on a sofa looking both terrified and belligerent.

Delphie's mother? There was no obvious resemblance, but a white cap beneath a black straw bonnet concealed the woman's hair. She couldn't be Delphie's mother. To lose the girl would destroy Dare.

Dare's parents rose to stand with him as his father said, “This is Madame Clermont. She claims to be Delphie's mother.”

“Annette!” the woman protested. “
Elle s'appelle Annette!”

The Duchess of Yeovil spoke soothingly to her in French. “She has been known as Delphie for some years now, madam. It is how she thinks of herself.”

“But she is my daughter, madam. Mine. My Annette. She was stolen from me after the battle, when there were so many soldiers, so much death and dying.” She began to rock herself, moaning. “I hear of her, and I know it is she. A pretty child with dark curls, yes?”

Mara was devastated by that detail, but then realized the woman could be repeating the description in the advertisement.

Would Delphie recognize her mother? She'd been so young when taken, but surely a well-loved child would.

“Has madam met the child?” she asked in English.

“Not yet,” the duke said.

Mara turned to Dare, aware of the poor woman following their unintelligible conversation with frantic eyes. “You have to bring Delphie down, or take Madame Clermont up.”

“She's in black,” he said. “Delphie will be terrified.” She touched his arm. “Go. We'll see what we can do.”

Dare left and Mara considered the woman. She was probably only in her twenties, but aged by gaunt distress. Understandable if she'd been seeking a missing child for two years, but she would frighten any child.

Mara went to sit by the woman. “Madame Clermont,” she said in French, “the little girl is afraid of women in black. It is to do with the woman who stole her. You don't want to frighten her. Let us replace your outer clothing with something brighter.”

But the woman shrank away. “No, no. You are trying to trick me.”

“No, truly…”

But the woman pushed at her, so Mara gave up.

The duchess left and returned with a huge silk shawl in shades of blue. She put it around the woman's shoulders and it was not rejected. Madame Clermont's whole attention was fixed on the door.

It opened, but only to let in Mara's parents and Simon and Jancy. Mara quickly explained. Then they all waited in silence.

At last, Dare came in, carrying Delphie, who was clutching Mariette. Pierre marched alongside, fiercely on guard. That was another problem. How could the two children be separated?

Madame Clermont stared. She seemed stunned for a moment and Mara hoped, but then she leapt up and rushed to grab Delphie, crying, “Annette, Annette! I knew you were not dead. I knew it!”

Delphie shrieked and clung to Dare and all three ended up in a tangle, with the woman flailing at him. “Give her to me! Give her to me!
Give me my child.
”

Dare thrust Delphie into Madame Clermont's arms and everyone suddenly went silent. Delphie looked at Dare with such shocked betrayal that Mara covered her mouth with her hand. Huge, silent tears swelled in the girl's eyes and began to slide down her cheeks, but she made not a sound.

Madame Clermont began to moan, rocking the child. “Annette, Annette, Annette…”

Pierre stepped forward, lower lip thrust forward. “Her name is Delphine,” he said in French.

Madame Clermont backed away from him. “Who are you?”

“I am Delphie's brother.”

“No, you're not. You are not my child!”

“I am her brother and I must protect her.”

“No. Go away! You are trying to steal her again!” She clutched Delphie even tighter. A squeak escaped the girl, but only a squeak. Mara recognized a child who had learned the hard way to be very, very quiet.

Everyone seemed frozen, not knowing what to do, but then Amy St. Bride went to the woman.

“You must sit down, ma'am,” she said in English, for she'd learned little French, and that long ago. With a gentle hand, she steered the Belgian woman back to the sofa. “All will be well, but there's no point in upsetting the children. We'll all have a nice cup of tea and decide what to do for the best.”

The flow of words and her innate kindness got the Belgian woman back on the sofa, arms still tight around the silent, weeping Delphie. Face set, Pierre marched to stand beside them and took Delphie's hand. She clutched his, and the tears stopped.

The duchess stepped outside and ordered tea.

Mara could laugh at her mother's solution to every woe, but a nice cup of tea could not solve this. If Delphie truly was this woman's lost child, she must be returned to her, even though Dare loved Delphie and Delphie loved Dare.

Had loved. Would the child recover from this betrayal?

Mara went to stand by Dare, taking his hand as Pierre had taken Delphie's. Delphie clearly did not remember this woman, however. Wouldn't a child of five have some memory of a loving mother from two years ago? Or did terrible events wipe out memory?

She broke the silence, speaking in French. “The child doesn't seem to recognize you, Madame Clermont, and you have offered no proof.”

The woman's glare was almost feral in her fear, but she scrabbled with one hand for a pocket and produced a paper. The duke took it and read it. “A birth record for Annette Marie Clermont, dated August twenty-fourth, 1812, in Halle.”

For a moment, it exploded hope, but Simon said, “So she had a child. That doesn't prove that Delphie is that child.”

“How many stolen girls of that age and appearance could there be?” Dare asked.

“What of your family, madam?” the duke demanded of the woman. “Surely you have not come to England alone, not speaking the language? There must be others who know your child.”

She glowered at him. In her arm, Delphie could as well have been a wax doll. “Back in Halle, yes. There, everyone knows my Annette. I read the paper, the advertisement. I travel to England, to London. It is not hard. I ask directions to the office given. A man brings me here.” She rose, Delphie tight in her arms. “Now I will leave.”

“Non.”
It was the tiniest plea from Delphie, but she directed it at Dare.

“No,” he said. “My apologies, madam, but I cannot permit you to leave this house with Delphie until there is proof. You may stay here and be with her, but you may not take her away.”

Madame Clermont looked as if she would argue, but servants entered then with tea, creating a bizarre interlude with the prosaic ritual of setting out pots, china, and plates of small cakes. The servants left and Mara's mother somehow got Madame Clermont back on the sofa. The duchess, looking dazed, poured tea.

Mara took a cup to the Belgian woman, but it was rejected. Perhaps she feared it was poisoned. Mara did feel sorry for her, for she was alone in the company of enemies, but she felt sorrier for the children and Dare.

She sat on the sofa and offered Delphie a cake. The child shook her head, looking at Mara as if saying,
Won't you stop this horrible situation?

Mara couldn't resist the silent plea. “Madam, the child is frightened. She will become sick with it. Please let me hold her for a while. I won't move from this spot, but she will be a little less upset as we all discuss this.”

She hoped the fact that she wasn't Dare might help, and perhaps that she was young and female. The woman searched her eyes, sighed, and passed over the little girl.

Delphie clutched Mara, burrowing her damp face into Mara's neck, trembling all over. “Papa?” she whispered.

“Papa is near,” Mara murmured in English, rocking the child, “but he cannot hold you just now.” She wanted to tell Delphie that all would be well, but she didn't believe in lying to children. “He loves you very much, but this lady seems to love you, too. It is very difficult, but we will do our best to keep you safe.”

Delphie sniffed and whispered, “Mariette?”

Mara hadn't noticed the doll's absence. She saw it on the floor by Madame Clermont's soiled dark skirts. “Pierre, could you give Mariette to Delphie, please?”

The boy picked up the stick doll, straightened the rag skirts, and put it in Delphie's hands. She clutched the doll close. “It's all right, Mariette,” she whispered in French so softly Mara could hardly hear. “Papa is here.”

Mara fought tears herself.

The duke and Dare had been talking together, and now the duke said, “Madam, we must send to Halle for witnesses. Whom should we send for? Your husband? A priest?”

“My husband is dead. But send for whom you will. Anyone will tell you this is my daughter. My Annette.”

“Your parents?” the duke asked stonily. “They, too, are dead?”

“No.”

“Their names and direction?”

“Lameule. They have a farm outside Halle. They will tell you. The priest will tell you. Everyone will tell you that this is my Annette.”

Mara saw Dare whiten. The woman's firmness was terrifying. But even if she was Delphie's true mother, would it be right to force the devastated child to go with her?

“I will arrange for messages to Halle,” the duke said. “My dear,” he said to his wife, “perhaps a room could be prepared for the lady. She will probably prefer to be close to the child in the nursery area. Dare.”

Dare left with his father. Delphie twitched, but then settled back, a limp weight in Mara's arms. Mara would like to think the child felt safe, but was sure Delphie was limp with misery. She stroked the girl's hair, desperately seeking a solution.

Soon they made their way upstairs, led by the duchess, with Mara still carrying Delphie, but Madame Clermont almost glued to her side. Dare came behind with Pierre.

A bed had been made up in the nursery, next door to the children's bedroom.

“Madam,” Dare said, “please be comfortable here. Ask for anything you need, and spend time with Delphie as you wish during the day. Do not disturb her in the night. You may not take her away. You may not be alone with her. I'm sorry, but you could be a madwoman intending her harm.”