‘I must speak to Shorey—or Hooper. Immediately!’

Shorey and Hooper were the grooms who had driven the cart into the woods with Mary to rescue Lord Rothley.

‘Can you not give me a message for them? It is late and I am certain they will be abed at this hour. I promise to relay any message to them in the morning.’

‘I suppose there is nothing they can do tonight.’

He groped until he found her wrist. His touch set her skin aflame but he appeared oblivious to the effect he had on her.

‘Tell Shorey and Hooper to go to the top pastures and bring the sheep nearer to home. They must go at first light.’

‘The top pastures?’ she queried. ‘Not the hills? But what about the sheep the men were taking? Did they succeed? Are they all gone?’

‘The men panicked and fled after they shot me. I managed to drive the sheep down...’

‘After you were shot? What were you thinking? You should have ridden straight away for help.’

His expression was grave. ‘Those animals will mean all the difference to the Hall this year. But they’re not safe, all the way up there. You must tell the men. Promise me.’

‘I promise. Please don’t worry.’

Rothley released Mary’s wrist, heaving a sigh as his lids closed. Mary rose and crossed the room to put the washcloth back in the basin.

‘Who are you?’ The soft query returned her attention to the man in the bed. His dark eyes glittered in the candlelight.

‘Mary Vale, my lord.’

‘Ah, yes, of course. I do remember. Sensible Mary.’

Mary turned away. How did that name still have the power to hurt? ‘Sensible Mary.’ What they really meant was Dull Mary. The name felt like an insult. Once upon a time she had been young and carefree, full of laughter. But now...

Rothley’s eyes had closed once more and he appeared to be drifting off to sleep, to her relief. She settled back into her chair, raking through the happenings of the day. How did he elicit such a ready response from her, despite him being everything she feared and despised in a man? Was it lust over an arresting face and a tantalising body? She pictured his strong arms and shoulders, the hard, muscled planes of his chest, the long, lean legs and the taut buttocks, glimpsed as the doctor extracted the bullet from his thigh. He was a man any woman might desire, but she could not risk yielding to temptation again.

Experience had taught her the physical act of love was a mere fleeting pleasure if there was no emotional connection—no love—between a man and a woman. The marital act had left her feeling hollow and empty and used, and Michael had become increasingly disillusioned: resentful and angry at both her and the children. Mary had vowed never again to put herself in the position of being viewed as a burden, or to allow Toby and Emily to be resented as encumbrances. She had only to recall Rothley’s strange antipathy towards children to know nothing could come of their apparent mutual attraction.

When she looked up, Rothley had roused—if he had indeed been asleep—and now watched her with that amused glint back in his eyes, as if he knew exactly what she had been thinking.

‘Where did you come from, Sensible Mary?’ he asked, when he saw he had her attention. ‘And what were you doing in my woods?’ He held her gaze for what seemed an eternity and then added, in a soft voice, ‘And why were you stealing my horse?’

She felt herself grow pink. ‘I thought it was a short cut,’ she said, ignoring his other questions.

‘To where, may I ask?’

‘The north.’

‘This is the north.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Where did you say you had come from?’

She eyed him warily. Her instinct was to give as little information as possible. ‘The south,’ she replied, ‘and I think it is time you rested. You look exhausted. You should sleep.’

‘Mayhap you’re right.’

As he settled down into the bed he grimaced.

‘Are you in pain?’ Mary asked. ‘The doctor left some laudanum for you.’

A flash of alarm crossed his face.

‘What is it? What is wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong. In answer to your first question: yes, I am in pain, but, no, I don’t want laudanum. I found myself in thrall to the poppy’s lure once before, in my youth. I shall never risk losing control in such a way again. Not unless I am desperate, do you hear?’

‘I hear.’ She pulled the covers up beneath his chin.

His lips twitched even as his eyelids drooped. ‘Do not imagine I shall forget, Sensible Mary. My questions will wait until tomorrow, when I am stronger. And then, I shall insist on some satisfactory answers.’

* * *

‘Mrs Vale! Mrs Vale!’

‘What is it?’ Groggy with sleep, Mary pushed herself up on one elbow. ‘Susan?’

‘Yes’m; Mrs Lindley sent me. It’s the master, ma’am. She said can you please come?’

Fully awake now, Mary threw back the covers and jumped from her bed. Susan handed her a shawl.

‘It’s one her ladyship left behind, ma’am,’ she said, in answer to Mary’s lifted brow. ‘Mrs Lindley said as how you didn’t have much in the way of clothes with you. Sorry, ma’am.’

Mary threw her a smile. ‘Don’t apologise, Susan,’ she said. ‘I am grateful for the attention. Is his lordship fevered?’

‘Oooh, yes’m. Tossin’ and turnin’ something awful, Mrs Lindley says.’

‘Has someone been sent for the doctor?’

‘Yes’m, Hooper rode out ten minutes since.’

They arrived at Rothley’s bedchamber. Mary entered to see Mrs Lindley leaning over the marquis, trying to restrain him whilst he thrashed from side to side, muttering. The tangled bedclothes had slipped to the floor.

Mrs Lindley looked up, sweat dripping down her face, as she gasped, ‘Thank goodness you’ve come.’

Chapter Four

Lucas opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. His head hurt, his shoulder ached, his leg throbbed, his mouth tasted foul and his throat was as dry and rough as the bark of a tree. With an effort, he moved his head on the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain that speared through his temple.

When he opened his eyes again, she was there.

In the chair, by the bed. His bed.

She was familiar, but a stranger. How could that be? Where had she come from?

The south. But how did he know that?

He studied her, allowing her restful presence, her alluring features, to distract him from his aches and pains. She might not be a classic beauty, but she was enchanting. Her skin was smooth and creamy, with a smattering of freckles across her small, tip-tilted nose. The colour of her eyes was hidden, but he knew they were the deep blue of cornflowers. Her long, pale lashes rested on cheeks as lush and inviting as sun-ripened peaches. Her lips—soft pink, full and tempting—were parted and, as rotten as he felt, still his loins stirred at the thought of tasting them. He frowned, a memory floating a fraction beyond his reach.

Her lips. He could feel them, he knew their taste—silky as rose petals, sweet as honey. But how? He licked his own lips, paper-dry and sour. The answer eluded him as he continued his perusal of the woman by his bed.

Her hair. He paused, feeling his forehead pucker. Why had he thought her hair to be guinea-gold? It was not. It was more beautiful by far—the soft golden colour of corn ripening in the August sunshine. Not brassy, not a mass of curls, but soft waves where it escaped from its pins. He wanted to see it loose, flowing down her back.

He frowned again as he watched her sleep, striving to remember, fragments of memories teasing at his mind: the woods, a child’s cry, Sultan, with a woman—this woman—astride, leaving him, deserting him. And something else. What else?

A pistol shot! Reivers! Stealing his sheep, his livelihood, his future!

Galvanised, he threw back the covers and made to rise. His torso barely cleared the mattress before he collapsed back in exhaustion, panting with the effort, as the pains racking his body intensified tenfold. He heard himself groan and stifled it, but it was enough to rouse the woman.