What Isabella Desires (16 page)

She twitched and stretched, her eyes blinking sleepily, a crooked smile curling her lips. “Good morning,” she whispered.

He leaned down and kissed her on her sun-drenched cheek. She was still sleepy and warm. Comforting.

“I need to visit some of the tenants. Would you care to join me this morning?”

She cast a rueful glance at her well-indented pillow, then looked back to him. “I’d love to join you.”

Marcus was confident they had not been followed to Deal yet. There hadn’t been time enough for the Crosby gang, or anyone else, to have discovered their whereabouts and organized a strike. But he fully expected someone intending harm to show up tomorrow or the next day.

He and his men would be ready.

He signaled to a few of them as he and Isabella made their way to the stables after breakfast. Better to be safe, especially with Isabella venturing beyond the confines of the estate.

He assisted her into the saddle, letting his hands linger on her waist and enjoying the faint blush that spread across her cheeks. That she could still blush amused him.

“Feeling feisty today, are we, Lord Roth?”

His mouth curved and he felt some of the weight he had been carrying for so long—too long—lighten. Mounting his own horse and keeping the reins firm, he leaned in close, his lips brushing her ear. “I can’t seem to control my hands around you, Bella.”

She returned the gesture, though her mare snorted in protest as the reins sagged. Her lips touched the skin behind his ear, causing all of the hairs in the vicinity to stand at attention. “Whoever said I wanted you in control of yourself, Marcus? Not I, I assure you,” she whispered.

She pulled back, her skin a beautiful rose, her eyes sparkling in challenge. She nudged her horse and trotted toward the wooded path, a princess entering her fairy kingdom.

Yes, Isabella Willoughby was a changeling, no doubt about it. And he could pretend for now that he was charging forth to make her his.

They rode along the seafront. The waves beckoned, whipped from breakers to froth along the sand. Hints of a distant storm played on the breeze. He could see his men amongst the trees. Watching, waiting. The shadows grew shorter as the sun rose to its zenith. He looked to Isabella, but she seemed to be only interested in the ride, the wind whipping her clothes and pulling strands of hair from her coiffure.

They reentered the woods and stopped at a stream that wound through the property. Now that Isabella wasn’t giving her horse its head, she was having more difficulty.

“Shhh, just over here.”

“Bella, you are being too gentle. Make her go where you want her to go.”

She shot him a disgruntled glance. He listened in amusement as she tried to reason with the horse. Isabella was an adequate rider, but she was too gentle.

When her horse turned to head back to the stables, Marcus whistled sharply and the horse’s ears went back.

“Isabella, just make her go where you want her to go. Be firm. Even aggressive.”

She gave him a pointed stare. “Good advice for dealing with domineering men, as well.”

His lips curved involuntarily. “I can’t say I disagree.”

Her cheeks turned rosy and she switched her gaze back to her horse’s mane. “I don’t want to hurt her. This is why I don’t ride.”

“You aren’t going to hurt her. Be firm.”

She tugged on the reins. Marcus could have sworn the horse gave a resigned snort before tromping over to join her mate.

Marcus hid a smile at Isabella’s glare and led her to a medium-sized cottage in the south glen. Constance and Timothy Slattery were his favorite tenants.

The door to the little house opened as he lifted Isabella down.

“My lord!” A stout woman tumbled out of the house.

“Mrs. Slattery.” He accepted her squeeze. “Good to see you.”

“It’s good to be seen, your lordship!”

Timothy strode out, as tall and thin as his wife was short and round.

“Isabella, this is Mr. and Mrs. Slattery. Meet Lady Willoughby.”

“Ah, call us Constance and Timothy, milady. Come inside, come inside. The wind has picked up something fierce.” Constance shuffled Isabella into the cottage. Timothy watched the two women disappear and turned to look at Marcus.

“Good to see company, your lordship.”

Marcus raised a brow, feigning ignorance. “Have you missed my company so much?”

Timothy shook his head. “Not yer company I was referencing.”

Marcus hadn’t brought anyone to the estate in years. And he had never brought a woman. The servants at the manor could barely keep quiet about it, even within his hearing.

“I’ll have to send the steward over more often.”

“Fine, keep yer lips buttoned.” Timothy cast a shrewd glance his way. “Connie has sweet buns.”

“I know. I’ve been telling you that for years.”

Timothy muttered about the notions of youth, but Marcus could see the smile lurking around the corners of his mouth. He released a little more of the stiffness that had settled almost permanently on his shoulders.

The inside of the cottage was unchanged from the last time he had visited. A cheery fire flared, a pot simmered above it. Large rugs and colorful, homemade tapestries covered the floors and walls. Marcus was directed into a chair at the head of the deeply gouged, but highly polished, oak table and watched avidly as Constance plunked a pile of sweet, sticky buns on the tabletop.

He reached for one and felt the slap of a wooden spoon against his knuckles.

“Yer lordship or not, the lady be getting one first.”

Isabella’s face switched from shock at seeing the sharp rap of wood to noble knuckles, into amusement. “Thank you, Constance.”

She separated a bun, holding it delicately between her fingers before taking a small bite. Marcus forgot about the buns the moment Isabella took her first bite; her expression changing from amusement to bliss. He wanted to taste something indeed. Every last bite.

She gave a low moan. “Oh, these are wonderful, Constance. How do you make them?”

“’Tis a family secret. But I’ll tell you this bit.” Constance launched into the merits of baking ingredients, and Marcus plucked a bun and watched the different expressions flutter across Isabella’s face as she conversed with his tenant.

“Yes, good to have company,” Timothy murmured, as he relaxed into his chair, a secret smile on his face.

Marcus took a bite and nearly moaned himself as the honey dripped down his throat. “How has everything been? I’ve received positive reports, but you know I’d rather hear the news from you.”

“The couple on the border has been having some trouble. Wife had triplets in March. ‘Twas a miracle all survived. Three babes.” He shook his head. “We’ve all been pitching in. Might want to take a look. They inherited from Bill Hanney who passed last year. ‘Tis his nephew.”

Marcus nodded. “I spoke with him briefly after Bill Hanney passed and approved the turnover. I’ll make sure to visit and send Sarah with some extra baskets.”

Timothy nodded. “Bit of a trouble spot with poachers, but think we’ve taken care of them. I’ve noticed there’s been an increase of men patrolling the grounds since you’ve been here.”

“Yes. There will be for the next week or so. Be cautious,” he said softly, not wanting Isabella to hear. Timothy seemed to understand as he just nodded.

“Rents are acceptable. Everyone is managing well. Even saving a bit.”

“Good,” Marcus said.

Timothy looked up as Constance and Isabella finished their conversation.

“Connie’s still after me something fierce,” Timothy said, raising his voice. “Anything you can do about that, your lordship?”

“And brave her wrath? I think not.”

“I always said ye was a smart man, your lordship,” Constance said.

A mischievous light entered Isabella’s eyes, but a knock at the door saved him from her rebuttal.

“Enter,” Constance called.

A woman poked her head in the door, her eyes going wide as she saw Marcus. “Your lordship!”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Derning.”

“Good afternoon, my lord! It’s wonderful to see you. Will you be coming round today?”

“If it is a good time for you.”

“Of course, of course. Always a good time for you to visit. I’ll let Nathaniel know.” She glanced down at her sack. He could see her mentally tallying her supplies. She’d probably hustle home to make one of her famous stews. One thing he loved about visiting his tenants was enjoying the regional delicacies with which he was stuffed. Even his French chef in London, renowned and always in danger of being whisked away from him, couldn’t compete with the salt-of-the-earth English fare, the generations’ old family recipes, and the care with which every dish was made.

Good will and delicious food. That the other landowners didn’t take advantage of building lasting relationships with their tenants was to their own stupidity.

Marcus introduced Lizzie Derning to Isabella.

“What can I do for you, Lizzie dear?” Constance asked.

“Pamela’s out of the tisane, and so is Sally. Mistress Mally won’t be back through until next week. She went up north to help the Busby’s. Do you have any more?”

“Of the Handler herbs? No dear, I’m afraid the fennel is all gone.”

Isabella perked up. “Are you trying to make The Helping Handler?”

Lizzie Derning gave her a surprised glance. “Yes, my lady.”

“Do you have nasturtium?”

Constance looked mystified. “Yes.”

“You can substitute the nasturtium for the fennel.”

Lizzie’s mouth dropped. “Are you sure?”

Isabella smiled. “Yes. As long as the person you are brewing it for has suffered no previous malefic effects from nasturtium.”

Lizzie shook her head as Constance left to fetch the herb. “Mr. Derning will be too pleased to be rid of his pain. A husband is no delight when ill, I’ll tell you!”

Isabella laughed, but Marcus could feel the discomfort beneath the timbre. A whisper of cool air slid down his spine.

The women chattered about cures and brewed the tisane, while Marcus devoured the sweet buns and Timothy whittled. It was a pleasant, homey scene. It reminded him of when he used to escape from the estate—from his father’s sick-bed, from his mother’s permanently engraved face, from the impenetrable air of despair. He would run here and be fed sticky buns until he was overflowing. Isabella fit right in—but then, she always fit in.

Isabella wasn’t the problem.

“Just like the old days, eh?”

Marcus turned to Timothy and saw Isabella’s smile as she stirred a pot. Saw in his mind’s eye that smile turning to worry and despair.

“No, hopefully never like the old days,” he said softly.

They spent another half hour with the Slatterys before continuing their rounds of the estate. Cheerful faces greeted them everywhere. And if they were a bit too watchful, too evaluative, too hopeful, Isabella made no mention.

Every time the topic of his parents was broached, he deftly steered the conversation away.

Their final stop was the Hanneys. Marcus had never met Mrs. Hanney, but found her to be pleasant. Mr. Hanney had made a good impression when Marcus had met him the previous year. Isabella immediately fussed over the three babies and helped Mrs. Hanney calm them down. He wasn’t sure if the look of complete adoration on the part of Mrs. Hanney was as a result of Isabella’s help or the way that Isabella made people comfortable.

If only he—

No.

He looked at Isabella, sitting in a sturdy, utilitarian chair with a babe on her lap and one in a basket at her side. The third child was in Mrs. Hanney’s arms, but Marcus barely spared them a glance. No, Isabella was the only person his eyes would focus upon. He could see the wistful look on her face as she brushed the fine strands of hair on the baby’s head. As she stroked the cheek of the tiny body in the basket. As she tucked the blankets more securely around both.

His normal, rational, cold thinking was under siege. Battered by emotions he didn’t want. Crushed by the blossoming of things he wanted so badly he could taste. Emotions that would never leave, but relationships that could only slip from his grasp.

No, not slip. He would fling them from his grasp. He couldn’t afford not to.

Marcus tried to focus on what Mr. Hanney was saying, but the words blended together into a cacophonic dissonance. As if someone had brutalized a piece of his beloved Mozart.

He pushed away the impending headache. He wouldn’t ruin this now. There was still time. There had to be.

The gardener at Grand Manor had been averse at first—suggesting that she would do better to make suggestions and have his workers do the manual labor. He didn’t want some outsider mucking about in his gardens. It had taken a considerable amount of flattery and a lengthy discussion regarding the virtues of one plant and flower species versus another to convince him of her passion and knowledge of horticulture.

In the end she had triumphed completely, and he had given her the freedom to take what she wanted from the greenhouse.

He’d seemed entirely pleased with the results the last time he had walked past. Everyone was happy.

Actually, it wasn’t just the head gardener who ventured by. She frequently saw two of his assistants, several brawny servants she had seen around Marcus in London, and even Stubbins on occasion. If she didn’t know better, she’d think they were concerned about her stealing some hidden treasure in the flower beds.

She hadn’t been alone in the gardens for more than a minute or two all afternoon.

One of the brawnier men walked by, looking around in all directions.

“Good afternoon…Mr. Freem, was it?”

He stopped, focused on her and gave a bow.

“You seem to enjoy the gardens so well, I was wondering where you thought I should put this last sainfoin?”

The man’s eyes widened. “I wouldn’t know, my lady.”

“But you have been out here so often.”

“I often take walks in the gardens.” He shrugged helplessly. It was an amusing gesture on so large a man.

“Are you just taking the air, then?”

She watched as he rubbed the back of his head and a bead of sweat trickled down his brow. “Yes, I needed some air.”

Sure he did.

“But surely you have an opinion. Where should I place this one? Over here?” She pointed. “Or there?”

“Er, over there looks right.”

She pretended to think a moment before nodding. “Very good. Good afternoon to you, Mr. Freem.”

The man took off without a second spared.

She shook her head and continued digging the spot “over there” that she had already started.

“Frightening the help, Bella?”

She froze, a pleasant feeling overtaking her. The slight pains from bending and crouching forgotten.

“You mean the men sent to watch me?”

“Men sent to watch you?”

She turned to see him drop gracefully onto a garden bench, his long legs spread in front.

“I’m not stupid, Marcus. I haven’t questioned you about what happened the other night, because I wanted to come with you. Because I trust you and was willing to remain ignorant and silent until you were ready to trust me.”

He raised a brow. “It is no wonder you won that trophy back. That last sentence was beautifully framed to play on my guilt.”

“Thank you.” She put her trowel down and waited.

He didn’t fidget. Sometimes she wished he would. It just wasn’t normal that he held himself in so controlled a manner all the time—allowing only a limited range of facial expressions and ten different meanings behind the height of his raised brow.

“I like watching you garden,” he said.

“I like watching you shift the conversation.”

“You have a lovely assortment there.”

“You have a lovely mouth.”

His eyes sparked and there was a subtle shift in his body position.

She wondered if her boldness was the result of the new confidence blooming within her. She had never consciously thought herself unworthy, but perhaps it had been simmering below the surface. A consequence of an unrequited love.

Not that Marcus had declared his love. Or even completed the act she found holy. But his actions had declared her desirable. And she found the feeling irresistible.

“I like the pink ones best,” he said. “The dusky pink tips, the swollen red lips. They remind me of something.”

She wet her lips and clasped her work gloves. “They remind me that you are too good at getting what you want. In this case, a topic change.”

He leaned back, again a subtle shift, and perused the edges of the garden before focusing back on her.

“What do you want to know, Bella?”

“Why do your men keep walking by? Why are you studying everything in the vicinity the same way they do?”

“You don’t believe we are all interested in taking a pleasant walk through the fragrant gardens? Near a beautiful woman?”

She was under no illusions as to her own looks, but that did not diminish the pleasure at being called beautiful.

“No. I don’t believe it.”

He leaned forward. “And what do I need to do to convince you of your beauty?”

“Marcus, that is not what I meant.” She picked up the trowel and shook it at him. “Why is everyone so alert and anxious?”

He watched her. She imagined him tracing the iron scrolls beneath his hand, but as usual he didn’t move, just watched.

“There have been threats made against me.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“And against you.”

Her jaw snapped shut. “Me? Threats? What type of threats?”

“Unpleasant ones.”

“Why?”

“You have often been seen in my company. I’ve been paying you too much attention. We were probably seen kissing at my house that night.”

That jolted her for a second. Having looked through the window before falling on the body bag, she’d thought about how visible they had been. But she’d been concerned about tittering gossip, not about—

“So you have some jealous woman clamoring after you? Marcus, how many affairs have you been having?”

His eyes sparked. “I haven’t been having any ‘affairs.’ You are my first.”

Oh. “Then all those other women…”

One brow raised.

“…you weren’t carrying on relationships with them?”

She had hoped not. Had vainly thought no women had held his attention.

“No.”

Her relieved mind circled back. “Then who is threatening you?”

“Someone politically.”

“Threatening with what? Political suicide?”

“Something a bit more dire than that.”

Her mind stopped working. “Someone is threatening to kill you?”

“Yes.”

She blinked. He was dead calm. The first part of the conversation came back to her.

“And me?”

“Yes.”

One part of her mind couldn’t quite grasp what he was saying. She stood up. “And you knew about this before and are just now telling me?”

“You are perfectly safe here. I would never allow you to be harmed.”

She sputtered. She didn’t know what to say even as warmth flooded her at his last words. “Why—Why would you say nothing to me about this in London? At my house?” She thought of her five unexpected guests. “Obviously I’m the last to know.”

She gripped the trowel more tightly. “Did you bring me here out of pity for involving me?”

His eyes narrowed. “No.”

“But you were never going to tell me, if you could help it. Isn’t that true?”

He said nothing for a few seconds. “Yes.”

She angrily stepped back and her foot landed on one of her plants. She looked down at the mangled stalk and knelt to straighten it and pat it back into place as best she could.

Fuming, she stabbed a stick into the soil, ripped a swatch of cloth and tied it around the plant and stake to keep it upright. The actions gave her a few extra moments of needed perspective.

“I want to know why this person is after you, and now me. And don’t banter with ‘it’s political.’ I could do with the tiniest morsel of information if you don’t want me hopping into the first carriage to Deal.”

His body went rigid. “You can’t go into Deal.”

“Well, obviously, as there are people out there that you say want to kill me. Kill me!” She repeated a bit hysterically. “But so help me, I will take half your servants and rent out an entire inn in Deal on your credit until I can get back to London if you don’t give me something more to go on.”

He was breathing hard. She could see his chest lifting.

“I’ve made enemies over the years.”

“Yes, well, you aren’t the nicest person at times and you champion unpopular causes. I’m sure there are all types of people who don’t like you and vice versa. That doesn’t mean they want to kill you,” she said pointedly.

“I’ve made some bitter enemies. Men I’ve ruined.”

Her eyes scrunched. “Ruined in what way? Cutting them? Saying rude things?”

“Making sure they can never reenter society again.”

Isabella felt the breath leave her, a cold feeling in its place. “Lord Yarnley didn’t just ‘move’ to the Continent then. The rumors were true?”

“Yes.”

“And Blakely? He is hanging onto the very fringe. Your doing as well?”

His mouth tightened. “Yes.”

“How many more?”

He swallowed. That he was nervous calmed her somewhat. “A few.”

“Why?” she whispered.

“Different reasons. Yarnley was up to his neck in illegal trafficking. Blakely has ruined three estates, two peers, and he can’t stop gambling, though he has kept that under wraps. He is after the Banners for their money. Not unusual, but it sickens my stomach to see the Banner chit look at him as if he created the stars.”

“He loves her. I can see it.”

“He doesn’t love her. He is using her.”

She swallowed. She wondered if he was the only one. “And the others? What about Ainsworth?”

“Ainsworth is an idiot. I’ve done little to him above pointing out what everyone else knows. The others…” He moved his hand over the iron. “Some were engaged in illegal activities—much easier to run them off than to have them arrested and the Houses defaced. Not all of them have been political. We deal with an…interesting element from the underbelly of society.”

“So you are saying that instead of having a crazy person from society after us, we may have a crazy person from the underworld after us?”

“More than possible. Though there is likely a connection to the ton.”

“I see,” she whispered, looking at the spade in her hand. She couldn’t believe this. It all seemed so unreal. Someone wanted to kill him. Someone wanted to kill her. “Who was the body in the bag the other night, Roth? Not some poor soul that had been left for a nameless surgeon, I’ll bet.”

He flinched a bit at her use of his title.

“No.”

“You lied to me.” She felt strangely calm about it.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want you to worry. It was none of your concern.”

She nodded. “None of my concern. I see. Perhaps not, but I do trust you not to lie to me. You could have told me it was none of my concern at the time.”

“You would have been hurt.”

“And you think I’m not hurt now?” she said viciously.

He started to say something, but she held up her hand.

“Perhaps at supper—I’m feeling distinctly ungenerous at the moment. I’m going inside. You need not worry about me venturing out again. I’ll stay inside as long as you do. As much as I’m displeased with you at the moment, I don’t want to see anyone hurt.”

She turned and walked inside without waiting for an answer.

Supper was a taut affair. Isabella had determined in the intervening hours between their confrontation and the meal that she wasn’t ready to cede complete control to Marcus just because she loved him. She wasn’t going to let him lead her around blindly, as he had in order to get her away from London in the first place, by dangling her affection and desperation in front of her.

She picked at her fish. Desperation. Just thinking the word made her lose her appetite.

Looking up to see Marcus watching her, she had a feeling her desperation wasn’t completely conquered.

“What should we talk about, my lord?”

His fork clinked against the dish. “How about you stop calling me my lord?”

“Lord Roth?”

“Isabella…”

“Roth?”

“You are being petty.”

She bristled, upset at herself as well as at him for having the nerve to point it out. “Pardon my descent into the infantine.”

He said nothing.

“I take umbrage to being the only petty one in this conversation,” she ground out.

“Do you want me to apologize?”

She pointedly poked at her asparagus.

“I apologize for not telling you about this in London.”

She sighed. He sounded contrite, or as contrite as Marcus could sound. She didn’t know what she wanted. His undying declaration?