Flat on his back, Marcus stared up through the darkness to the canopy above. Against his side Elizabeth curled, her thigh atop his, her arm across his waist. The warm, soft feel of her curves was heaven after the loneliness of their wedding night. Dawn had arrived without him sleeping a wink. He’d paced for hours, fighting the urge to return to her, to hold her, as he had during the nights of their affair. He’d thought the physical distance would help him find objectivity, but when he awoke to find her gone, he’d realized how hopeless that endeavor was.
Their row, and the gulf it created, had shown him the folly in pushing her away. Damn it, she was his wife! He’d waited all these years to have her, only to turn away from her once she was his.
Elizabeth stirred, and then sat up. Heedless of her nakedness, she settled back on her heels. She presented such a vision of loveliness Marcus almost forgot to breathe. Wanting to see her in all her glory, he slid from the bed to light the bedside taper.
“If you walk out that door, don’t visit me again,” she said coldly.
He stilled, fighting the urge to snap back. While her threat to bar him from her bed was not one he would accept, ever, he understood it was his own churlish behavior that prompted her to throw down the gauntlet.
“I simply wish to throw some light on the situation.”
She made no sound, but he could sense her sudden relief and closed his eyes. He had every right to protect her, and his goal had been worthy, but the execution had been a terrible mistake. How much damage had he inflicted? She said nothing of St. John to him . . . she didn’t trust him . . .
“Are you still angry?” she asked hesitantly.
He sighed aloud. “I haven’t yet decided. What happened today? Tell me everything.”
Behind him, she shifted uncomfortably and his hackles rose. “St. John approached me. H-he claims to want to help me. I believe he—”
“In what way did he offer to help?”
“He didn’t say. Your mother arrived. He was unable to finish speaking.”
“Dear God,” he exclaimed, horrified at the thought of St. John in such close proximity to his wife and his mother.
“He knows who desires Hawthorne’s journal.”
“Of course he does.” His voice was gritty with renewed anger. He should have killed the pirate.
Leaving the bed, Marcus took a moment to stoke the fire and relight the extinguished taper. Then he returned to Elizabeth and eyed her suspiciously. “You are not the type of woman who succumbs to fits of vapors. You forget I have seen you shoot a man without a qualm. You are hiding something from me.” He arched a brow in silent query.
Her gaze met his.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier, Elizabeth?”
“I was feeling cross.”
Marcus narrowed his gaze. He knew she could be spiteful when angered, but she was not stupid. Anger alone would not prevent her from protecting herself. Something was amiss, he could feel it. She was attempting to conceal information and he considered all possibilities. Perhaps the pirate had threatened her in some manner. If so, he intended to discern the cause and attend to it directly. More than he already had.
“Where did you go?” she asked when the silence stretched out.
“To locate St. John, of course.”
Her eyes widened and then dropped to his torso. She gaped. “Look at you! You’ve been hurt.”
“He revealed even less information than you, dear wife. But I’m certain he now understands the foolishness of approaching you again.”
“What did you do?” Her fingertips drifted with heartening concern to the spreading bruise that marred his ribs.
He shrugged, completely unaffected by her horrified gaze. “St. John and I simply engaged in casual discourse.”
She poked brutally into the swelling and he winced. “That does not come from talking,” she argued. “And look at your hand.” She examined his swollen knuckles and shot him a chastising glance.
Marcus grinned. “Better you should look at St. John’s face.”
“Ridiculous. I want you to stay away from him, Marcus.”
“I will,” he agreed, “If he stays away from you.”
“Aren’t you curious as to what manner of help he’s offering?”
Marcus grunted. “He made no offer of assistance to me. He is deceiving you, love. Attempting to win your trust so you will give the book to him.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to argue further, then thought better of it. It was best if Marcus didn’t dig too far into Christopher St. John. It was miraculous that nothing more than blows were exchanged. She marveled at her husband’s restraint. That the pirate continued his activities chafed Marcus, she had no doubt, but he forced himself to wait. For what, she was not certain. There must be something Eldridge wanted with St. John, or they would have disposed of him long ago.
She was startled when Marcus reached for her hand and tugged her face-first onto the bed. He rolled over her, caging her to the mattress. It was then she noted his erection, the tip of it pressing into the curve of her derriere.
“You are my wife,” he growled in her ear. “I expect you to tell me of the things that happen in your life, to share things with me, even if they seem inconsequential, but most especially when the matter is so dire. I will not tolerate your lying to me or withholding things from me. Do I make myself clear?”
She pursed her lips. The brute.
He thrust his hips forward and his cock glided through the valley between her buttocks, his path eased by the weeping head. “I will not have you putting your life in danger. You should never leave the house without me. Can you understand how worried I was? Wondering if you were in danger . . . wondering if you needed me.”
“You are aroused,” she replied, surprised.
“You are naked,” he said simply, as if only that was enough. “You must learn to trust me, Elizabeth.” His lips moved against her shoulder as he stroked himself with her prone body. “I will try to be worthy of it.”
Elizabeth’s hands fisted in the sheets and she hid her sudden tears. “I’m sorry I made you angry.”
Marcus nuzzled her throat. “I apologize to you, as well.”
“I accept, on the condition you share my bed.” Elizabeth moaned as he thrust again, a slow deliberate glide that left a damp trail behind. Heat blossomed instantly. With a forlorn sigh, she closed her eyes. She should have told him the truth when she had the chance. Now he would always wonder why she hid it from him.
“My bed is bigger,” he drawled, slightly breathless.
Her heart swelled with tenderness. The urge to tell him about her kinship with St. John was nearly overwhelming. But now was not the time.
She arched her hips upward impatiently. “If we switched locations, would you hurry?”
Lifting enough to allow her to her knees, he entered her from behind with a single powerful stroke.
“Sweet Elizabeth,” he groaned, his cheek to her back. “We can switch rooms tomorrow.”
Elizabeth waited in the far reaches of the garden. Pacing with impatience, she spun about quickly as she heard approaching footsteps.
“Mr. James! Thank God, you’ve come.”
Avery stopped before her, frowning. “Why have you sent for me?” He glanced around. “Where is Lord Westfield?”
She took his arm and tugged him behind a tree. “I require your assistance and Westfield must not know of it.”
“I beg your pardon? Your husband is the agent assigned to assist you.”
She gripped his arm tighter to convey her urgency. “Christopher St. John approached me yesterday. He claims to be brother to Hawthorne. I must know the truth.”
Avery was stunned into silence.
Looking over his shoulder, she watched the path behind him. “Westfield was furious when he learned of the meeting. He left the house to search for St. John.” She lowered her voice. “They exchanged blows.”
Avery’s mouth quirked with a rare smile. “Well, then.
All was well.”
“How can you say that?” she cried.
“Lord Westfield was merely making a point. And releasing some steam in the process.”
“How can you condone such rash behavior?”
“I do not condone it, Lady Westfield, but I can understand his motivation. Your husband is an excellent agent. I am certain he did not go into the encounter without careful planning. He would never have allowed emotion to rule his actions.”
Elizabeth snorted. “I assure you, he was highly strung when he departed.”