The Marsh Hawk Page 8

  “How perfectly lovely,” Jenna murmured. “I thought I knew all the legends, but I’ve never heard that one.”

  “While we’re on the subject of saints, there is a Cornish saint named ‘Kevern,’ you know. He is the namesake of my title, but I am not he, by any means—or anything like him. I am no saint, Jenna, I promise you, and I have never believed in legends, or angels, either until now. Until a heavenly creature saved my life in that place yesterday. Thank you, my angel.”

  “When I saw Rupert running at your back . . .”

  “I would have challenged the blighter myself if he hadn’t saved me the trouble, after the way he humiliated you in company at the masque,” he said, his strong hands soothing her. “But I would have chosen a more appropriate place to call him out. A title does not a gentleman make. Whatever possessed you to accept his suit, Jenna—a man like that?”

  She clouded. Part of her desperately wanted to confess to him then and there, to tell him that she had done murder on the old Lamorna Road two months ago, and that she feared her sin would come back to haunt her and wanted shelter from it among the Marners. There needed to be honesty between them, and she needed to lift the burden weighing upon her conscience. She hadn’t been able to confess it to Rupert. She hadn’t trusted him enough. But this was the man she loved.

  “My father wished it,” she said instead. “And, after he died, Mother pressed for it.”

  It was a half-truth.

  “I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you on that staircase,” he revealed. “I don’t pretend to be able to explain it, but there it is. I can’t begin to tell you what it did to me thinking that your response to me in that garden was because of your love for Marner . . . because you thought to buy his safety with those kisses.”

  “And I thought that you were offering me that proposition.”

  He held her away and stared with wounded eyes that told her such a thing had never occurred to him. She couldn’t bear to look into them.

  “It seems that we have been blundering along at cross purposes,” he said, “but not anymore.” He produced a gold ring encrusted with rubies and diamonds from his waistcoat pocket and slipped it on her finger. “Will you marry me, Jenna?”

  She stared into those earth-shattering sapphire eyes and melted. They were like whirlpools, sucking her down into unfathomable depths. It was madness. She’d only known of the man’s existence for five days. She knew nothing about him except what she needed to know—that, bizarre though it was, he loved her and she loved him.

  “Yes, Simon,” she murmured, and surrendered her lips to his kiss.

  It was a soft, gentle embrace, not the volatile explosion that had rocked her in the garden, but it aroused her more totally. And she moaned at the firestorm of rapturous excitement pulsing through her from nothing but the slightest touch of those warm, sensuous lips that were capable of much, much more.

  She wanted more.

  After a moment, he held her away and searched her face.

  “You’re sure?” he murmured.

  “I’m sure.”

  “My God,” he said, holding her close, clearly loath to let her go.

  But there was something she needed to know, something that had played havoc with her curious nature since the dueling ground. Still . . . if he had wanted her to know, he would have explained, wouldn’t he? It took her a moment to summon the courage.

  “Simon,” she began at last. “Crispin called you ‘Uncle’ yesterday. Are you . . . ?”

  A frown stole his smile and wrinkled his broad brow. Taking her arm, he led her to a white wicker love seat beside the south wall, and sat with her there.

  “Jenna, I must ask you to forget you heard that,” he said. “You couldn’t possibly imagine the lengths I’ve gone to in order to preserve anonymity . . . for both their sakes. Even in this house. Phelps is the only one under this roof who knows. He’s been with me since I was a boy, and he is privy to all of my personal affairs. I’d trust him with my life, and have done so on more occasions than I care to tally.”

  “Of course, I shan’t betray your trust. You don’t even have to tell me, I only—”

  “No—no, I want to tell you,” he interrupted, laying a gentle finger over her lips. “There must be no . . . secrets between us.”

  A pang of conscience stabbed her at that, and her eyes clouded, recalling the dark secret she had elected to keep from him. But the moment passed, defeated by curiosity.

  “I had a brother, thirteen years older than myself,” he was saying. “I wasn’t quite fifteen when he met and fell in love with a distant cousin of the Duke of York. They committed an indiscretion, and the girl became pregnant. Father wouldn’t sanction their union, and he disinherited my brother in all but title and lands. He would have stripped those from him as well if the law allowed, but since he couldn’t, he cut him off without a halfpenny when he married her without his approval. Edgar—that was his name—stole enough blunt from Father’s vault to buy himself a commission in the army, eloped with the girl to Gretna Green, then took his bride with him to India. Though it wasn’t encouraged, there were provisions at the post for the wives of officers, with the proper connections, of course, and Edgar was well liked.

  “There was a dreadful scandal here on the home front, as you can well imagine. Cutting one’s eldest son and heir off without a feather to fly with hardly goes unnoticed by the ton. The girl’s family reacted in much the same way that Father did, which is probably one of the reasons I so resent the aristocracy—the self-serving social hypocrisy that drives them to put more store in things material than in humanity. It’s what killed my father, that. He died a bitter old man.”

  “How awful for you,” Jenna said.

  “I loved my brother,” he went on. “I never saw him alive again. He was killed by bandits in the hills near Delhi—the Thuggee, a secret society of religious fanatics who performed ritualistic murder in the name of some heathen Hindu god. British officers were highly prized targets. Edgar was carrying out a routine dispatch exchange between posts and just . . . disappeared. Eight months later, they found his remains buried under a pile of rubble. The twins were just three years old. Their mother died shortly after of cholera.”

  “Oh, Simon, I’m so sorry.”

  “The army contacted Father, of course, but he refused to acknowledge the children. Neither would their mother’s family. I was still at school. There was nothing I could do on my own without losing my inheritance, and I couldn’t risk that if I were to help them once Father passed.

  “Making short of it, I appealed to the Church, and the twins were brought home and fostered by a good family until Evy was old enough to be housed at a convent school in Yorkshire, and Crispin at an Anglican boy’s boarding school in Manchester. I couldn’t go against Father’s decision and acknowledge them as family without making them illegitimate. I couldn’t do that to my brother’s memory, or to them. But they know. At least I have the satisfaction of that, and Phelps knows, because it was he who helped me achieve it.”

  The rain was drumming on the glass walls as if begging admittance, and Jenna shuddered. Pulling her closer, he soothed her absently.

  “When Father died,” he continued, “though they were entitled to nobility, I had to reinvent it for them because of the way Father cut Edgar off. I literally blackmailed the Duke of York into allowing the truth—well, a stretched version of it, anyway—to circulate that they were, in fact, quite legitimate distant relatives, hence their titles. Since the duke’s branch of the family is so convoluted, no one questioned it.

  “You see, I knew that York’s mistress, Mary Anne Clarke, was selling commissions and promotions. I threatened to put that knowledge into the right hands and he agreed to acknowledge the twins as distant relations.” He popped a cryptic chuckle. “The whole coil came out anyway, and the poor blighter was forced to resign his military commission two years ago. For all I know, he thinks I’m at the root of that. I’m not, I assure you. I
t was his own carelessness that damned him. But I do permit myself to wallow in the irony of it from time to time.

  “It all turned out well in the end. York’s just been reinstated, and I brought Evy and Crispin out of hiding with their new identities. They’re finally secured, but all of that will be for naught if the truth should surface now.”

  “You never need fear that I shall make it known,” Jenna said. All at once she clouded. “I feel awful about Evelyn. I’m afraid I was quite jealous of her, Simon, and not very pleasant. I’m dreadfully sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be sorry, my love,” he said. He ground out a guttural chuckle. “But for your jealousy, I never would have suspected that you might return my feelings.”

  Jenna stared. She was incredulous.

  “You were quite obvious,” he told her. “Charmingly so.”

  “She’s in love with you, you know.”

  “She has a adolescent crush on me, which I have never encouraged, yes,” he said. “She’s only eighteen, Jenna, and I am her benefactor; it’s only natural.”

  She gasped. “I took her for much older!”

  “They’re just children yet. At least I see them that way.” He smiled that heart-melting smile, all the more precious for its rarity. “Once Evy is presented to society, she’ll find a proper suitor, and I’m buying Crispin a naval commission. All that should have been in the works long ago, and would have been but for Copenhagen.”

  “You were injured,” she responded.

  He nodded. “Along with a hundred and sixty-three other men on our vessel alone, Jenna. Nearly seven hundred men were wounded in that battle, and over two hundred and fifty died. My piddling wounds seem quite insignificant compared to that. Despite it all, we won.”

  “Were many ships lost?”

  “Not a one, though many were badly damaged. Ours was one of the worst hit. I served on the Monarch, under Commander Mosse. A friend of mine from my school days, Nathaniel Ridgeway, the Earl of Stenshire, was aboard as well. We were a scandalous pair. We’d shipped together many times and always watched each other’s backs, but that day was like no other. There was no time for antics. We were caught between the sand banks in the King’s Channel when we engaged the Danish fleet. We both took a hit. He fared better than I did, and went on to take more hits in other battles. I wasn’t so fortunate. But we weren’t the only ones who fell that day. We lost fifty-six men. It was quite an event. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

  “And that is the kind of future you want to buy for Crispin?” She couldn’t imagine it.

  “That, my love, is the only justification I can allow for my ties to the aristocracy,” he said, clouding, “the only investment a decent man can make that will benefit the country, not just line the pockets of high-in-the-instep, toadying ‘pinks of the ton,’ like Marner. It is a noble profession, and in it a poor man can be just as noble as a rich one. That is the lesson I hope to teach Crispin.”

  Jenna’s take on that issue was strictly maternal; his was fraternal. They were polar opposites. That conflict was old as eons. They would never agree, and she was wise enough not to pursue it. Instead, she nodded. Something else was still troubling her, something closer to the moment.

  “Simon, I would like to apologize to Evelyn. I need to see her.”

  “That will have to wait,” he said. “There’ll be plenty of time later for mending fences . . . all the time in the world.” He took her hands in his. “Jenna, I know you were planning an elaborate society wedding with Marner, but do you really need to have all that folderol to be happy?”

  She stared. His meaning was unclear, and she didn’t know how to answer.

  “I don’t want to wait,” he explained, “not while you complete your trousseau, not until all the social brouhaha is played out. I don’t want to alarm you, but I didn’t like some of the menacing remarks Marner made when we left him on Bodmin Moor. He’s no gentleman; he’s proven that. I want you to remain right here at Kevernwood Hall until we can be married. I want you under my protection.”

  “I don’t need a fancy wedding, Simon. I was using my trousseau as an excuse to delay my marriage to Rupert.”

  “I’ll buy you the most elegant trousseau on the continent—”

  “I don’t want to wait, either, Simon,” she said, laying a finger over his lips to silence him as he had done to her earlier.

  “What about your mother?”

  Jenna gave a start, and gasped. She’d totally forgotten about her mother.

  “Shall I send Phelps to Moorhaven to fetch her?”

  “No!” she cried, shaking her head. “God, no!”

  “We can’t just leave her there, Jenna,” he scolded, suppressing a smile.

  “No, but we don’t have to bring her here, either. Mother can take care of herself, Simon; she’s well able. I’m not being unkind. It’s just how she’s made. She thrives upon drama. She’s a survivor, quite capable of dealing with the situation, I assure you.”

  “I have no doubt, but I would like to get off on the right foot with her, if it’s all the same to you, and there is a rather stiff code of etiquette regarding prospective in-laws, you know. I may be rather unconventional, but I’m sure, judging from what I’ve observed of the lady, that your mother is not.”

  “You aren’t marrying Mother.”

  “God be praised for that! But still, I rather think she’d make a better ally than she would an adversary. That aside, technically, you know I should have spoken with her beforehand, and but for these bizarre circumstances—”

  “Oh, no!” she cut in. “Don’t worry about Mother. Let me deal with that. I’ll compose a missive and have it posted to Thistle Hollow.” She laughed. “I’ll have her send some of my things on as well.” She fingered the skirt of her riding habit. “This is all I’ve got. My portmanteau is still at Moorhaven.”

  “Leave it,” he said. “There’s a dressmaker in the village. Evy’s used her and she’s quite good. I’ll have her come ’round and see to your needs at once.”

  “I hardly think that would be proper,” she protested.

  Simon let loose a hearty guffaw. “Nothing about any of this is ‘proper’ in the academic sense,” he said, “and yet, impossible though it seems, never in my life has anything ever seemed more proper.”

  He got to his feet and pulled her up alongside him. The air around them smelled of the extraordinary plant life that made its home there. She picked out top notes of acanthus, eucalyptus, and, oddly, rue, along with several different species of mint, all thriving in huge porcelain pots resting on the slate floor amongst similar containers overflowing with forget-me-nots. Mingled with the exotic aroma of Simon’s tobacco, the result was practically hallucinogenic.

  His gaze was drawing her in again—in behind those incredible dark lashes—into the very essence of him. He was so incredibly handsome, and yet there was a hint of sadness in those eyes that cast a mysterious aura about him. There was something he hadn’t told her, something he hadn’t exorcised. It fed the desperation in his embrace. Wild, feral lights flashed in those eyes. They were dilated with desire as he buried his hand in her hair and arched her head back, bending slowly, excruciatingly slowly, until their lips met.

  He deepened the kiss, and she tasted the lingering presence of latakia sweetened with wine in his mouth. It heightened her senses. He had probably drunk the wine for courage to propose—wine, because it wouldn’t cloud his mind like brandy, but would blunt the edges of his apprehension that she might refuse his suit. She adored him.

  The tongue that had parted her lips and glided between her teeth probed gently, exploring, curling around her own, conjoining with it in a strange, voluptuous dance she was powerless to resist. The more it coaxed, the more hers followed, plunging passionately inside the satiny depths of his warm mouth, and their moans combined as he encircled her waist and pulled her against his lean, corded body.

  He was aroused. The bruising power of him leaned against her. It was a deli
cious pain that called her closer not even understanding why, or what the harnessed power in that magnificent body was capable of unleashing.

  The jacket of her riding habit was open, exposing the lowcut underbodice gathered with ruching, and he spread it wider. His lips glided to her throat; the roughness of stubble just beginning on his chin excited her, the contrast of textures sending shock waves of fiery warmth to the same mysterious recesses that he had ignited when he’d first held her.

  Perspiration beaded on his brow. The exotic scent of tobacco and wine grew stronger, seeping from his pores, spread by the heat radiating from his skin beneath the cambric shirt. Her heart was racing, beating wildly against his. Her blood had caught fire also, kindled by the skilled tongue sliding now along the curve of her arched throat. Her whole body seemed about to burst into flame. Was he reminded, as she was, of the touch of his roughened fingers against the soft exposed flesh over-flowing her décolleté, when he’d held her in the moonlit garden perfumed with lilacs at Moorhaven?

  Yes!

  His hand slipped lower. She held her breath. This was forbidden. So were the feelings his touch aroused. She had never even let Rupert—or anyone else for that matter—kiss her the way Simon did, much less touch her intimately. But somehow with Simon it seemed perfectly natural, and right.

  His fingers deftly undid the ties and spread the ruching on her underbodice. Her breath caught as his hand plunged inside and came to rest above her heart . . . then lower still. For a moment, she thought he would kiss her there. She scarcely breathed in anticipation of that silken tongue and rough stubble against the tender skin of her breast. She could almost feel the tug of those sensuous lips encircling the nipple that had hardened under his touch, and a new wave of ecstasy riveted her. If he were to do so, she was certain she would surrender—or faint—or die. But he didn’t.