Mary and the Marquis. Janice Preston

children around him: he would not wish on any child the misery and the fear he had endured in his childhood. His attack on Henson had fuelled his fear that he was, as he had so often been told, just like his father, who had been unpredictable, with rage and violence constantly simmering just beneath the surface.

      No, he must resist Mary. He had kissed her at a time when he was not himself, when he was weakened. Although...he recalled her assertion his kiss had been ‘pleasant’. That rankled. Pleasant? Pleasant wasn’t the word he would use to describe it. She was clearly too strait-laced to appreciate the sheer sensuality of such a kiss. He recalled the soft sweetness of her mouth with a silent groan and he knew he must taste her again.

      One more kiss. It won’t mean anything. What could be the harm?

      After all, Mary Vale was not his type—far too sensible, except in her luscious looks, of course, but he had learned the hard way beauty was skin deep. He would not step into that trap again.

      In the meantime he must be patient. There was no help for it—he would have to wait for the lady herself to return to his bedchamber before his curiosity could be assuaged.

      His hunger, he had to admit, might have to wait a bit longer.

      * * *

      It was the following day before he saw Mary again. He was mentally alert, although physically still weak, and he chafed at his confinement.

      Mary entered, carrying a covered bowl he suspected contained more of that disgusting gruel Mrs Lindley deemed suitable for invalids. He scanned her figure with appreciation as she walked towards him.

      ‘I have decided,’ he announced, in his loftiest tone of voice—specifically designed to needle her— ‘to take no further action over your attempted theft of my horse.’

      Then he lay back to see what sort of reaction he provoked. He was bored and he was frustrated that Mary had been nowhere near him since the day before, when he had awoken. The servants were all too busy to pay him much attention and he was in desperate need of entertainment. He had decided teasing Mary would prove an enjoyable way to while away the time. He would prod at her self-control and goad her into revealing the real Mary Vale.

      Mary’s step faltered at his words. Then she straightened her shoulders and smiled.

      ‘How very magnanimous of you, my lord,’ she said, her tone one of warm honey, although her eyes flashed.

      Lucas bit back his smile and continued to regard her, straight-faced. ‘If, that is, you satisfy my curiosity. I have not forgotten you owe me satisfaction on several points.’

      Not the least of which will be another kiss.

      ‘Satisfaction, my lord? How so?’ She eyed him coolly, chin in the air.

      ‘For a start, I want to know who you are. Yes—’ he added as she opened her mouth, ‘—I know you are Mary Vale, widow—although not of this parish—but knowing your name tells me nothing about you. Where have you come from? Where are you going? Why were you in my woods? Indeed, why were you stealing my horse? I am afraid, Mrs Vale, you owe me answers that are long overdue.’

      ‘Goodness.’ She laughed, although her expression was wary. ‘So many questions.’

      She walked to the table at the foot of the bed to place the tray upon it, before facing him again. ‘You will have to sit up, I think, if you are not to make a mess with your food.’

      She approached the bed and slid her arm behind his back, helping him to sit. A wave of desire crashed over him as her lavender scent enveloped him and her warm breath caressed his skin. She pulled at his pillows, plumping them behind him. He wanted nothing more this minute than to drag her down beside him and steal the kiss he had promised himself, to feast on those lush, provocative lips until she begged for more.

      How could her mere presence provoke such a longing within him when he had sworn to never again fall under any woman’s spell? He cursed his weakness—it must have affected his mind as well as his body. He focused on the window opposite the bed, willing his mind and body back under his control, before looking at her again.

      ‘Prevaricating will not prevent me from pursuing answers to my questions, Mary,’ he said. His voice sounded strained, even to his ears. ‘I shall have my satisfaction sooner or later, you know.’

      She coloured, her blue eyes falling before his steady regard, and her pearly teeth bit into her lower lip, sending his pulse rate soaring once more. It had been an unfortunate choice of phrase under the circumstances. All he had to amuse himself at the moment was his imagination and it was sending his thoughts in a very uncomfortable direction. He deliberately flexed his injured shoulder, using the stab of pain to remind himself that women could not be trusted. He was lusting after Mary and yet he knew next to nothing about her.

      He thought back to that day in the woods: the bone-jolting fall from Sultan’s back; the damp, peaty scent of the earth in his nostrils as he lay, winded, amongst the trees; drifting...so very tired...until he had been roused by a sudden sound. He had lifted his head to see Sultan being ridden away from him. He had—somehow—gained his feet; had found enough breath to shout. The rest was a blur. But...that sound...

      ‘There was a cry.’

      ‘A cry?’

      ‘That day, in the woods. It sounded like a child.’

      ‘Are you certain?’ Mary turned away, walking to the end of the bed.

      Lucas hesitated. Was he certain? ‘I thought...I seem to recall something...’

      ‘Might it have been a local child, playing in the woods?’

      Lucas stiffened. ‘No children are permitted on my property,’ he growled.

      Mary stared at him, her eyes wide. ‘Why so vehement?’

      He shrugged. It was nobody else’s business.

      Mary carried the tray to his bedside. ‘But what harm...?’

      ‘The matter is not up for debate. It does not concern you.’ Lucas was not about to discuss his reasons for banning children with a virtual stranger, particularly one as adept as Mary at keeping her own secrets. ‘Where have you been, Mary?’

      Mary stilled, her eyes guarded. ‘What do you mean—where have I been?’

      She placed the tray on Lucas’s lap.

      ‘Aaarrrgh!’ Pain speared his thigh. ‘Mary!’

      The crockery clattered as Mary snatched the tray away. ‘Oh, no! I am so sorry! I didn’t think.’

      As the pain subsided to a throb, Lucas smiled ruefully. ‘I cannot blame you, Mary, for I didn’t anticipate that either. A lesson for us both, I think?’

      ‘Yes, indeed. I shall take more care in future.’ Mary placed the tray gently on the bed. ‘There, although I fear it might prove more awkward for you.’

      ‘I have you to help with what I cannot manage for myself, though, do I not?’ Lucas grinned at the easily construed suspicion in Mary’s eyes. ‘So, I shall ask again, Mary. Where have you been, since yesterday, when I awoke.’

      ‘Oh, since yesterday. Sleeping, for the most part,’ she said.

      ‘All day? Until now?’

      ‘Well, not quite until now. I did eat. Speaking of which—’ she removed the cover from the bowl on the tray ‘—you should eat this before it gets cold.’

      Lucas peered at the contents of the bowl and grimaced. ‘You must have been very tired.’ He picked up the spoon with little enthusiasm.

      ‘I cannot deny it was a relief to sleep in a bed again.’ Mary cast a meaningful look at the chair by the side of his bed.

      Remorse nudged Lucas. Hadn’t Trant said that Mary had barely left his side whilst he had been ill? He had been lying here, frustrated by her absence, without a thought as to what