But nothing, his instincts told him, were coincidental where that man was concerned.
He had been dressed like one of the Rom. A good disguise for anyone with the colouring to pass. The local people, half afraid of the wandering bands, could not single one individual out from another.
‘Time to get back,’ he said, and brought Corinth’s head round, away from the gathering clouds, pregnant with snow. Nell was drooping in the saddle a little now. Marcus watched her covertly from the corner of his eye, as she straightened her shoulders and sat up. She shouldn’t have been riding, not after that blow to the head, and he suspected she would suffer for it tomorrow, but he was glad he had not missed that moment of shared laughter. How long was it since he had given in to unrestrained mirth like that? Too long. Not since Hal had been at home.
Nell had gained weight and curves and some colour in her cheeks since the day he had first seen her, he decided. Her figure was recovering the shape it was meant to have and the sharpness had gone from her cheekbones and wrists. She was a lovely woman, perhaps not in the conventional manner of the young ladies gracing Almack’s—she was lacking their trained poise and perfect grooming—but her naturalness was far more appealing to him.
Corinth took advantage of the slack rein to turn his head and nuzzle Firefly, who tossed her head and took a few tittupping steps.
‘Stop flirting, you old rake,’ Marcus admonished, getting a grip on both the reins and his wandering thoughts. Beside him Nell gave a little snort of laughter and he felt his own lips quirk in response.
Damn it, but she was seducing him somehow. She had no obvious wiles, no tricks. Every time he thought he had been mistaken in his doubts about her, something happened to make him suspicious all over again, and yet he could not stop thinking about her in ways that were utterly unwise. And acting that way as well. Why had he kissed her in the inn? He wished he knew, because every time his mouth touched hers he was left with yet another memory to torment him at night and no answers to his questions.
Nell would not admit it out loud, but the sight of the house was very welcome. Her thighs ached, her bottom ached—she did not remember having bones just there but they seemed to be sticking into the saddle—and her shoulders ached. She lifted her chin a notch as they went through the stable yard arch and made herself smile at the groom who came to take Firefly’s reins.
As Havers went to Corinth’s head, Marcus swung down, and came across to hold up his hands to help her. It felt so intimate as his fingers closed around her waist that her breath caught, even as she chided herself for such an unsophisticated response to the familiarity. He had lifted her down at the posting house. Ladies allowed grooms or gentlemen they hardly knew to assist them in this way without thinking anything of it. It certainly meant nothing to him, she assured herself, kicking her foot out of the stirrup and lifting her leg from the pommel. Then, as she began her controlled slide down to the ground, her eyes met his and she stopped breathing altogether.
Who would have thought those dark grey eyes could smoulder like that? With infinite slowness Marcus eased her down, her breasts brushing against his coat, the habit rucking up with the friction from his breeches. She felt her lips part, her lids felt heavy, and yet she could not break eye contact. And then the heat was replaced with doubt, with questions, and her breath came back with a force that made her dizzy, and she was standing on her own feet wondering if she had imagined it all.
‘Marcus?’
‘It is nothing. I have tired my shoulder, I should have let Havers help you down.’
And that was a lie, Nell thought, puzzled. If she had learned one thing about Marcus Carlow it was that he did not willingly admit to physical weakness. Had he glimpsed that enigmatic figure on the crown of the hill? In which case, why not say so? Because he is determined not to trust you, of course, she told herself. You are not a lady so you are an obvious suspect. And if his father was innocent of wrongdoing when Papa died, he was most certainly guilty of a suspicious mind and lack of faith in his friend. Like father, like son. At least Marcus had not renewed his offer of a carte blanche.
But when she came down before dinner, bathed, changed and rested, his mood had switched again. In fact, the entire family seemed cheerful and harmonious, and it did not take Nell long to realize that it was a significant improvement in Lord Narborough’s mood that had lifted all their spirits.
‘Papa is so much better,’ Verity whispered, linking her arm through Nell’s and steering her towards the sofa. ‘I heard him say to Marc that a little danger is always invigorating, which I do not understand. What danger? Unless he means Marc being shot, and one would hardly call that invigorating.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Nell agreed with feeling. ‘But who knows with men? They may be talking about a dangerous wager on a cock fight.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Verity agreed, with her touching ability to think the best about everyone and everything. ‘Did you enjoy your ride?’
Dinner was animated enough for Nell to retreat unnoticed into her thoughts. Slowly she was becoming accustomed to the reality of what had happened to her father. She had known something had been very wrong all the time she was growing up, she could see that now. She had not even been truly surprised about the manner of his death. At some point in her childhood, perhaps when she was far too young to understand, something had been said, something that as she had grown came to make sense—a sense that she simply had not wanted to confront.
So, what do you do, faced with a best friend who is accused of being a murderer and perhaps a spy? she wondered, watching Lord Narborough’s expression as he talked to Honoria.
You help him escape, surely? But what if the victim is also a friend and you honestly believe the first friend to be a traitor? Would honour forbid you to help? Male honour was a touchy thing, she knew, beginning to have a glimmering of the dilemma that confronted Lord Narborough.
After the meal the men left their port early, coming into the salon in time to applaud a spirited country dance Honoria was performing on the piano. Verity joined her for a duet, a sweetly sentimental ballad that had Lady Narborough dabbing at her eyes. Lord Narborough closed the backgammon board and settled back to listen.
The countess was persuaded to the piano to perform a short Mozart piece, but all his sisters’ teasing would not get Marcus to sing.
‘And what about Miss Latham?’ the earl enquired, peering into her shadowy corner. ‘Will you not play for us?’
‘I am afraid I cannot, my lord.’ She could just recall the presence of a piano in the parlour, but it had been sold early on.
‘But you can sing?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she admitted warily. ‘But my voice is quite untrained and I have hardly sung for so long—’ Not since before Mama’s illness when she had sat with Mama and Rosalind, their voices mingling, all their worries forgotten in the music. Mama had a beautiful voice, Rosalind one almost as good. Her own performance she found hard to judge.
‘Try now,’ Lady Narborough urged.
Nell came to her feet. It seemed churlish not to join in the harmless entertainment. ‘Very well, but I do not answer for the results; I may set the hounds howling.’
There was a pile of song sheets on the piano. Verity spread them out for her as Nell bit her lip, scanning them for something simple and familiar. ‘This one.’ She handed the music to Honoria, who propped it on the stand and played the introductory bars. Nell took a deep breath, fixed her eyes on a still
