Her Dark Baron Page 6

  The meal passed without incident, but the mood was reserved and conversation clipped and halting. Mariel was relieved when, at last, the couple departed Ayleshind.

  Settling before the hearth, where a low fire burned, Mariel sighed into the quiet. Gervase remained stiff and watchful for some time, and she felt his eyes observing from his chair opposite hers.

  Her sigh prompted him to ask, “Do you mourn the loss of Elizabeth's company already?”

  She regarded him, blinking in horror at the thought before laughter broke her reserve.

  “My lord, you will surely find my preferences most inappropriate,” she choked out between bouts of laughter, “and not at all suitable for my position as Mistress of Ayleshind, but I rather dread the idea of her returning.”

  She sobered at her unkind outburst, ready to make an apology for her rudeness until she saw the humor in her husband's eyes.

  “You continue to surprise me, sweetling.”

  She blushed prettily.

  “As you surprise me,” she returned softly.

  He rose abruptly, ending the pleasant and illuminating exchange.

  “I have business I must attend to,” he informed her, the coolness back in his manner. “Do not wait up for me.”

  And he was gone.

  * * *

  Thunder pealed in the black, menacing sky, a foreshadow of the blinding flashes of lightning that would follow. Thankful for the steady glow of the oil lamp, Mariel rose and placed a log on the waning fire to dispel the dampness that crept into her chamber, a result of the day long rains. She could call for Edith she knew, but would not.

  She was no longer a child needing coddling at the fearsome storms; she was a woman longing for the security of her husband's strong arms wrapped around her in an embrace that would silence her heart's wild pounding against her chest. She had feared storms for as long back as she could remember.

  But the Baron of Ayleshind was not there to comfort her. Wrestling with her cowardice as the storm raged, Mariel slipped from the bed, praying she would discover Gervase in his chamber. He had slept beside her last night, but that had been the first time. She had no idea of his habits when he returned from his business.

  Perhaps he slept alone after visiting his mistress...

  She pushed the unwanted thought away and stole into the dark room, but found his bed empty. The clash of thunder and lightening erupted with renewed vengeance, and Mariel would have burrowed beneath the bed-cover in terror had not the door opened, revealing her husband's return. She flew from the bed to his form, clutching him with her trembling arms.

  “My lord, you are returned...you are returned.”

  She clung to his solidness, and gripped in her fear, remained oblivious to his attempts at keeping her from coming against him. It was no use, for her terror of the storm, and his surprise at her presence combined to grant her the comfort she sought.

  “You should not be here,” he groaned in bitter regret, even as he capitulated and held her close.

  The cold, wet body that held her brought her to her senses.

  “Forgive me, my lord! I should not have come, but I was frightened...the storm,” she pointed to the window.

  His stiffness silenced her.

  “Are you ill, my lord? Let me get you dry clothing.”

  Hurrying, she lit the lamp and turned back to him.

  “Sweetling...,” he whispered remorsefully as his hands stilled her.

  He stood, mute before her, a defeated and weary look on his handsome face. And when she followed his eyes track, Mariel gasped in horror.

  “Oh, my God! You've been hurt!” she gasped.

  Frantically, her hands ripped at the red stained garments that covered him, desperate to find and staunch the source of blood.

  “Mariel, stop,” he said quietly. “Calm yourself. I am unharmed.”

  But she did not stop as she discovered one, then another deep gash upon his torso.

  “Let me call for St. John or Swanson,” she pleaded.

  “No. I will see to these myself.”

  “My lord, there is too much blood! There must be a serious wound!”

  “There is not, sweetling.”

  His hands halted her searching. As if he willed it, a terrible knowing dawned in Mariel's soul. It was not his blood that covered him. She sank to the floor in shock as Gervase stripped the stained clothing from himself and began washing with the basin water on the side table, then watched him carry the garments to her chamber, knowing that he would destroy them in the fire. It passed before her eyes like a dream, except with her silence, she was casting her lot with him in willingness.

  Rising from the floor, she went to him and timidly placed her hand upon his arm, thinking only of the selfish relief she felt at finding him unharmed seriously. Gervase slid the bloodied chemise from her body, casting it into the blaze and wrapped her in the soft woolen blanket from the nearby bed. Neither spoke as the flames consumed before their eyes and the storm raged outside until he swept her into his arms and laid her in the bed. The warmth of his hand upon her face, stroking her cheek softly was gone in a flash as he retreated from her, and the sorrow in his gaze intimated words he could not speak.

  “My lord,” she whispered, reaching for him, “I do not wish you to go. Stay with me.”

  His dark eyes remained fixed upon her a long moment before he returned to her, easing into the bed beside her and pulling her near.

  She was mad, she knew, for madness could be the only explanation for her behavior. He was rumored to be the devil's own. Hadn't she seen the evidence of his guilt? He had probably killed a man this very night, yet she wanted – no needed – him near.

  But hadn't she also glimpsed a man capable of tenderness and kindness in their private moments? Yes, he was dangerous, of this she was certain, yet she could conjure no fear in his embrace. To the world he may be the Hound of Hell, but to Mariel, he had been a savior – an answer to her prayers for help, and he was now her husband. She had taken a vow to forsake all others. God help her; right or wrong, she loved him.

  Burrowing closer to his side, Mariel slid her arm across his chest as she fitted her cheek against his shoulder, savoring the comfort of his skin next to hers. His hand came protectively to cradle her head, stroking her hair softly in the unbroken quiet between them.

  Chapter 6

  Dawn's soft glow broke into the chamber where Gervase Daltrey watched his wife's sleeping form. Thick black lashes fanned her high cheeks, and her lips, soft and pouty, held his attention for indefinite moments. The absurdity of his fascination with her sent a warning through his gut.

  You are a fool to believe this will last. She was in shock last night. In the light of day, she will cringe from your presence.

  He did not want to consider that possibility. Arising, Gervase left her, uncertain he wanted to be there when she first recalled last night's events. He dressed, breaking his fast in the great hall before inspecting his tenants' progress, busy in preparation for the spring planting. Finding things in order, he rode over to the Hayes tenants, inquiring on their situation.

  They were encountering a problem with missing stock – a ewe here, a lamb there – and at once Gervase suspected Flanders.

  “Have you set up round the clock watches?” Gervase questioned the man elected to speak for the tenants.

  “No, my lord. But I will see to it myself. The losses have been slight and spread out. We've just begun to suspect thievery instead of normal, inevitable losses.”

  “Very well. Send a rider with a report of any new losses at once to Ayleshind. If necessary, I will dispatch a few men.”

  “Many thanks, Baron Daltrey.”

  “You are under the protection of Ayleshind now. No thanks are warranted. I'll not abide losses to my property. Now carry on, men. I shall return to inspect the fields within the week.”

  Gervase pushed Daegon hard on the return ride, his thoughts centering on the raven-haired beauty he left in his bed – t
he woman who now held his secret. He was anxious to be within his gates to gauge her reaction to his presence. If he found acceptance, he would make passionate love to her in the middle of the day, and he cared not if the servants heard every detail. However, if he met with disdain, he would take her punishingly – and she would cry out in pleasure against her will if necessary. That he would make certain.

  His body demanded hers, and by the time he stabled his mount, his length hung heavy with need, aching for her touch. The horses being led toward him, he recognized at once, were not his, and he cursed the men whose appearance delayed his taking.

  “What guests enter Ayleshind?” Gervase demanded of the stable lad.

  “I do not know who they are, my lord. But there are two men, sir, and by the condition of their horses, they have ridden hard this day.”

  “Very good. You’ve a hawk's eye, boy. I have need of such talent on occasion. Would you like extra work? It will earn you some coin.”

  “Yes, sir, my lord!” the boy answered, standing straight and proud.

  Robert met Gervase upon his entry to the manor.

  “Master Gervase,” he reported, “your visitors have been placed in the meeting chamber. Will you require anything further, my lord?”

  “That will be all, Robert,” he dismissed the steward and disappeared into the side room.

  “To what do I owe this intrusion?”

  His hard eyes and mocking tone had both men restless on their feet.

  “Baron Daltrey,” the shorter, stockier man began, “allow me to introduce myself. I am Sir Thomas Bedders, and my companion is Sir Charles Maynard. An unfortunate incident brings us. The body of George Rowland was discovered on the moors this morn.”

  Gervase's insides recoiled at the revelation, but his expression conveyed the same disinterest as before the news had been announced.

  “Shall I feign concern?”

  He curled his lips in savage defiance, knowing they came as accusers. Simultaneously, his mind worked to piece together the puzzle laid before him.

  “Baron Flanders has informed us that you and Rowland had a run in a few days hence.”

  Gervase laughed contemptuously.

  “Rowland was caught pilfering stock on Ayleshind land, gentlemen. I believe that is quite different than a run in, as you say. I assume you've come to inquire whether I cursed the bastard. Ask away, by all means.”

  He rounded the desk and sat upon its edge in casual indifference. The stocky man was more than rattled, Gervase saw, but the taller, lean fellow trained his hawkish gaze directly and took up the matter in a severe tone.

  “What we require, Baron Daltrey, is the knowledge of your whereabouts last night. We consider a man's murder a most serious matter.”

  “A man's murder?” Mariel repeated shakily as she stepped into the room.

  “I am sorry to have to send you off disappointed, but my whereabouts will remain unaccounted for,” Gervase stated flatly.

  He cursed George Rowland and his murderer, for Mariel would certainly believe this to be his deed. Not that he wouldn't have enjoyed ridding the world of such a man, but he had been otherwise occupied to the north last night.

  “I am afraid that will not do, Baron Daltrey. We must have an answer.”

  Mariel gained his side. Gervase regarded her as she hesitated, cheeks aflame, eyes lowered.

  She is ashamed of you.

  His mind screamed to him, certain that she readied to expose him. His body tensed, waiting for the accusation to spill from her lips.

  “The Baron was at home all evening, good sirs,” Mariel spoke boldly.

  The thin-faced man, however, was not completely satisfied at her answer.

  “Dear Lady,” he condescended, “how do you know that the Baron did not go out after you retired and were sound asleep?”

  Gervase, stunned at his wife's lie, felt the trembling of her body as she leaned against his side, and he stood, securing her about the waist.

  “My wife need not make further...,”

  “I know, sirs,” she continued, ignoring his words, “because we retired together, and we did not sleep.”

  Her voice rang out strong and steady even as he felt her shaking beneath his hand. Gervase nearly fell over, but collected himself at once. Tender protectiveness of her flooded him. She was boldly deceiving strangers to believe that they had spent the night in lovemaking, leaving her modesty in tatters.

  To protect him.

  Maintaining his harsh countenance, he turned on the men, who now stood in awkward embarrassment.

  “I had hoped to spare my wife's...,” he cast a dark, foreboding look at Mariel as he uttered the final word, “...modesty.”

  He refocused his attention on the pair.

  “Are you quite satisfied? Or shall I give a detailed account to the proper authorities of my whereabouts? I will make certain they are well informed of your lewd questioning of the Mistress of Ayleshind.”

  “That will not be necessary, Baron Daltrey, I assure you,” the man stammered. “We did not think – er – what I mean to say is that...We meant no offense to the Lady.”

  “I believe you can find your way out,” Gervase gestured toward the door.

  The pair quickly did so, leaving Mariel alone with him. Turning her roughly in his arms, Gervase searched the blue depths of her eyes.

  “Why? Why did you do it?” he demanded of her.

  His mind railed, anger coursing through his veins – anger that she had sought him the night before – anger that he had been careless enough to be discovered – anger that he had put her in this position – and anger at knowing it had not been the noose he feared a few moments ago. It had been the thought of losing Mariel that had shaken him. Her eyes now revealed what he most desired. And most feared.

  “Because I love you,” she whispered, confessing her heart, “And I care not if you are guilty or innocent.”

  Tears trailed down her cheeks as her imploring gaze begged an answer for his fearsome reaction. Gervase could not bear the sight of her crying.

  And I love you, Mariel.

  But the words remained in his heart.

  He clasped her against his chest.

  “Things are not as I expected them to be, sweetling. What have you done to me?”

  No answer could be made, for he slanted his mouth over hers, claiming her lips in savage need. Mariel melted against him, parting her lips for his plundering kiss, clinging to him in surrender. He had hungered for her all morning, but everything was now changed.

  She loved him.

  Gervase had never been as other men, falling for the charms of foolish girls or succumbing to the manipulation of cunning beauties. It had taken his sweet and innocent wife's blatant deception for his ultimate and final surrender to be accomplished, for in her lie, she had won his trust. He needed her – needed her to need him. Breaking their kiss, he took her tiny hand in his.

  “Come, sweetling. I want to make love to my wife.”

  Mariel's ragged breathing caused the creamy swell of her breasts to rise and fall, tempting, luring, inviting his thought of the tender love play that awaited, and his cock jerked against its confines. Behind her as they ascended the stairs, Gervase guided her movements with his firm grip on her hips, forcing a slow pace to inflame her anticipation, stoking Mariel's growing desire by whispering into her ear vivid descriptions of the ways in which he intended to pleasure her, and how he wanted her to pleasure him. By the time he barred the solarium door, Mariel's body dripped with wanton abandon.

  His hands unlaced her gown, spilling her breasts from their restraints in erotic splendor, and he brushed his palms over the tightened peaks before withdrawing his touch.

  “Undress for me, Mariel.”

  She turned to face him and slowly eased the gown from her body. Her eyes conveyed her arousal, entrancing him as he lingered on every inch of newly bared flesh. When she stood naked before him, he said nothing for the moments his gaze raked over her until sh
e at last moved and began undressing him, grazing his skin with her lips and igniting the fire in his loins to an infernal blaze.

  “Take me into your mouth,” he encouraged with a ragged groan.

  Freeing his thickness, she sank to her knees before him and swirled her tongue over the velvety tip before drawing the sensitive head between her lips, suckling him slowly.

  “God, yes,” he groaned, fighting the urge to plunge deeper within her warm mouth.

  She drew on him hungrily until he ripped her away barely in time to prevent his release, raising her and latching to her breast. Backing her to the waiting bed, Gervase turned her away from him and began a slow, sensual descent with his lips down her back as he caressed her full breasts tenderly. Lower he moved, stroking her honeyed folds before touching her sensitive jewel and retreating. She whimpered at the loss.

  “Bend over, sweetling,” he commanded with silken authority, easing her into compliance over the bed with his hand as he sank to his knees on the floor behind her.

  Sliding his tongue over her, his fingers stroked and probed before his each assault. Her gasps spurred him to suck at her flesh in consuming hunger, driving her toward ecstasy. She writhed against his hand and mouth, pleading for the caress that would gift her that which she sought, but he delayed her completion in practiced pauses, riding the edge he was not ready to have her cross.

  Rising, he spread her knees on the bed and replaced his hand with the tip of his cock, pushing against her entrance with measured restraint, giving her only a teasing foretaste of the filling they both craved.

  “Mariel,” he groaned hoarsely, “Are you certain you can accept me? Even now?”

  He stilled, awaiting her reply.

  “I am...Gervase.”

  The power of hearing her speak his name for the first time unleashed his passion beyond his ability to rein it in, and he began the rhythmic thrusting of unbridled desire, his hands gripping her hips as his mouth roved her back in sensual kisses and nips. She arched into his inward thrusts, crying out as her body succumbed to climax around his length, collapsing against the feather bed. He rolled her, entering her again, moving with languor as he fought his own impending release.