Man Of My Dreams: Secrets Of Midnight Part 9

"And more tea," Corisande muttered, her gaze flying from her br.i.m.m.i.n.g cup to an elaborately carved sideboard where a decanter of golden sherry gleamed among cut-crystal gla.s.ses. Except for some wine with her meal, she'd drunk her fill of tea all day. A long grueling day, and who knew how much longer Donovan would keep her waiting?

Corisande couldn't resist. She wasn't normally one to drink spirits, well, except on those nights after working hard to land a cargo of smuggled goods when she'd shared a nip of brandy with the men who risked their lives to cross the Channel for the good of the parish-and admittedly, to line his own pockets as well, Oliver Trelawny, the grizzled captain of the cutter Fair Betty would often laugh.

But tonight was different. Soon she and Donovan would be alone for the first time since the parsonage . . .

Corisande half flew from her chair to the sideboard and poured herself a generous amount, the sweet fortified wine infusing her with warmth as she nearly emptied the gla.s.s.

It was silly, really. She shouldn't be so nervous. She had nothing to fear. Donovan might have been leer-admiring her, but he knew better than to risk even the thought of touching her. Of course he must know, too, that she would scream to high heaven if he did so much as touch her and bring this whole houseful of spying servants down upon them, and then what would he say? No, he'd be a fool to threaten his inheritance now when it was so near to his grasp. A d.a.m.ned b.l.o.o.d.y fool.

Feeling better and certainly more confident, Corisande took another long swallow, then refilled her gla.s.s and walked back to the fire.

For heaven's sake, it was just as ridiculous that she was spending so much time worrying about Donovan when she had so much else to think about. Like her visit to see Oliver Trelawny last night, for one. She had imagined he would be concerned about her impending marriage, so after she had finished her calls she'd gone to see him at the comfortable quayside inn he ran with his wife, Rebecca, when he wasn't out fair trading, and discovered she had been right.

"Lord, Corie, how do 'ee expect to go on helping with the landings when you'll be marrying on the morrow? Do 'ee think your husband will be pleased to find 'ee gone from his bed late in the night when I've need of you?"

Her face burning, Corisande had wanted terribly to tell him the truth about her marriage, although at that point she hadn't been sure a wedding was even going to take place. She trusted the gruff, white-bearded captain with her life. But Oliver had been known a time or two to boast in his cups, and she couldn't risk that he might somehow let the truth slip.

"Lord Donovan knows how much helping the tinners means to me," she had hastily explained. "Helping the fishermen and their families in Porthleven too. It's been such a terrible time all around, and . . . and I wouldn't have considered marrying him otherwise! If I say I'm needed at a sickbed or some such thing, I'm sure he won't question me."

Oliver had pondered for a long moment, tugging at his thick beard, then he slowly nodded.

"Very well, Corie, we'll give it a try. Lord knows, you're a wonder at hiding goods an' sending them on their way, so I don't want to think of going forth without 'ee." His raspy laughter had filled the back room. "An' since 'ee a.s.sured me three years past there'd be a spot reserved in heaven if I split my trading profits with you so's 'ee could help the poor, I don't want to gamble with meeting the Old One instead, no, indeed. He'll have to save his red-hot fork for another d.a.m.ned soul!"

Yet Oliver had sobered an instant later, his weathered face grown very serious as he leaned toward her across the scarred table. "I hope this fine gentleman treats 'ee well, Corie. 'Ee know I think of you like me own daughter, an' after 'ee did so much to help my poor Sophie . . ." His voice catching, the burly sea captain had paused to shake his head, his eyes wet when he looked up again. "Well, Lord Donovan'll answer to me, is all I'm saying. You know good an' why."

Yes, she knew good and why, Corisande thought as she lifted the gla.s.s to her lips and downed the rest of the sherry, her hand slightly shaking. Lord help her, even now the memories . . . the blood, the screaming, the knife blade gleaming bright . . .

A sudden chiming made Corisande jump; her gaze flew to the ornate ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. Ten o'clock. And still no sign of Donovan.

"So much for playing the attentive bridegroom," Corisande said under her breath, which was fine with her. But what wasn't fine was waiting any longer. She was b.l.o.o.d.y tired! Discussing their next smuggling run had kept her at Oliver's until way past midnight, then she'd had to tend to Biscuit, poor pony, the long day exhausting him entirely, then try to sleep while wondering if Donovan would appear at the church or not-oh, enough!

She didn't need him or Miss Biddle to show her to her room. After all, Donovan had conducted the grand tour earlier that day, so Corisande knew the master suite was on the next floor. There was her bedchamber, then a cozy sitting room, and his much larger bedchamber. Nothing to be nervous about at all. Separate rooms, separate beds, and a door between that could be locked. Perfect.

So why did she suddenly feel the need for yet another gla.s.s of sherry? Resisting the impulse, Corisande set down her gla.s.s and left the drawing room, heading at once for the staircase.

The door to Donovan's library was still shut. No matter. At the top of the stairs, she turned into the right wing of the house, remembering what Donovan had said about how filthy and rundown everything had looked upon his arrival last Friday.

She would never have imagined such disorder, so clean and well maintained did the house look now, thanks to Miss Ellen Biddle, he had said. A pity these corridors and rooms would be empty and dark in only a few weeks' time, for despite what she'd thought in the past, she had to admit that the house was quite impressive, even lovely. But again, what did she care?

Corisande was almost to her chamber when she heard laughter and young women's voices. She stopped, the door slightly ajar, and peered into the room.

Two housemaids were turning down the bedclothes; Corisande recognized one of them as the sullen, unkempt girl who had told her last week that Henry Gilbert wasn't at home, failing to add that the Arundale agent had moved to a smaller residence on the estate. But she wasn't unkempt now, both housemaids' appearance neat as a pin, their ap.r.o.ns starched and white. More wonders accomplished by the amazing Miss Biddle, that much was clear.

"I don't see why we're turnip' down the sheets. It's not as if she'll be sleepin' 'ere tonight."

Her breath catching in her throat, Corisande leaned closer.

"No, but what old Miss Biddle says goes, 'aven't you learned that by now, Bess? You're going to find yourself discharged, you will, quick as a blink if you're not careful to mind."

"Well, it makes no sense to me," came the petulant reply, but soon husky giggles erupted. "b.l.o.o.d.y 'ell, she'll be one sore chit tomorrow, wouldn't you say, Meg? As f.a.n.n.y tells it-just this morning she did, too, whilst she was polishin' the silver and I was settin' up the table, well, she said His Lordship won't be wastin' any time in getting 'imself an heir this night. Seems Lord Donovan didn't want to marry, oh, no, but then he'll never see his inheritance. b.l.o.o.d.y sad problems these n.o.bs 'ave, eh? Seems His Grace of Arundale's wife is barren, well, only because His Grace won't sleep with her, so the ch.o.r.e's left to Lord Donovan and his common little bride."

"Bess!"

"It's true! She's barely better than us, a dotty vicar's daughter, that one. f.a.n.n.y said His Lordship had to find 'imself a country girl, a good breeder, to be exact. And so he did, quick as a jackrabbit, but I wish to 'eaven he'd looked no farther than my hips here. Wide and deep, they are, good for plowin' both day and night! And wouldn't I like to be the one sharin' Lord Donovan's bed. G.o.d help me, I feel all wet sometimes just lookin' at 'im!"

"Bess, enough now! f.a.n.n.y's probably just running her big mouth. She's only a scullery maid. How could she possibly-"

"By sleepin' with His Grace's solicitor, you pudding head! Aye, just before f.a.n.n.y left to come here. Wilkins, she said his name was-though she says he wanted her to call him 'lambkins,' the strange little fart. Seems they shared a bit of wine and one thing led to the other-aw, come on, Meg, a rousing good tumble's always the thing to loosen a man's tongue."

"Aye, I suppose you're right."

"So I am! Look at the rubbish that k.n.o.bby-kneed scarecrow Henry Gilbert used to tell me! How he wanted to marry me and take good care of me, whilst 'ere I am, plumpin' the pillows for some common Cornish chit with an ugly scar on her face and no b.r.e.a.s.t.s to speak of. Ah, but I'll just bide my time till Lord Donovan's done his duty and filled her belly, then when he casts 'is eye about, I'll . . ."

Corisande couldn't hear more; the two housemaids must have gone into the other room. But she didn't need to. Her blood thundering in her ears, she rested her forehead on the doorjamb, incredulous.

Donovan needed an heir? That . . . that . . . G.o.d help her, there were no words to describe what she thought of him now. If he had tricked her, and it b.l.o.o.d.y well sounded as if he had, she wouldn't waste time with a pitchfork, oh, no. As an army officer, he was bound to have a pistol in the house. Yes, perhaps in his room, and she had only to find it. Then she would confront him and demand to know the truth!

"Corie?"

She spun, her heart slamming, as Donovan strode toward her; it was too late now, she knew, to look for any pistol. But she had her shrew's tongue-wasn't that what Donovan had called it?-and, thank G.o.d, that had never failed her.

"Fiend," she spat, not surprised when he stopped in his tracks, those midnight eyes growing hard as he glanced behind him to see if any servants were near. "You b.l.o.o.d.y, b.l.o.o.d.y fiend! Oh, yes, I know all about you now. You need an heir, do you? An heir because your brother the Duke of Arundale won't lie with his own wife-"

"Who told you this?" Donovan cut her off, never having seen her look so furious. He moved toward her, but she dashed farther down the hall, keeping a good distance between them. Good G.o.d, if he didn't catch her and silence her soon . . . "Corie, answer me. Where did you hear-?"

Donovan didn't finish, spying movement out of the corner of his eye as he pa.s.sed Corisande's bedchamber. He stiffened as he recognized the two housemaids who had been hired long ago by Henry Gilbert, the young women laughing at something and talking between themselves while they closed the heavy velvet draperies. h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation, he would kill Henry if that fool had said a word to these women!

"Leave my wife's room. Now."

Both housemaids whirled to stare at him wide-eyed; he had clearly startled them. And his tone had clearly frightened them, for both women looked pale of a sudden and only too eager to oblige him. They dashed past him without a word and were gone, not even looking over their shoulders, which led him to believe that somehow they must surely have played a part in upsetting Corisande.

Corisande.

Donovan looked down the corridor toward his room, but she was gone, his door wide open. But he wasn't fool enough to rush in after her. Oh, no, his short three day acquaintance with this hot-tempered, unpredictable woman was enough to tell him that caution should be his guide. Instead, he stole into her bedchamber and then through the sitting room, pausing for an instant to glance inside his own room.

She was there, standing behind the door leading out to the corridor, waiting for him, a fireplace shovel raised high as if she fully intended to bash him over the head as soon as he walked into the room. She looked so intent, so vengeful, and yet so ridiculous standing there in her white wedding gown with black soot spotting her veil, that he thought he might laugh. He knew he was smiling, and when she suddenly turned, spying him, he simply gave up the chase and went to the fireplace where he sank into a deep wing chair, shaking his head.

"You . . . you think this is funny?"

She sounded so outraged and yet almost disappointed as she lowered her weapon uncertainly.

"Funny? Not at all, but what would you have me do, woman? Take up the poker and challenge you to a duel?"

Chapter 14.

A duel? Was the man mad? Corisande glared at Donovan, so angry that her face felt ablaze, yet she couldn't be sure if it might not be due to the sherry. She felt a bit dizzy, too, but oh, no, she wasn't going to drop the shovel-or her guard-for a moment. Lifting her weapon once more, she took a step from the door.

"You must feel very clever, don't you?" she demanded through her teeth. "You knew d.a.m.ned well I'd never agree to marry you if you'd said anything about a b.l.o.o.d.y heir, so like the detestable, deceitful, self-interested-"

"Loathsome?"

"Yes, loathsome!" Corisande blurted out, enraged even more that lie would make jokes and toy with her at such a moment. "Like the loathsome, despicable miscreant you are, you decided to wait and surprise-"

"There's no surprise, Corie, because there's no heir. At least I've no need of one. Put down that shovel and close the door so we can talk."

Now she gaped at him, wondering incredulously how he could sit there like some pompous monarch issuing commands while she fully intended to do him bodily harm . . . but-but wait. Hadn't he just said he needed no heir? Corisande blinked, suddenly wishing she hadn't downed those two br.i.m.m.i.n.g gla.s.ses of sherry so quickly.

"Very well, I'll close the d.a.m.ned door. No b.l.o.o.d.y sense in the servants overhearing more than they know already."

Donovan thrust himself from his chair so suddenly that Corisande gasped and stepped backward, her heel entangling in the hem of her dress. But he was there to catch her almost before she felt herself falling, looking at her quizzically as he firmly took the shovel from her hand.

"You're jumpy tonight, wife."

Corisande tensed, the infuriating wryness in his voice enough to vanquish the fuzzy cloud settling over her brain. "If I'm jumpy, it's only because you've made me so! Now let go of me!"

"As you wish."

He did, too, and before Corisande had a chance to regain her balance she fell backward, landing with a startled cry on her bottom. That drew no response from Donovan as he returned the shovel to its hook by the fireplace, then went to shut not only the door to his bedchamber, but her door as well.

Within a moment he was back, looking mildly surprised that she was still sitting quite ungracefully on the floor, her dress twisted about her knees. But when his gaze fell to her white-stockinged calves, lingering there, too, Corisande scrambled to her feet and stood somewhat dizzily, glowering at him. d.a.m.n that sherry and d.a.m.n him too!

"There. Now at least we have some privacy. Perhaps now, too, you're in more of a frame of mind to talk."

Oh, she was in a fine frame of mind, all right, but before she could utter a single word, Donovan put up his hand.

"Allow me, Corie. I don't know what you overheard from those two maids-it was the maids, yes?"

She nodded through clenched teeth.

"As I thought. By G.o.d, I'm going to strangle that Gilbert!"

"Gilbert? What are you talking about?" Corisande demanded as Donovan began to pace in front of her, his strides reminding her of a restless beast prowling a cage.

"The only way those chits could have known anything was if Gilbert told them. He knew I was coming to Cornwall to find a bride, thanks to a recent letter from my brother, who also informed him that the Trents of Dorset were in dire need of an heir."

"So you did trick me!"

"No, I didn't trick you! Nigel could have all the heirs he wanted if he'd only sleep with his wife, but I can hardly blame the man. Charlotte is a fright."

"That's unkind."

"But true. Nigel didn't choose her, my b.l.o.o.d.y father did . . ." Sighing with exasperation, Donovan ceased his pacing and shoved his fingers through his hair. "That's not the point anyway. Simply put, Corie, I didn't marry you to father an heir. I told you I needed the money. My inheritance. That's all I want out of this mess, nothing more. As far as I'm concerned, Nigel and his grand scheme for an heir can go to h.e.l.l!"

Stunned by the raw vehemence in his voice, Corisande watched as Donovan began to pace again, even more restlessly than before.

"So now you know what you overheard tonight isn't true, and by G.o.d, as soon as I see Gilbert I'm going to-"

"Why are you still blaming Henry? It wasn't he who told Bess about this heir business but f.a.n.n.y, the scullery maid. And f.a.n.n.y was told by some fellow named Wilkins."

Donovan stopped to stare at her incredulously. "Wilkins?"

"Yes, your brother's solicitor." Corisande felt her cheeks growing very warm as she debated what else was seemly for her to reveal, and how to politely say it. She cleared her throat. "It seems that f.a.n.n.y and Wilkins shared a gla.s.s or two of wine and then . . ."

"Oh, good G.o.d!" Donovan circled in front of the fireplace and then brought his hands down hard against the mantel, bracing himself there as he scowled into the fire. "That little bespectacled . . ."

He didn't finish, but Corisande could imagine what he must be thinking. Which wasn't exactly what she was thinking. Suddenly a giggle burst from her throat, then another, which made her clamp her hand over her mouth when Donovan turned to look at her, a black brow raised.

"I said something funny?"

Corisande lowered her hand, grinning like an idiot, she knew, and which she blamed wholeheartedly on the sherry. "No, but Meg did. It seems f.a.n.n.y told her this Wilkins likes being called, well . . . lambkins."

"Lambkins?"

Hearing Donovan say it only made Corisande giggle again, and this time she simply couldn't stop. It was so ridiculous! Grown people wanting to be called such silly names? And she wasn't laughing by herself, either, as a slow grin spread over Donovan's face, nothing like that devilishly charming smile at all, but something more boyish and, oddly, much more appealing.

He began to chuckle, shaking his head as he looked at the fire and then back to her, while she had to hold herself around the middle, she was giggling so hard. Her ribs hurt!

"Oh, Lord." Her words had come out with a gasp, and finally she bent over slightly at the waist to catch her breath. But when she threw back her head, still laughing to herself, she saw that Donovan wasn't chuckling anymore, just staring at her with a strange look on his face. Suddenly self-conscious, she dropped her arms slowly to her sides, the room grown silent but for the soft crackling of the flames.

"You should do that more often, Corie. Laugh. Smile. It becomes you."

She didn't know what to say. There really didn't seem to be anything she could say. Rubbing her lips together nervously, she glanced beyond him to the door leading to the sitting room. It had been closed, too, which made her grow even more fl.u.s.tered, a sudden gush of words jumping to her lips.

"I should go . . . to my room, I mean. It's late and-and I'm very tired. Good night, Donovan."

Hugging her arms tightly around her middle, Corisande went to walk past him, nearly jumping out of her skin when he reached out and blocked her way.

"You can't go, Corie. You have to sleep in here tonight, with me."

If he had said she must walk on water, she couldn't have been more surprised. Or more alarmed than she'd ever felt in her life, and she tried to bolt past him toward the door. But his arms were around her before she could blink, strong ma.s.sive arms that held her still against his body though she struggled mightily, a big hand clamping over her mouth when she inhaled to scream.

"Easy, Corie, you haven't let me finish! We have to share the same bed. It's our wedding night. But I'm not going to touch you, woman! How many times must I a.s.sure you of that? You'll have your side, and I'll stay on mine-and for G.o.d's sake, that b.l.o.o.d.y mattress is wide enough so we won't even be lying close to each other! But we have to make things look convincing to the household, remember?"

She'd already ceased struggling well before he had finished, embarra.s.sment flooding her as he slowly drew his hand away from her mouth. "Of-of course, I knew that." she stammered, trying to cover for behaving so ridiculously and yet trying not to look in the direction of that huge canopied bed. "Our wed-wedding night."

"Exactly. Now, your valise is over there behind the screen if you'd like to change."

"Change?" she parroted, once again feeling quite stupid when Donovan smiled wryly and released her.

"Unless you want to sleep in your wedding dress. But I doubt that would be very comfortable."

"No, no, probably not," she said half to herself, only too grateful to be free of Donovan's unsettling embrace. Without meeting his eyes, she rushed to take refuge behind the screen like a terrified mouse looking for its hole, which only made her feel more chagrined. Staring blindly at her valise set upon an embroidered stool, she fought to regain her composure.