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Authors: Elizabeth Rolls
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There was an embrasure behind them, deep enough to hold someone.
Determinedly he walked towards it.
Terrified, Meg stood as still as possible, watching through a small rent in the curtain as that tall, leonine figure stalked towards her hiding place. He mustn’t find her now! He had her letter in his hand! He would think it was all a take in! That she was trying to engage his sympathy! Worse, he might think, given her parentage, that she would welcome another sort of offer. The sort to which Mrs Garsby had referred.
He was coming closer. His powerful frame loomed nearer. She couldn’t think straight, she was so bitterly tired and cold and her cloak was so horribly heavy. All she could think was that Marc might hold her again, comfort her, perhaps let her cry on his shoulder. In herexhaustion, she could not imagine what else such broad shoulders could possibly be for. But no, it was Lord Rutherford, not Marc. He would be disgusted, would inquire coldly just what Miss Fellowes thought she was doing in his house.
She would not be found cowering like a frightened cur! She wouldn’t! With her head held high, she stepped out from behind the curtains, clutching her sodden portmanteau, to meet his startled gaze.
‘Meg!? What on earth are you doing here?’ He strode forward and caught her in his arms. ‘My God, you’re soaking! You silly child! They told me you had gone, gave me your letter.’ His keen eyes took in her exhaustion, her muddied cloak and the even muddier hem of her dress showing beneath it. ‘You did go! Meg, what happened?’
It was Marc! Not Lord Rutherford. It was Marc who had found her. Marc, whose worried eyes held that look of tender concern. She could tell Marc what had happened. At least…no, she couldn’t! Not all of it. If he found out what had been said, then he would feel obliged to offer for her—at least Marc would…she wasn’t so sure about Lord Rutherford. Confusion fogged her mind.
‘She had already…filled the position. She couldn’t wait…’ It was probably true; Meg consoled herself with the thought that it wasn’t an outright lie. And he was holding her again, enfolding her against his big frame, warming her, his arms a barrier against the world and its bitter chill. She leaned against him, barely conscious.
‘And you walked home? Ten miles!’ Horror stabbed through him at the thought. Ten miles in the pouring rain! She had only got out of bed for the first time that morning. What sort of woman would kick a girl out likethat? Mrs Garsby was going to be the recipient of a very nasty letter on the morrow. And if she ever showed her face in London, he would have very great pleasure in letting her know exactly what the Earl of Rutherford could do to anyone who crossed him!
In the meantime he yelled loudly for assistance. None was forthcoming. The Barlows were well out of earshot. Increasingly worried, he scanned Meg’s face. Her teeth were chattering and there was a blue tinge about her mouth. Her slight frame sagged against him helplessly and her flesh felt stone cold through the soaking garments. Damn it! She shouldn’t even be out of bed! She was still sick and if he didn’t get her warmed up quickly, she was going to suffer a relapse! Swearing under his breath, he swung her up into his arms. Desperate straits called for desperate remedies.
Meg’s brain began to function again as he lifted her. She must be soaking him. And it was Lord Rutherford, after all. His eyes had gone icy again. She must not call him Marc in that familiar way.
‘Please, my lord, I must change.’ She would feel better once she was dry. Warm would be nice too but she’d settle for dry. She did not think that she would ever be warm again. Unless, of course, Marc continued to carry her down the hall like this. That might warm her up…Carry her? What on earth was he doing? And this was his room! Why was he carrying her into it?
Suddenly frightened, she began to struggle. And discovered that
Determinedly he walked towards it.
Terrified, Meg stood as still as possible, watching through a small rent in the curtain as that tall, leonine figure stalked towards her hiding place. He mustn’t find her now! He had her letter in his hand! He would think it was all a take in! That she was trying to engage his sympathy! Worse, he might think, given her parentage, that she would welcome another sort of offer. The sort to which Mrs Garsby had referred.
He was coming closer. His powerful frame loomed nearer. She couldn’t think straight, she was so bitterly tired and cold and her cloak was so horribly heavy. All she could think was that Marc might hold her again, comfort her, perhaps let her cry on his shoulder. In herexhaustion, she could not imagine what else such broad shoulders could possibly be for. But no, it was Lord Rutherford, not Marc. He would be disgusted, would inquire coldly just what Miss Fellowes thought she was doing in his house.
She would not be found cowering like a frightened cur! She wouldn’t! With her head held high, she stepped out from behind the curtains, clutching her sodden portmanteau, to meet his startled gaze.
‘Meg!? What on earth are you doing here?’ He strode forward and caught her in his arms. ‘My God, you’re soaking! You silly child! They told me you had gone, gave me your letter.’ His keen eyes took in her exhaustion, her muddied cloak and the even muddier hem of her dress showing beneath it. ‘You did go! Meg, what happened?’
It was Marc! Not Lord Rutherford. It was Marc who had found her. Marc, whose worried eyes held that look of tender concern. She could tell Marc what had happened. At least…no, she couldn’t! Not all of it. If he found out what had been said, then he would feel obliged to offer for her—at least Marc would…she wasn’t so sure about Lord Rutherford. Confusion fogged her mind.
‘She had already…filled the position. She couldn’t wait…’ It was probably true; Meg consoled herself with the thought that it wasn’t an outright lie. And he was holding her again, enfolding her against his big frame, warming her, his arms a barrier against the world and its bitter chill. She leaned against him, barely conscious.
‘And you walked home? Ten miles!’ Horror stabbed through him at the thought. Ten miles in the pouring rain! She had only got out of bed for the first time that morning. What sort of woman would kick a girl out likethat? Mrs Garsby was going to be the recipient of a very nasty letter on the morrow. And if she ever showed her face in London, he would have very great pleasure in letting her know exactly what the Earl of Rutherford could do to anyone who crossed him!
In the meantime he yelled loudly for assistance. None was forthcoming. The Barlows were well out of earshot. Increasingly worried, he scanned Meg’s face. Her teeth were chattering and there was a blue tinge about her mouth. Her slight frame sagged against him helplessly and her flesh felt stone cold through the soaking garments. Damn it! She shouldn’t even be out of bed! She was still sick and if he didn’t get her warmed up quickly, she was going to suffer a relapse! Swearing under his breath, he swung her up into his arms. Desperate straits called for desperate remedies.
Meg’s brain began to function again as he lifted her. She must be soaking him. And it was Lord Rutherford, after all. His eyes had gone icy again. She must not call him Marc in that familiar way.
‘Please, my lord, I must change.’ She would feel better once she was dry. Warm would be nice too but she’d settle for dry. She did not think that she would ever be warm again. Unless, of course, Marc continued to carry her down the hall like this. That might warm her up…Carry her? What on earth was he doing? And this was his room! Why was he carrying her into it?
Suddenly frightened, she began to struggle. And discovered that
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