Chapter 16
CHAPTER 16
“If I go forward, I am afraid my journey may be in vain; and if I return, I fear the things I have already seen.”
Dante’s Divine Comedy
M arco could hear his knock echoing through the bowels of the manor; from the sparseness of the entry hall and the deliberation of his thunk, it sounded like a crack of overhead thunder. MacNaby would certainly know that he had arrived.
Putting his ear to the door to listen for the butler’s approach, his finger hovering over the trigger and ready to fire, Marco sought to keep his calm as the desire to break the door down made his heart pound in his ears.
He heard nothing for a couple of interminable minutes, but just as he stepped forward to bring down the knocker a second time, the creak of a metal key in the lock informed him his foe had arrived.
Marco tensed, aiming the pistol to where the door would open, but reminding himself that the butler could be using Molly as a shield. The door swung open to reveal a shadowy form.
He blinked, hastily pointing the pistol down at the ground lest he accidentally pull the trigger.
“Molly?”
She was framed by flickering light from the dim wall sconces, and she was … alone?
“What took you so long?” she asked, her tone almost annoyed, but then her lip quivered and she burst into tears. Despite it being the second weeping woman to disrupt his day, Marco found that, unlike Miss Dubois’s tears which had merely made him uncomfortable, Molly’s tears were devastating. It was as if he had re-entered the eighth circle of hell from his recent nightmares.
Peering into the hall behind her, he saw a few small furnishings, covered by dust cloths and leering like tiny specters in the low light, but he could see no evidence of a lurking blackguard. Marco tucked the pistol away and quickly entered the manor, shutting the cold winds out behind him. Then he wrapped his arms about her in a tight embrace, tucking her head under his chin so that she wept into his overcoat.
It took a few moments to compose herself, and when the last of her sobs had subsided, he leaned back to gaze into her face. “Molly, where is MacNaby?”
Her eyelids were puffy and red, and he wanted to place kisses to soothe them, but he needed to address the danger first.
“I convinced him to leave.”
Marco shook his head, hoping that would clear his befuddled thoughts, yet he remained just as confused. “What?”
“I tried it a few times, but eventually when we reached Elmstead, I pointed out that he had not hurt anyone. That Simon was happy in his new role. That Madeline might even now be bearing his grandchild. He threatened me repeatedly, but I did not let up. I reasoned that MacNaby is not a bad man. He had not hurt anyone yet. I even pointed out that if he had truly intended to kill you, would he not have succeeded? That perhaps his failure to do so was a sign he did not wish to walk that path.”
He blinked rapidly, but he still had difficulty gathering his wits. “And that worked?”
“Not at first, but I persisted. I think the notion of a grandchild was what swayed him. Lady Blackwood had used his desire for legacy to trap him into this grim pact, so I used the same to break her thrall over him.”
Pride in her courage and ingenuity swelled in his chest. He should have guessed, as his brother and friends had suggested, that Molly would find a way to take care of herself. The intrepid young woman must have persisted with her arguments for hours if the butler had got her all the way to Elmstead before finally relinquishing his mission. Marco supposed he was well aware that she was a tenacious negotiator, finding himself wholly entangled these past few days by her compelling nature.
“Where is he now?”
“I advised him to take the coin Lady Blackwood had given him to complete her mission and perhaps find the closest port. I expect he will sail from English soil by the end of the night because he left some hours ago. I confess, as part of our negotiation, I encouraged him to raid the silver so he would have sufficient funds to make his escape. I thought the baron would not mind.”
He shook his head in disbelief. Part of him wanted to holler out for his fellow rescuers so they might chase MacNaby to ground. The butler would likely head for the London Docks as the closest departure point, but he had several hours’ head start and seen the error of his ways. “Uncle John will be overjoyed to recover you at such a low ransom to the Blackwood coffers.”
Suddenly the dread of the past few hours coalesced, and Marco grabbed her firmly by her upper arms to stare deep into her eyes.
“You are the most—” Marco’s English failed him as a tidal wave of relief, anger, and fear for Molly swept through him. “— esasperante ?”
“Infuriating,” she responded, staring back at him with those opalescent eyes.
“Provocatoria?” he continued.
“Provocative,” Molly replied.
“Allettante?”
“Enticing.”
“Deliziosa?”
“Delectable?” She said the last with a bit of a squeak, as if overpowered by his words.
“—woman I have ever met!” he finished, and his mouth found hers, tasting her salty tears and cinnamon essence with profound relief.
Time stood still as he unleashed his passion, kissing her with deep and pressing need until the flames of the eighth circle licked in his gut, and heat rushed through his veins. Molly moaned, her lips parting, and he claimed her mouth, exploring her with his tongue and cupping her head to lock her in place.
Why had he prevaricated about choosing this life? Molly was indeed the grand prize, but there was much potential to pursuing this course and he had been an imbecile to resist it. He hungered for her, pressing closer as he caressed and kneaded down her back until he found the luscious, rounded cheeks that sashayed so sensually beneath her skirts in his dreams and cupped them to pull her against him. She kissed him back with an ardor that provoked a stirring in his loins, clamoring with awareness of her femininity as he ground his hips against hers?—
The sound of heavy footsteps had them pulling apart in alarm, and they turned to find Sebastian and Angelo had entered from the back of the manor. His brother had already dropped his gaze to examine his boots, while the Norseman folded his arms to grin like a pleased fool. “Miss Carter is well, I see.”
Marco released her and Molly quickly scampered behind him in embarrassment, raising hands to heated cheeks before straightening her gown and checking her hair surreptitiously.
Angelo coughed into his fist, clearly uncomfortable at finding his brother in the throes of passion, and Marco thanked the heavens he was wearing a thick overcoat to hide the evidence of his lust. “Where is MacNaby?”
“Miss Carter convinced him of the error of his ways. He is likely at the docks negotiating his passage to—” Marco shrugged. “—the Continent? Constantinople? The Americas? It is far too late to catch up with him.”
Sebastian arched his blond brows, clearly impressed. “Well played, Miss Carter.”
Molly had apparently recovered her equilibrium, dropping a quick curtsy. “Thank you, Lord Sebastian.”
Marco roused himself, his passion finally receded, to check on the caretaker, whom they found uninjured. After a while, Angelo rode his mount to summon their carriage. When it drew up, the four men and Molly stood staring at it in consternation.
“Did we not plan how to return Molly home once we rescued her?” Lorenzo asked, his irritation obvious.
“It would appear not,” replied Marco.
“Lorenzo can ride your mount back to London,” Sebastian suggested.
“Why must I ride the horse?” Lorenzo grumbled.
“Because I am decidedly heavier than you,” laughed the Norseman. “The fresh air will do you good, my friend.” He slapped the lean frame of the Italian on the back, perhaps with more force than he realized when Lorenzo appeared slightly unbalanced.
Duncan held out his hand to Molly. “May I assist you, miss?”
Molly hurried forward, accepting his help to clamber into the dark interior, which was when Marco caught a flash of bared ankles to rekindle his earlier passions. Where had her stockings gone? Then he groaned inaudibly at the thought of those long limbs locked around him. Did she still wear her garters?
Following her into the carriage, he took his place on the bench beside her—eager to maintain their proximity and to feel the warmth of her unharmed body as confirmation that this nightmare had finally ended.
Angelo and Sebastian took their places, and the carriage rolled forward.
“Do you think we have to worry about MacNaby returning?” His brother had addressed his question to Molly.
“I do not think so. His heart was not committed to doing evil.”
“How do you know that?” Marco queried, genuinely curious why she seemed so confident.
“I just think that his attempts were halfhearted. He could have done something more decisive, such as poisoning you. Instead, he chose methods that were prone to failing. Sabotaging the carriage? You were traveling within London, so the vehicle was never going to reach lethal speeds. The urn on the roof? The noise of it attracted your attention, and you had time to fling us from its path.” Molly stopped, looking at the others with mild embarrassment. Marco realized she had just revealed her presence during the second murder attempt. She licked her lips before continuing. “And the fire could have been orchestrated to take hold far more quickly than it did, yet you had time to awaken and sound the alarm. When he took me hostage, I sensed him dithering and uncertain of what he wished to do with me. His discomfort when he tied me up in Edgware was palpable. Lady Blackwood is no longer here to encourage him, and deep down I believe he could see Simon did not need any more strife. I think it was just difficult for him to change his mind about the course he was on, and he needed a reason to release himself from his promise to Isla Scott. I might be na?ve, but to me, he appeared unburdened when he made his choice to leave.”
Marco nodded and went quiet, lost in his thoughts about the day’s events.
It was intimidating to realize that Molly was pure strength. A formidable woman who knew how to take care of herself. But Marco wanted to be a man she could lean on, someone who added to her strength. How was he to demonstrate that he was such a man when the confounding female had rescued herself without his help? How was he to prove his worth under such circumstances?
While he was eternally grateful she was safe, it did offer a puzzle to reflect on how to display his esteem in a meaningful manner when his rescue effort had proved … how to say it … ridondante … redundant?
He could imagine his mother tearing up with mirth at his ridiculous circumstances. His English girl who made him both proud and humbled had now relegated him to basking in his irrelevance as an ineffectual mollaccione —how did the English call this? Milksop!
One thing was for certain: Angelo was right. Molly was incomparable. No one like her had come before, and none would come after. She was a priceless jewel who had cut his pride off at the knees like a ruthless enemy in the heat of battle. It smarted. It smarted as if he stood within Dante’s gates of hell. If he could not balance their character traits and place them on equal footing, despite his desires, she would remain out of bounds.
Marco recalled how he, his brother, and his friends had secured the manor with Duncan, including ensuring that the old caretaker, quite shaken by the evening’s events, was well. Sipping on a brandy that Sebastian had poured for him, the man told them how he had been convinced that the mad butler was going to off them with the pistol he had been brandishing with a wild look in his eyes. From the caretaker’s account, Marco was able to confirm that Molly had been relentless in the face of repeated threats of violence from MacNaby, wearing down his resolve until, to the caretaker’s astonishment, the reprobate had abruptly decided to leave without further word.
“I were afeared for ’er, I were. But Miss Carter, she just yammered on ’bout babies ’til Mr. MacNaby give up! I ain’t never ’eard the like!”
Marco had listened to the servant’s account with a knot of fear in his stomach—what a risk that Molly had taken. It was still difficult to credit that it had worked.
Molly had dozed off, her head coming to rest on Marco’s shoulder. When she awakened, she pretended to sleep a little longer so she might draw in the scent of his shaving soap and recall the feel of his hard body pressed against hers. After such an awful day, his arrival and passionate kiss had improved her general outlook.
She still considered herself a complete ninny for bursting into tears, but she supposed the stresses had finally caught up with her in that moment when she had finally seen him and realized they were both safe from harm.
Eventually, she straightened up and opened her eyes to find they had reached the outskirts of London.
Licking her lips, she asked into the dark carriage, “What will happen now?”
Marco glanced at her before returning his gaze to the window. “What do you mean?”
“Are you returning to Florence?”
He hesitated, and her heart sank. Somehow, during her escapade, Molly had convinced herself that when they were reunited … they would remain reunited. She had been so desperate to see him, and his embrace at Elmstead and the heady words he had voiced—they had increased her hopes that there was reason to believe that being taken hostage should tip the scales. It might have been wishful thinking on her part.
Her eyes prickled as tears threatened a second time. Molly fought them back, unwilling to release them with such a large audience. Although Lord Sebastian was making a point of inspecting his gloves, and Angelo had taken a sudden interest in the hedgerows, as if they were attempting to grant them privacy within the cramped interior.
Marco released a sigh. “Are all English girls so forward?”
She winced at the forthright question, but she supposed she had brought it on herself. Waiting to speak in private would have been more discreet than questioning him about his future in front of others.
“No, just me.”
Marco reached up to thump the roof of the carriage, which slowly rumbled to a stop. Creaking announced Duncan’s descent, and he appeared shortly in the window.
“We are taking a brief break to stretch our legs,” called Marco. Duncan nodded, opening the door and setting the steps in place. Angelo and Sebastian quickly exited, apparently understanding that Marco sought to speak with Molly.
When they were out of earshot, Marco turned back. “I am considering … everything. Finding you unharmed—it was sheer, sweet heaven to find you unharmed. But my thoughts are—how do you say—scrambled, and I need time to sort them out.”
“I understand.” She did, but her impatience knew no bounds. What she wished for was that he would take her back in his arms and finish their kiss. She wanted to join him in his bedchamber so he might make her his forevermore. After facing the possibility of death, she yearned to savor life. But it was understandable that he felt drained while she felt energized to grab life with both hands and take what she wanted in case she never had another opportunity to do so.
Waiting for his arrival, she had had time to consider the frailty of humanity. How one could not take it for granted that there would be another morning, and that regret was a bitter mistress. To be fair, she had had time to digest what had happened, while Marco had arrived at Elmstead unaware that she had secured her safety—believing she might be hurt or dead.
But he had come to the door as MacNaby had demanded. Surely it meant something that he had believed he was risking his life by knocking on the door?
Marco leaned over to buss her on the cheek and caress her fingers as if to assure her. It raised a lump in her throat that made it almost impossible to swallow.
“Perhaps we can discuss this in the morning? It has been a long and difficult day, no?”
“In the morning,” she agreed, mollified by his gentle words as she hovered between disappointment and hope. What were they to discuss? It was impossible to read his mood and assess whether he considered that their conversation would be good or bad news.
Marco turned back to the open door and called out. His brother and Lord Sebastian returned, entering, and she saw Angelo glance at his brother with a questioning look, but Marco refused to react. He was keeping his thoughts to himself, it would seem.