Surrender Becomes Her Part 12

Suddenly tired of being the thoughtful, considerate gentleman instead of the pa.s.sionate bridegroom he burned to be, Marcus muttered something under his breath and dragged Isabel into his arms and kissed her soundly. He'd meant to kiss her once and leave, but the sweet allure of her mouth destroyed his resolve. He crushed her to him, his lips hard and hungry on hers, his tongue delving deep into her mouth. Consumed with desire, oblivious to anything but the soft, tantalizing body in his arms, Marcus kissed her again and again, each kiss longer and more intimate, more demanding than the last.

Isabel had no defenses against him. She was tired of fighting him, weary of fighting the dictates of her own body. She was his wife. Their mating was inevitable and, with a little shudder, she surrendered, forgetting the past, forgetting the secrets....

Dizzy with longing and desire, she kissed him back, her fingers digging into his upper arms as she strained closer, needing, wanting his big, hard body pressed solidly against hers. He was aroused-she could feel the rigid length of him sliding between them as they kissed-and a flood of warmth and dampness surged through her as he cupped her bottom and held her hard against him. But it wasn't enough, and he lifted her, fitting her to him so that the swollen rod of flesh was tightly lodged at the junction of her thighs. She trembled as he moved against her, shockingly intimate sensations rocketing through her.

It was the insistent chiming of a small ormolu clock that sat on a nearby marble table that brought Marcus back to his senses. He lifted his head, realized where he was, and thrust Isabel away from him as if she had scalded him.

Breathing hard, he glanced around, his expression wild. Christ! He was in his own vestibule in the middle of the afternoon! A moment or two more and he'd have thrown her down on the floor and taken her there.

Running a shaking hand through his hair, he said thickly, "Ring for Thompson, he will take care of everything." He brushed past her, spun on his heels, and turned back to jerk her into his arms once more. He pressed one, hot, searing kiss on her lips and then pushed her from him. A febrile glitter in those gray eyes, he said thickly, "I'll see you later." There was both a promise and a threat in his voice. Moving as if the hounds of h.e.l.l were on his heels, he disappeared out the front door, leaving Isabel standing alone in the vestibule.

Dazed, she stood there for several moments, her thoughts and emotions in a jumble. Gradually, her breathing calmed and some semblance of normalcy returned to her. She touched a finger to her lips, astonished it didn't come away singed.

She might have still been standing there if Thompson, carrying a fresh bouquet of white lilies and pink rosebuds, hadn't come into the vestibule. He stopped, startled to see her standing there by herself. His expression concerned, he asked, "Madame? Is there something wrong? May I be of service to you?"

Isabel shook herself and smiled blankly. "No. No. Everything is just fine. Marcus, um, just left." Still half dazed, she groped for words and managed, "He said that you would, um, show me to my rooms."

"It will be my pleasure," Thompson said. Setting down the crystal vase of flowers on the marble table and turning back to her, he said, "If you will follow me, madame?"

Marcus learned nothing new from George and Daniel when he interviewed them later that afternoon in his office in the stables. After the two boys darted away, he stared out of the window for several moments, turning the conversation over in his mind. He was inclined to go along with the explanation he had given Thompson earlier: George and Daniel had allowed their imaginations to run wild. The boys were young, both not more than fifteen and, while tall of stature and broad of shoulder, they were still children. He didn't doubt that they had heard something, but it could have been anything-from the wind rattling around a door to the brush of tree limbs against the windows. Relieved to have settled that matter, he considered the matter of Whitley's original break-in. The sensation of violation rippled through him again and his hand formed into a fist. Whatever the outcome of Whitley and the memorandum, before Whitley was much older Marcus intended to have a private moment with the major. Not only had Whitley invaded his home, he had dared to threaten Isabel, and Marcus discovered that he could not tolerate either act. A fierce smile crossed his handsome face. Yes. He would have a moment or two alone with Whitley before this ended. A moment the major would remember for the rest of his life....

Whether by design or coincidence, it was evening before Marcus and Isabel met again. Both excruciatingly polite to the other, they dined alfresco in the sprawling beautiful gardens that surrounded the house. After dinner, a quiet meal in which neither did full justice to the expertly prepared dishes, they strolled in the direction of the lake, a gibbous moon casting a silver glow over the water. The scent of lilacs and roses drifted on the air and a faint breeze stirred the leaves and branches of the various shrubs and trees as they wandered down one of several meandering paths. Clouds scudded across the star-sprinkled skies, heralding the possibility of a spring shower.

Outwardly serene, Isabel was a ma.s.s of chaotic emotions. Tonight she would become Marcus's wife in more than just name, and she was eager and terrified of what would come. Risking a swift glance at his lean face, she wondered what he was thinking. Was he looking forward to making love to her? Bored by the idea? A little ball of warmth bounced down low in her belly. No, he wouldn't be bored; that torrid embrace in the foyer this afternoon told her that much. But when he finally made love to her, would she be just another woman to him? Would he feel nothing more for her than he did for any of the other women he had undoubtedly made love to in his life? He was no libertine, but he was certainly no monk.

Isabel knew a great deal about Marcus Sherbrook; she'd known him as a guardian, as a neighbor, and even, in an odd way, a friend. He had always been so self-contained, unruffled, presenting to the world a calm, measured face, but of late, she'd learned that behind that calm, measured surface, a different man existed. Behind his cool manner lurked a man who could kiss her senseless and make her knees melt, and it was that man-that pa.s.sionate, demanding male he kept well hidden-that had her heart racing and her pulse pounding in antic.i.p.ation of what would come.

The first light drops of rain fell and Marcus halted abruptly. As the drops increased, he murmured, "Well, this certainly puts paid to the romantic seduction under the moonlight that I had planned for tonight." He glanced down at her, a light comment hovering on his lips, but rational thought fled as his gaze locked on her half-parted lips.

Knowing how it would end if he touched her, he fought the primitive desire that he had kept carefully banked all evening. Struggling against the overwhelming urge to take her into his arms and allow pa.s.sion to rule him, he finally managed to force himself away from her. He had barely taken a quick step back when the sound of a shot shattered the night air and his left cheek was struck by flying splinters as the bullet buried itself in the tall beech tree only inches from his head.

Chapter 12.

Marcus's first thought was of Isabel and he dove for her, knocking her to the ground and s.h.i.+elding her with his body. For a frozen second, they lay there, both of them breathing hard, listening intently. Then they both heard it: the unmistakable noise of a large body cras.h.i.+ng through the underbrush. Neither had any doubt that it was the person who had fired the shot...the shot that had come perilously near to ending Marcus's life.

Isabel struggled to push Marcus aside. "Get off of me, you big oaf," she hissed impatiently. "Whoever shot at you is getting away."

Marcus rolled aside and rose to his feet, but before he could help Isabel, she jumped up and plunged into the woods in furious pursuit of the shooter. In two long steps he caught her, jerking her to a stop. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" he demanded angrily. "Trying to get yourself killed?"

Ignoring the rain and the bl.u.s.tery wind that accompanied the sudden storm, Isabel wiped away a dripping lock of hair and glared at him. "I'm trying," she enunciated carefully from between clenched teeth, "to discover who fired that shot. You, on the other hand, are being obstructive."

"And you," he said with equal care, his teeth as clenched as hers, "are too hot at hand for your own good." He took a deep, calming breath, tamping down the temper, engendered as much by fear for Isabel as fury at the boldness of the attack. Only when he was certain that he had command of himself did he ask with more than a little curiosity, "What did you intend to do if you caught him-bite him?"

So enraged she thought seriously of biting him, she spun away and, arms crossed over her bosom, stared into the darkness. The noise from the a.s.sailant's rush through the forest had stopped, but in the distance, above the rain and wind, they heard the faint sound of hoofbeats as a horse galloped away. "You let him get away," she ground out and, turning on her heel, she marched to the house.

Marcus followed her more slowly, frowning. The attacker could have only been Whitley, but what the devil was the man thinking? Whitley could have so easily missed and wounded or killed Isabel. Something cold and hard lodged in his chest. Attacking him was one thing; doing so in a manner that endangered Isabel was something else again. His mouth set in harsh lines he caught up with her as she mounted the steps and prepared to enter the house.

An anxious expression on his face, holding a lantern, Thompson met them at the door. George and Daniel, just behind him, wearing much the same looks, were also holding lanterns. At the sight of Marcus and Isabel looming up out of the rain, relief spread across his features, Thompson stepped back and cried, "Master! We heard the sound of a gun and feared the worst."

Marcus smiled and said calmly, "There was nothing to fear; your mistress and I are unhurt. A poacher must have strayed too near the house."

Thompson looked offended. "As if your gamekeeper would allow such a thing!"

Brown eyes bright and eager, George, the smaller of the two footmen, blurted out, "I'll wager it was that housebreaker, come to murder us in our beds!"

Marcus ruffled George's hair and laughed. "I doubt it." George appeared to be more excited than frightened about the prospect of his imminent demise. "Whoever was out there is gone," Marcus explained. "Before we returned to the house, we heard the horse galloping away and, with this rain, no one, poacher or murderous housebreaker, is likely to be skulking about. I suggest that you all return to your duties. Mrs. Sherbrook and I are retiring for the night."

Her maid, Peggy, was nowhere in sight when Isabel entered her rooms, but signs of Peggy's industry were evident in the neatly turned-down bed and the fine lawn nightgown and matching robe that lay across the cream and green silk coverlet. Wasting little time, Isabel stripped out of her damp clothes and slipped into the nightgown. Chilled from the rain, she bypa.s.sed the lightweight robe on the bed and, crossing to the dressing room, opened one of the big mahogany wardrobes that lined the wall. Her fingers quickly found the yellow woolen robe she had been searching for. Wrapped in the warmth of the wool, she took a brief moment to take down her hair from the topknot of curls she had worn for the evening. She spent another moment swiftly brus.h.i.+ng the thick auburn locks. With her hair waving gently about her shoulders, she stepped back into her bedroom and was pleased to find that Peggy had once more antic.i.p.ated her needs and was busy placing a tray on one of the satinwood tables scattered about the large room.

An expression of fondness in her blue eyes, Peggy glanced up from her task and said, "I thought that you might like a spot of hot tea on a night like this. There's some warm milk if you prefer that. And some biscuits."

Nearly twenty years Isabel's senior, Peggy had been her personal maid ever since Isabel had taken up residence in Manning Court. They had begun as strangers, and in the beginning Isabel had been a little intimidated by Peggy's brisk manner and blunt ways, but over the years a warm relations.h.i.+p had developed between them, a relations.h.i.+p that went well beyond that of maid and mistress.

Satisfied that all was in order with the tea tray, Peggy picked up the other robe from the bed and disappeared into the dressing room. Returning, she ran a critical eye over Isabel and, seeing her s.h.i.+ver, ordered, "Now into bed with you! You're chilled and the last thing you need to do is catch cold."

Isabel didn't argue. Tossing aside her robe, she slipped under the covers, sighing with bliss to find that despite it being the month of May, Peggy had warmed the sheets. With a bank of pillows at her back, Isabel sat up in the bed, the covers folded across her lap, and gratefully accepted the cup of hot, steaming tea Peggy brought her.

After taking a sip, Isabel said with a smile, "What would I do without you, dear Peggy? You think of everything. A toasty bed and hot tea-wonderful!"

Peggy snorted. "As if it takes any brains to realize that, on a rainy night, warmed sheets and a hot drink wouldn't be appreciated."

Her eyes dancing, Isabel said meekly enough, "It is indeed appreciated. Thank you."

"You're welcome." Reaching for the discarded woolen robe, Peggy laid it carefully over the arm of a nearby chair and then cast an eye around the room, as if daring anything to be out of place. Finding all to her satisfaction, she patted the tight bun of light brown hair at her neck and said, "Well then, if that will be all, I shall retire for the night. Unless, of course, you need me for something else?"

Isabel shook her head. "No. No. I'm fine. I'll see you in the morning."

The big room was very quiet after Peggy left, and Isabel sipped her tea thinking about the incident in the garden. A thrill of fear knifed through her when she remembered that terrible moment when Marcus was nearly killed. But knowing he was safe and nearby, she experienced again the unutterable relief she'd felt when she'd realized that he was unharmed. She bit her lip. It was wonderful that he had escaped unscathed, but there was no denying that someone had tried to murder him! And despite his claim that it was probably a poacher, she wasn't having any of it. There was no pretending, she thought stubbornly, that if he hadn't moved when he did he might very well be lying dead in the garden.

Pus.h.i.+ng aside the terror at the very thought of him being dead or even gravely injured, she considered the attack itself. Whoever the attacker had been must have been both foolish and desperate. Foolish because Marcus was respected and well liked, beloved almost, amongst his many, far-flung friends and relatives. His death or injury by a cowardly a.s.sailant would have caused an outcry heard all the way to London. And risking a shot at him in the rain, with woodland obscuring the target and under fitful moonlight had been the act of a desperate man. Her gaze narrowed. There was only one person she could think of who was both foolish and desperate and would have had a reason to harm Marcus. Whitley!

So intent was she on the path of her thoughts, not even Marcus's appearance in her room distracted her. Frowning, still considering the implications of her conclusions, she watched him enter from the pair of double oak doors that divided their two bedrooms.

Wearing a black and crimson silk robe, he strolled across the room as if he did it every night. A faint smile on his lips, he approached the side of her bed. She looked, he thought besottedly, utterly adorable. Staring at her sitting there in the bed scowling up at him, her mane of flame-red hair flowing wildly about her shoulders, those incredible golden-brown eyes fixed on him, Marcus acknowledged something he had known for a long time: he was helplessly in love with her.

Dazed by the admission, he simply stood there staring, mesmerized. Completely under her spell, he took a second to realize that her lips were moving and that she was talking to him.

"What?" he asked stupidly. "What did you say?"

"I said," she replied impatiently, "that your attacker had to have been Whitley. There is no one else who has any reason to try to kill you."

There wasn't much point in trying to dissuade her, and so he met her eyes and nodded. "Yes, I'm fairly certain that it was your friend, the major, who shot at us tonight."

"He's no friend of mine!"

"I agree. I suspect that Whitley's only friend is himself."

"Most likely, but what are we going to do about him? He can't be allowed to creep about the neighborhood taking shots at you whenever the mood strikes him." Her eyes full of fear, she said, "Marcus, you might have been killed tonight.... If anything were to happen to you..." She stopped, her voice suspended by tears. Looking away, she finally managed miserably, "This is all my fault! I put your life in danger. I should never have asked you to intercede for me." Her gaze fierce, she glanced up at him. "I should have killed him the moment I laid eyes on him, shot him like the venomous reptile he is!"

"I don't disagree that Whitley appears to want killing, but I would appreciate it if you would allow me that task," Marcus said quietly.

It was the very quietness of his tone that made her look closely at him, her eyes widening when she saw the resolve in those calm gray depths. Her breath caught. "You really mean to kill him, don't you?" she asked, half horrified, half approving.

He sighed. "Probably. It's not something I will take pleasure in, but you called it correctly: he is a venomous reptile and I can no more allow him to live than I could a viper in the stable."

"Oh, Marcus," she cried, "you will take care? He is dangerous."

"And so am I, my dear, so am I."

The words were said softly, but it was that very softness that sent a s.h.i.+ver down Isabel's spine, and she looked at him with new, wondering eyes. Until this moment, if anyone had told her that Marcus Sherbrook could coolly consider the possibility of killing another man, she would not have believed them. Nor would she have believed him capable of actually doing it; but hearing that note in his voice, seeing the icy resolve in his eyes, she realized that there was much behind the calm, polite facade he showed the world. Her heart banged in her chest, memories of his ardent kisses and bold caresses sweeping through her mind. Oh, yes, she thought warmly, there was so much more. So very much more!

Their eyes met and suddenly Whitley and the events of the evening evaporated. Desire swirled in the air between them. There was only the two of them, alone in her candlelit bedroom on a windswept, rainy night....

Marcus's gaze dropped to her nightgown, the peaks of her nipples visible through the delicate lawn fabric. She was naked beneath that frail garment and tonight there would be no more delays, no more reasons why he could not make love to his wife. No more reasons why he could not claim his love. His loins tightened and the pa.s.sion he'd kept so carefully caged sprang free.

Isabel saw the change in him, saw his eyes darken, recognized the frankly carnal curve to his mouth and, half fearful, half eager, she closed her mind to anything but the knowledge that tonight she would well and truly become Marcus's wife. Her body tingling in antic.i.p.ation, when he reached for her she fairly launched herself into his arms, her mouth eager for the touch of his and what would come.

His lips came down hard and hungry on hers, his hands on her upper arms, pulling her against him. There was no thought of denial in her response, her mouth opening beneath the onslaught of his, heat rising through her as his tongue delved deep. When he lifted his mouth from hers, she moaned in protest, unabashedly seeking his lips.

He laughed huskily and muttered, "A moment, sweet; we are both wearing far too many clothes."

In a second, her gown was whipped over her head and tossed onto the floor; his robe joined it almost immediately and then she was jerked back into his embrace.

Warm flesh met warm flesh and Isabel trembled at the sensation of her naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s flattened against the muscled, hair-roughened wall of his chest. His mouth was insatiable, his kisses more and more urgent as he laid her down on the bed. She jumped when his hand closed over her breast, the gentle kneading, the caressing thumb at her nipples sending spirals of hot longing through her.

Marcus had meant to take his time, but he'd been bedeviled by dreams of holding her, making love to her for far too many nights to go as slow as he wished. Telling himself he'd be more tender, gentler the next time, he ravaged her slender body with his mouth and hands. Those tempting little b.r.e.a.s.t.s called to him and his lips dropped lower and, with a groan, his hot, searching mouth fastened onto a nipple.

Isabel arched under his touch, the sensation of his warm tongue curling around her nipple unbearably exciting. Her fingers clenched in his thick, black hair, pulling his head closer, reveling in the intimacy of the moment. She was full of longing, aching, yearning, burning to become one with him. His mouth worked magic against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and honied heat cascaded through her as his teeth lightly sc.r.a.ped across her sensitized skin. When his big, heavy hand drifted to the thatch of curls at the junction of her thighs and she felt his fingers exploring the soft flesh he found there, she moaned, surging up against him, inviting, begging for deeper penetration.

A fierce smile of satisfaction crossed Marcus's face when his finger sank slowly into her and he found her wet and ready. He wanted to play, to explore, but he dared not. He was so hard, so aching and full, that he feared if he did not take her, he would shame himself.

He s.h.i.+fted, sliding between her legs. His hands holding her hips to his liking, his lips fastened on hers and, as his tongue took her mouth, his swollen member slowly entered her. She was tight, her inner flesh slick and warm against him and he was so lost in the scarlet haze of pleasure that he plunged through the frail barrier before he realized what had happened...or the significance of it. But the second after he breached her, he knew. His eyes snapped open and he stared down into her face.

In a welter of pain, shock, and pleasure, Isabel lay still beneath him. It took all the courage she possessed to meet his gaze. She tried to speak but words failed her. He looked very dark and dangerous as he loomed over her with black hair falling across his forehead and his gray eyes smoldering with desire, but accusation and suspicion were also there in the hard gaze that pinned her to the bed.

Pa.s.sion riding him hard, Marcus couldn't think. Questions flew through his mind, but they were clouded, drowned out by the feel of her soft body beneath him and the primitive desire to seek release from the mating hunger that clawed and screamed through him. He shook his head, trying to concentrate, but he couldn't; her body singing its siren song, desire drumming so wildly in his veins that it drove all else out of his mind. His eyes closed and his mouth closed demandingly over hers as he withdrew slightly and thrust himself back fully into her. Pleasure jolted through him and he was lost. Again and again, he plunged into her, each stroke coming faster, deeper than the one before, his hips moving in an ancient, urgent rhythm, frantically seeking to prolong the pleasure, yet demanding the sweet release, the scarlet oblivion.

The first shock of his taking filtered away and, with every stroke of his body, a fire, a desperate ache, grew deep in her loins. Her body no longer her own, she was swept up in the moment, her hands sliding to his driving b.u.t.tocks, and she caressed him, urging him on, wanting, wanting, oh wanting she knew not what. A spiral of pleasure, pleasure so sweet she cried aloud at its intensity, exploded through her and the world spun away.

Her cry was his undoing and Marcus gripped her hips tighter to him and with a low groan, he thrust in once more, allowing ecstasy to take him where it willed.

Except for their labored breathing, the room was very quiet as slowly, reluctantly, Marcus slid from her body. He lay beside her a moment, then, saying nothing, rose from the bed. Heedless of his nakedness, he walked into her dressing room and found the pitcher of water he knew would be there. He poured a small amount of water into the china bowl and, taking up the washcloth neatly laid next to it, walked back into the bedroom.

Half dazed by her body's ardent response to Marcus's lovemaking, small aftershocks of pleasure still radiating through her, Isabel watched him disappear into the dressing room, her gaze mesmerized by his tall, lithe form. She s.h.i.+vered with delight as she remembered the feel of his lips on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the sensation of his big body moving over hers. But all too soon, reality came cras.h.i.+ng back and she jerked upright, looking about for her robe, thinking she'd rather not face him stark naked. The sudden movement caused her to wince just a bit and, at that reminder of her changed state, a small, almost proud smile flittered across her face. She was a woman now. The smile fled as soon as she remembered the look in Marcus's eyes when he realized that she had been a virgin, and she decided that she definitely needed her robe before he came back. He was going to have questions, a lot of them, and he wasn't going to necessarily like or approve of her answers, and she'd just as soon have on her robe. Being naked left one feeling vulnerable and this was one time she couldn't afford to be vulnerable.

Though she knew he was right in her dressing room, Marcus's reappearance startled her as he walked back into the bedroom and, before she could stop herself, she shrank back against the pillows of her bed. He halted and stared at her for a long minute before he continued toward the bed. Putting down the bowl of water and washcloth on the table next to the bed, he said bitingly, "Stop that! I don't believe that I've ever beaten a woman in my life-even when given great provocation. I don't intend to start now."

"I d-d-didn't think you meant to strike m-m-me," she stammered. "You startled me."

Ignoring her comment, he reached over and moved one of her legs, his mouth tightening at the degree of blood he saw on her thigh. His jaw set, he picked up the washcloth and, after dipping it in the water, began to clean away the signs of what had happened between them.

The silence was so loud in the room Isabel thought her head would burst from the very lack of sound as Marcus quickly washed the stains from her thighs. Embarra.s.sment crawled through her at the intimacy of the moment and she moved, trying to avoid his touch. The tightening of his hand on her thigh warned her to cease and she let him have his way. He said nothing and, staring at his bent head as he worked on her, Isabel wished desperately that he would say something. Say anything. Rail at her. Hurl accusations at her. Demand answers, an explanation.

Just when she thought she would scream to break the oppressive silence, he asked carefully, "So whose child is Edmund?"

She stiffened and her eyes burning gold, she said fiercely, "Mine! He is my son and has been since the moment of his birth."

He looked at her then, the gray eyes cool and a.s.sessing. "Don't lie to me," he snapped. Tossing the cloth in the china bowl of water, he said, "Proof of your lie is right here before us."

She glanced away. "In every way that counts, Edmund is my son."

"I hate to point this out to you," Marcus said, "but the last time there was a virgin birth, there was a star over Bethlehem." His voice hardened. "Tell me the truth. Tell me why you've allowed everyone to believe that Edmund is your son, the child of your marriage to Hugh." His eyes flashed. "From the moment you arrived from India, you deliberately foisted an imposter on the baron and allowed an old man to believe the child he adores is his rightful heir. Explain, if you can, how it comes about that the next Baron Manning will be illegitimate-with no lawful claim to the t.i.tle or estates. And tell me, if you please, why I should help you continue with the charade." He leaned forward, his dark face inches from hers and demanded harshly, "Did you even marry Hugh? Or was that a lie, too?"

Frightened and angry at the same time, Isabel took refuge in temper. Her head snapped up and she glared at him. "Hugh and I were married in London by special license. You can check that out for yourself if you don't believe me!" she retorted furiously. Shoving him aside, she slid from the bed and s.n.a.t.c.hed up her warm, yellow robe. Yanking it on, she roughly tied the belt around her waist. Feeling better with something to cover her nakedness, and her first burst of anger dissipating, she looked up at him and said helplessly, "It was what Hugh wanted. Even before Edmund was born he insisted that the boy's true heritage could never be revealed." Her throat thickened with memories of those first tense, miserable days in India flooding through her. She'd known from the beginning that some decision would have to be made about the coming child, but all during the long, uncomfortable sea journey to Bombay, she'd pushed that knowledge away. She-they all-were trapped in a terrible tangle, one in which an innocent child's life hung in the balance and it was all her fault. Her d.a.m.nable, d.a.m.nable fault! If only she had not been so impetuous and convinced Hugh to marry her.... Guilt smote her and her eyes filled with tears. "It's all my fault," she muttered, staring down at her feet.

"I doubt that," Marcus said acidly. "You could hardly have conjured Edmund up out of thin air all by yourself."

Despite the gravity of the moment, Isabel almost smiled at his comment. Trust Marcus to be so prosaic.

Standing up, he grabbed his robe and shrugged it on. He was shaken more deeply than he had thought possible. The knowledge that Isabel had been a virgin had filled him with exultation...and remorse that he had not taken greater care with her. But except for that one second of sanity, his whole being had been focused on easing the carnal demons that rode him. Merged with her soft body, coherent thought had been beyond him. It was only afterward, in those few moments he lay beside her on the bed, that he considered all the implications.

Feeling as if he had stepped off into a chasm, Marcus struggled to make sense of what he knew-or thought he knew. Isabel had been a virgin. That was a fact that he knew. His eyes dropped to the pink-stained water in the bowl. She had never borne a child and Edmund could not be her son.

He frowned. The boy was clearly a Manning, and he didn't doubt that Edmund was Hugh's son, but not Isabel's. So why had she returned to India claiming that Edmund was her son? To give himself time to think, and to destroy evidence of her loss of innocence, Marcus gathered up the bowl and cloth.

Isabel watched him as he efficiently cleaned up all signs of blood, carefully rinsing the cloth he had used on her and then, taking the bowl with the stained water with him, he walked over to one of the windows and, opening it, threw out the evidence. Setting down the bowl on the table next to the bed, he finally turned and looked at her.

His gaze locked on hers, he said bitterly, "I'm now part of your lie. No one but the two of us know that you and Hugh never consummated your marriage and that Edmund is not your son."

She nodded, too full of emotion to speak. She had always known that Marcus would never betray her secret and Edmund's, but it wasn't until this very moment that she understood what she had thrown away by not telling him. Never once had she given him any chance to decide for himself whether he wanted to be part of the lie that she had lived since the moment she had first learned of Edmund. Intent upon insuring her son's position-and she could never think of Edmund as anything but her son-determined to keep the vow she and Hugh had made on that long ago, hot, tragic day, she had never considered Marcus's role in the lie. Never realized the choices she had made for him.

There was no one in the area, she admitted miserably, who was held in higher esteem than Marcus Sherbrook. Everyone, from the most t.i.tled aristocrat right down to the lowliest scullion, knew that Marcus Sherbrook was a man to be trusted, an honest, fair man. And now she had made him part of the lie she lived every day.

Her hand rose, as if to reach out to him, then fell to her side. "I'm sorry," she said baldly. "I never meant to involve you."

"And how did you think to keep me out of it?" he demanded, not certain which infuriated him most: that she had not trusted him with the truth, or that she had insured that it would be impossible for him to do anything but continue the conspiracy. "You had to know that once I discovered that you were a virgin, I would know the truth."

Her ready temper spiked and, eyes bright with anger, she said, "If you will remember, I tried everything I could to end our engagement." She pointed a finger at him. "This is your fault! I never wanted to marry you. You forced this marriage upon me, and if you had not married me, you'd have been none the wiser. So don't blame me!"

Marcus grimaced. She had him there. "Very well," he agreed. "It is my fault that we are married and because of that I'm now privy to some unexpected truths-or lies if you will." His gaze narrowed. "Is this what Whitley was blackmailing you about? Edmund?"