Mary and the Marquis. Janice Preston

from a tiny pinpoint deep inside until it flooded every vein in her body. She trembled, the craving for more near overwhelming her, until the distant sound of a door banging roused her from her trance and, with a gasp of horror, she wrenched her lips from his. She scrambled away, her face aflame, her hands flying to her cheeks in a vain attempt to cover her shame.

      ‘My lord...’ she gasped.

      The heat in those ebony eyes was undeniable. He smiled at her: a slow, seductive smile that set her quivering with desire. Her heart was pounding and she could feel the pulse jump in her neck. How had he captivated her so very quickly? How had one kiss resurrected those feelings she had thought dead and buried long since?

      She stiffened, angry and ashamed that she had become so mesmerised by the touch of this stranger’s lips that she had responded in a way no decent woman should. And she was furious she was now unable to conceal her embarrassment. Why should she make such a fuss over a stolen kiss that was no doubt a mere passing fancy to a rake such as he? She dragged in a deep breath to steady her nerves. It would test her ingenuity to its limit, but she must disabuse him of any notion she might be available for any sort of dalliance. Taking a moment, she smoothed her hands down her skirts. She then looked him in the eye, raising her brows in a way she hoped would make her appear unconcerned.

      ‘Well,’ she said, willing her voice to remain light and unconcerned, ‘I cannot pretend you did not catch me off guard, or I would not have allowed that to happen. However, although your kiss was pleasant enough, my lord, I shall be obliged if you will restrain your...more basic urges in the future. I have no wish to be constantly on my guard if I am to assist in nursing you over the next week or so. As a gentleman, I am sure you will accede to my wishes.’

      ‘Ah...but can you be certain I am a gentleman?’

      Mary raised her chin. ‘I make no doubt you were raised as such,’ she said, ‘and, no matter what direction your life has taken since then, I would urge you to remember that. I am here to nurse you, Lord Rothley, and that is all.’

      Rothley’s lips tightened a fraction, then a sudden gleam lit his eyes. Mary eyed him with suspicion.

      ‘I’m so hot,’ he murmured. ‘My forehead is burning. I feel feverish.’ His lids flickered shut.

      ‘Hmmph!’

      Mary’s huff of disbelief was barely audible, but she caught the twitch of Rothley’s lips, so it had been loud enough. Without approaching any nearer, she reached across and placed her hand on his forehead.

      ‘Aaahh, so soothing, so comforting,’ he murmured as his eyes opened and he captured her gaze again.

      He grinned as she snatched her hand away, her insides melting anew. His masculine aura tugged at her senses, her body responding with a readiness she had never before experienced, even in the early days of her marriage.

      He is a rake, she reminded herself. Attracted merely because I am female and, seemingly, willing and available.

      ‘It feels quite normal to me, my lord,’ she said, as she crossed the room to the washstand, which held a bowl and a pitcher of water, ‘but I will bathe it for you, nevertheless. If—’ she glanced over her shoulder at Rothley as she wrung out a cloth in the water ‘—you promise to keep yourself covered up.’

      His lips twitched as she approached the bed. ‘Does the sight of my manly chest bother you so?’

      Mary tensed. She was a grown woman, not some silly innocent to be beguiled and misled by a silver-tongued rake, no matter how attractive. If she didn’t take care, nursing the marquis would prove impossible. She must—for her own sanity—maintain her distance for, if she was honest, his flirtatious ways were proving hard to resist.

      ‘It bothers me not one iota,’ she said brusquely. ‘I am simply concerned you do not catch a fever, for that would mean I am honour bound to remain here that much longer. The sooner you are recovered, the sooner I may leave.’

      The amusement drained from his face. ‘You are under no obligation to me, madam. You are not bound to remain here against your inclination.’

      Mary felt a momentary qualm. Had she overreacted?

      ‘My obligation is to my own conscience, my lord. I have experience of nursing and your staff, as far as I can ascertain, have very little. Besides, they are hardly under-employed in this household. An extra pair of hands will not come amiss, I am sure.’

      ‘Indeed. My household, as you rightly point out, is staffed at a totally inadequate level. No doubt you are used to better.’

      His voice was tight, his brows lowered, but Mary felt certain it was not anger that generated his response. Rather, she thought, it was worry creasing his forehead. She recalled Mrs Lindley’s comments about the debts facing the estate.

      ‘Once upon a time, maybe,’ she said, as she applied the cool, damp cloth to his brow, ‘but not in the past few years, I can assure you.’

      His eyes sparked with interest. ‘How so?’

      ‘My childhood was carefree for the most part, but adulthood brings its own challenges,’ she said. ‘Hard work is not unknown to me.’

      She sought to divert him. ‘Do you remember what happened, my lord?’

      His eyes glinted wickedly as he grinned up at her.

      ‘I remember a beautiful angel coming to my rescue. I remember her ripping open my shirt—’

      ‘I meant, what happened before,’ Mary interrupted. The teasing, flirtatious Lord Rothley was back. Her diversion had worked only too well. ‘Have you remembered how...why...you were shot?’

      ‘Killjoy,’ he murmured. ‘I had much rather discuss the softness of your lap.’

      Mary’s face flamed. She had hoped he wouldn’t remember the laborious journey home from the woods in the back of a cart—his head, heavy in her lap and her legs extended either side of his body in an effort to cushion him from the worst of the jolts. His eyes locked with hers and she felt again the slow, nervous trickle of anticipation deep inside. Her breath seized, her nerves all on edge, her legs suddenly weak.

      ‘Your lack of denial leads me to assume my memories are not a wishful fantasy after all,’ he said, with a lift of his brows.

      Mary stepped back and sat in the chair by the bed, staring towards the fire.

      ‘The doctor said you were very lucky,’ she said, seeking to cover her confusion.

      He snorted, but weakly. ‘How so? I do not feel lucky right now.’

      ‘The bullet went straight through your shoulder without hitting anything vital. He believes you will make a full recovery, in time.’ Mary risked a glance at him. ‘It could have been a great deal worse, my lord.’

      ‘Time is what I don’t have,’ he muttered, as if to himself.

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      His expression grew sombre. ‘You asked me a question,’ he said. ‘The answer is yes. I remember every detail. Thieves...reivers...’

      Mary’s gaze flew to his face. Reivers was the old name for raiders along the border between England and Scotland. His use of the term revived memories of the dispute between their fathers.

      ‘Surely,’ she said, ‘that practice died out long ago?’

      ‘It’s an old term, certainly,’ he said. ‘But where there is money to be made, some men will always take what is not theirs. Speaking of which...’ He frowned, his eyes distant. Mary wondered what memory had nudged at him. Did he remember her taking his horse? Had he seen—or heard—the children?

      ‘How did these reivers come to shoot you?’ she asked, keen to distract him.

      ‘I was checking my sheep, grazing up on the hills, when I came upon three men driving them away to the north. I tried to stop them. They objected. I was hit in