Chapter Six

“Ripe lit’le piece o’ goods, ain’t she?”

The drunken peddler eyed his friend across the scarred wooden table in the taproom. “Which one? The blonde with the prime set o’ dugs or the redhead?”

“The lit’le blond wagtail. Looks like a tart I once knew in London. Makes me bleedin’ privates ’ard just to think o’ beddin’ that one. I’d sure as fire like to get me ’ands on that lit’le saucebox.”

“Then why don’t ye?” suggested Darby Osgood. “Ye seen ’em, same as me. They took the owner’s rooms down at the end o’ the hall. Little blonde’s nothing but a servant. Odds are, for tuppence, she be ’appy to give ye a tumble.”

Fergus O’Clanahan chuckled. “I don’t think ’is bloody lordship’d take too kindly to us bustin’ into ’is bleedin’ rooms.”

“So how’s ’e gonna know? The blonde won’t be sleepin’ with ’im and the missus. She’ll be off in one o’ them other rooms. Come on, Fergus, ’twas yer idea in the first place. Now me breeches is near to bustin’ just to think o’ it.”

Fergus swayed drunkenly and scratched the whiskers on his chin. “I dunno, Darby. Wouldn’t be the first time ye got me arse in a sling with one o’ your crack-brained schemes.”

“Don’t be a puddlehead. Where’s ye spirit o’ adventure? Besides, ’ow long’s it been since ye got yerself a ruddy piece o’ tail?”

A surge of heat rushed into Fergus’s groin. God’s teeth, that was past the truth. His balls had been achin’ since he’d seen the rum little blond. They’d be bluer than a too ripe slab o’ cheese if he didn’t do something to ease ’em soon. He belched loudly and turned to his friend.

“All right, ye bloody old fool. Let’s hear what ye’ve got in mind. But I’m warnin’ ye, this had better be good.”

“When ’ave I ever let yet down, Fergus, me boy?”

Fergus slurred a vulgar oath, trying not to recall the number of times his feather-headed friend had gotten him into a hogshead o’ trouble.

*   *   *

Alexa slept soundly. Too soundly. So deeply in fact she didn’t hear the low muffled sound of men’s boots on the carpet, the thudding of the pie-crust table against the wall or the low muttered oath the man swore, stumbling forward into the room. She didn’t notice the man’s raspy whisper or his bulky weight as he pressed his knee on the mattress and climbed up, didn’t feel the draught of air across her cheek as he pulled down the covers she was deeply burrowed into.

“God’s teeth!” the man spat. “It’s the redhead!”

“Jesus! Where’s the bleedin’ earl? Way ’e was eyein’ her, I figured ’e’d be ridin’ ’er ’ard all night.”

He muttered a disgruntled curse. “Wherever he is, ’e sure as bloody ’ell ain’t in ’ere.”

“The blonde must be sleepin’ someplace else. Hurry up, Darby. We gotta get our arses outta here.”

But already it was too late. Alexa’s eyes had flown open and were riveted on the man who straddled her atop the covers. It wasn’t Lord Falon, as she had half expected. It was the drunken peddler she had seen downstairs.

A scream tore from her throat the instant before his hand clamped over her mouth.

“Bloody hell!” the man slurred drunkenly.

“Come on, Darby!”

The peddler seemed uncertain exactly what to do. Alexa took the moment to bite down hard on his hand. He yelped in pain and let go. She screamed again just as the earl stormed into the room.

“Alexa, what the hell…?” He caught her frightened expression the very same instant he saw the two men, and a look close to madness swept into his eyes. The devil in a rage would have looked like that, Alexa thought with a shudder, her gaze fixed on the hard planes of his face. He swore a savage oath, grabbed the first man by the shirtfront and lifted him clear off the floor. The earl swung a blow that sent the man reeling, crashing into lamps and tables, upending an overstuffed chair and landing him in an unconscious heap on the carpet.

The other man scrambled unsteadily from the bed and tried to bolt for the door.

“You’re not going anywhere.” Falon caught his flapping coattails, hauling him back across the room. “At least not yet.” He jerked the beefy man around and delivered a crushing blow to the peddler’s jaw that sent him stumbling toward the corner to trip over the body of his fallen comrade and land in a sprawling heap. The earl hoisted him onto his feet and hit him again, flattening his nose and spurting blood across his shirtfront.

“Me’n’ Fergus—we didn’t mean ye no harm, gov’nor,” the man whined in a mushy, nasal voice. “We come fer the lit’le blonde.” Damien hit him again and he went down with a groan. “We didn’t mean ’er no harm neither. Just wanted a tumble, is all. We meant to pay ’er for it real good.” Crawling to his feet, he held up his hands in supplication. “Please, gov’nor.”

Scooting to the edge of the bed, Alexa slid to the ground and raced across the chilly room, her nightgown flying out behind her. She grabbed her husband’s arm just as he swung again, stopping the blow and pulling his attention in her direction. He turned on her in a blinding rage, and only checked the punch he meant to throw at the last possible instant.

“For godsake, Alexa, what the hell are you trying to do?”

“I’m trying to stop you from killing this man.”

His hand remained balled in a fist. He held it up and it shook with his effort to control it. “I found him in your bed,” he said, as if it were a startling revelation.

“They’re drunk, Damien. I don’t think they realized what they were doing.” She kept her hold on his arm, feeling the tension in his muscles, seeing an even more ruthless side of him than she had suspected.

Lord Falon swallowed, still fighting for control. Releasing a long ragged breath, he stepped back and raked a hand through his wavy black hair. “Take your friend and get out of here,” he said to the peddler.

“Aye, gov’nor. Anything ye say, gov’nor.” The beefy man stumbled, but was finally able to stand. He hauled his friend to his feet and the two men staggered toward the door. The minute they were outside, the earl came toward her, his attention riveted on her face.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“How did they get in?”

Alexa wet her lips. He was wearing only a dressing gown, a burgundy silk brocade that brushed softly against her when he moved. The sash was still tied, but the top hung open to his waist. In the light streaming in through the window, she could see his wide dark chest, covered with a swatch of curly black hair. Bands of muscle rippled across a rock-hard stomach. Alexa’s mouth went dry.

“Th-They must have climbed in through the window.” She was trembling, she realized, whether from what had just happened or the sight of the half-naked earl, she couldn’t be sure.

He must have seen it, for he reached toward her, and even though she took a step away, he pulled her into his arms.

“It’s over,” he said, holding her against him. “No one’s going to hurt you. Not while I’m around.”

She tried to smile, but her heart still hammered inside her chest. “I’m all right … really I am.”

He brushed back wisps of her hair. The rest hung down her back in a thick dark auburn braid. “Damn, it seems you’re never going to get that sleep you need.”

Was that really concern she heard? “I’ll be fine by tomorrow.” But already he was lifting her up and carrying her over to the bed. He placed her there gently, drawing up the covers and carefully tucking her in.

“Damien?”

He paused, and there was a softness in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before. “Do you know how few times you have ever said my name?”

This time her smile came easy. “It’s a very nice name.” She had said it to herself a dozen times. But that was before all this had happened.

“My mother never liked it. That’s why she called me Lee.”

“The two of you didn’t get along, did you?”

“No.”

“Perhaps one day you’ll tell me why.”

The lines around his mouth grew less harsh. His lips were full and far too close to her own, making her stomach do odd little dances. Dear God, he was handsome.

“Perhaps.” He drew the covers beneath her chin. “Get some rest. We’ll be leaving fairly early on the morrow.” He started to walk away.

“Damien?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

She wished she hadn’t said it, for he seemed to be reminded of the men he had found in her room. His brows drew together in a scowl. “The next man in your bed had better be me,” he said darkly. Reaching the door, he jerked it open, then closed it solidly behind him.

She could hear his footsteps receding down the hall, then heading down the stairs. The peddler and his friend would not return, she was certain of that, as sure as she was that Damien would have done anything in his power to protect her. It was an odd notion, but a comforting one, and holding on to it tightly, her eyes drifted shut and she was able to fall asleep.

Her last thoughts were mixed: an image of Damien Falon ruthlessly dispatching the two drunken men, a memory of his hard-muscled chest, the sound of his voice as he had coldly reminded her he was the man who belonged in her bed.

Yet it was the concern she had seen in his storm-blue eyes that remained in her dreams long after the other images had faded.

*   *   *

Damien paced the floor of the taproom beneath wide bands of sun coming in through the open window. He had let Alexa sleep late and ordered a light meal sent up to her room. With the delays they had suffered, they’d be a full day longer in reaching the coast.

It shouldn’t have mattered, yet he found himself eager to return. The castle was the single place on earth he had ever truly belonged. He had never been welcome at Waitley, the mansion near Hampstead Heath where his mother resided since her marriage to Lord Townsend. He was always on guard there, always sparring with the earl, fighting for his mother’s meager affections.

And there was certainly nothing of home in his grandmother’s chateau outside of Paris. With her husband long dead, Simone de Latour was nothing but a bitter old woman, resentful that her daughter had married an Englishman and determined to extract some sort of justice for the years she had spent living alone.

It wasn’t until later, until his return to Falon, that Damien had found some sort of peace. The castle was the only place he was able to let down, to be himself, or at least as much himself as he ever was.

He loved the place, just as his father had. Now he couldn’t help wondering what his bride would think when she saw it. He couldn’t help feeling resentful that she would compare it to Stoneleigh, or Marden, or any of a dozen of her family’s vast estates, and find it lacking.

Yet that, as with most of what had happened to Alexa Garrick Falon since the day he’d first set eyes on her, would be his fault too. He should never have married her. He was hardly her equal financially, and now he’d discovered that his need for revenge had been sorely misplaced. She had been little more than a schoolgirl during her time with Peter, naive in the extreme and merely testing her newly discovered womanhood. That Peter had fallen in love with her he could well understand. There weren’t ten men in London who hadn’t been captured by her charms.

He should have left her to find a husband among them, left her to one of those dandified aristocrats who sniffed at her skirts and after the first few weeks would have bored her to tears. He wasn’t the kind of man who had time for a wife; he didn’t have time for permanent relationships. Marriage meant children, duties, responsibilities. With the kind of life he led, he might not be there when he was needed.

He might not live that long.

Still, the deed was done. He was leg-shackled for better or worse, and now that the circumstances had changed, he meant to make the best of it.

Damien looked up from his pacing in time to see Alexa and her little blond maid come into the room. The day had turned sunny and warm, and only a light breeze stirred the flower-scented late spring air. His wife had dressed accordingly, choosing a mint-green muslin day dress sprigged with tiny yellow flowers. Her cheeks were no longer pale, her eyes had returned to their clear leafy green, and when she glanced in his direction, something tightened low in his belly.

“Good morning,” he said.

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

“I wanted you to get some sleep.”

“I do feel better. Thank you, my lord.”

“Damien,” he corrected, taking her hand. She looked decidedly uneasy, uncertain of what he expected, and after all that had happened, he didn’t blame her.

“Damien,” she repeated, a flush stealing into her cheeks, but her features still looked wary.

He turned to her little maid, Sarah. “The carriage is waiting out front. Your mistress and I will join you there in a moment.”

“Aye, ye lordship.” Sarah headed for the door, and Alexa turned to look up at him, an unspoken question in her eyes.

“I told you today we would talk … if you’re feeling up to it, that is.”

“I feel fine.” She gazed off toward the taproom. “What happened to the peddler?”

“He and his friend made a hasty retreat. They really did seem to be harmless. I’m glad you stopped me when you did.”

A faint smile tugged at her lips. Damien took her arm and together they walked outside the inn. A small brook babbled along a grassy pathway in the rear, so he turned and led her off in that direction. A meadow fanned out to the left, thick with cat’s tail, melic grass, and cocksfoot. Cowslip and marigolds bloomed at the edge of the creek.

“I know these past few days have been hard on you. I’m sorry for the part I’ve played in that.”

She glanced up at him oddly. “Sorry? You went to a great deal of trouble to accomplish your ends, I cannot credit that you would be sorry.”

He shoved past the thread of guilt stealing its way into his mind. “I’ve been thinking about that—about Peter, I mean. Before I met you, I thought I’d worked things out. I held you responsible for Peter’s death. I believed you were callous and unfeeling, that you cared nothing at all for my brother, and I meant to see you pay.” He cleared his throat. “During the past two days, I’ve come to realize…”

When he didn’t continue, she stopped and turned. “Yes, my lord?”

“What I’m trying to say is that I know we went into this marriage for all the wrong reasons. I don’t deny I meant to hurt you. The truth is, I set out to ruin you. I planned it for weeks, I followed you and baited you, then in the end … well, I tried my best to prevent it. Even then I was beginning to have my doubts.”

For a long while she said nothing. When she spoke, there was a disturbing tenor in her voice. “You planned very carefully, my lord.”

“Yes, I did, God forgive me. I’ve always been good at carrying out a plan.”

“Strange as it may sound, I cannot fault you for it. Peter is dead because of me. Once I almost lost Rayne. I hated the woman responsible. If he had died, I would have gone to any lengths to see her pay. I know only too well how you must feel about me.”

Damien held her uncertain gaze. There were dark turbulent shadows in the depths of her eyes. “It’s true in the beginning I felt that way … before I met you. But you’re nothing at all like I thought you were. You were young and innocent that summer two years ago, merely trying your feminine wings. My brother was equally inexperienced. The combination was explosive—lethal—but I can see now that you never meant to hurt him.”

A spark of some hidden emotion leapt in her eyes. The pulse beating softly at the base of her throat picked up speed. “No … I never meant to hurt him.”

“I’m sorry I forced this marriage, Alexa. I would suggest we have it annulled but the damage to you would be fierce. The fact is, we’re married and there is nothing we can do about it.”

The spark in her eyes slowly faded. Hot color infused her cheeks. “I resigned myself to that fact some time ago.” Alexa turned away, unconsciously squaring her shoulders. He had said something wrong, but he wasn’t exactly certain what it was. She started back toward the inn, but he caught her arm.

“I’m handling this badly. With the other women I’ve known, it didn’t matter. With you … The truth is, I’ve never dealt with a wife before; I’m not quite certain how to proceed.”

“Just say what it is you are thinking.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “I’m thinking that the reason for our marriage is no longer important. What matters is that you’re my wife. I thought—hoped—that perhaps, given time, we might be able to make things work between us … that is, if you wanted them to.”

Alexa’s head came up. Her eyes, more uncertain than he had ever seen them, searched every inch of his face. “After all that has happened, my lord, it is hard for me to believe you want a marriage in truth.”

“I’m certain that it is. That’s why I’m suggesting we take things slowly at first, get to know each other a little. Tomorrow we’ll reach the castle. Once we’re there, things will settle down. I’ll show you around your new home, and we’ll have the chance to talk. Perhaps we can gain a new understanding.”

Damien reached for her, caught her wrist, and Alexa felt the warmth of his touch flow into her. There was strength in his hands, yet they felt undeniably gentle.

“When the time is right,” he said, “I’ll come to you as a husband.”

Alexa knew a tightening around her heart, a swelling of hope tempered by an edge of fear. She had only just resigned herself to a lifetime of misery with a man who despised her. Now he was offering to forget the past, to build the kind of future she had once dreamed. Did he really mean it? Did she dare to trust him, have faith in him again?

“I want to believe you … it’s just that…”

Damien squeezed her hand, his features suddenly grim. “I know.”

She tried to read his expression, saw the tension in the muscles pulled taut across the high bones in his cheeks. What he offered was more than she had expected, and though she risked a great deal in accepting his proposal, it was a chance she had to take.

“I’m willing to try, my lord, if you are.”

Damien smiled. It was unlike any smile she had ever seen, like a ray of sun shining down from the heavens, making him look like the handsome dark angel she had once thought him.

“Thank you.” Raising her hand, he pressed his lips against her palm, and a melting sensation slid through her body. “My lady.”

They said nothing more, just made their way back to the carriage. Some of the strain had eased, yet she sensed a new sort of tension between them. If he meant what he said, the past would at last be forgotten. Damien Falon would come to her, become her husband in truth.

He would hold her as he had in the garden, kiss her as he had at the inn. Her limbs felt weak just to think of it, her stomach tightened, and her mouth suddenly felt cotton-dry. Her gaze swung to his broad, hard-muscled chest, and her nipples peaked beneath the fabric of her dress.

She desired him, she realized, as she had almost from the moment she had met him. And from the smoky, half-veiled look in his incredible blue eyes, he desired her too.

And yet …

She couldn’t help wondering, was this caring man the real Damien Falon? Or just another facade he had invented to get what he wanted? Was revenge still his goal, or simply a soft, willing woman to warm his bed? Time would tell.

She wondered if he still played the game.

*   *   *

The ride to Falon was uneventful. They went east from Tunbridge Wells to the village of Rye, then north along the coast till they came to the castle. Damien was polite yet reserved, seeing to her needs, solicitous but keeping mostly to himself. For much of the journey, he rode with the coachman atop the carriage, leaving her inside with Sarah. Alexa was grateful. She needed time to sort out her feelings, to prepare herself to accept her husband and the life that lay ahead.

By the time they reached the coast, she began to feel a growing anticipation. Perhaps things would work out after all. Sooner or later she would have been forced to marry. Lord Falon would certainly not have been her brother’s choice, but what of her? She couldn’t deny the earl was as handsome as he was intriguing, or say that she wasn’t attracted. Perhaps marriage to the handsome lord would fulfill her heart’s dream.

Or perhaps a lifetime of hell awaited, and Peter would truly be avenged.