Rake Beyond Redemption. Anne O'Brien
if he could erase the memory of the woman who still stood on the steps and looked after him. He knew exactly who his mermaid was.
Marie-Claude de la Roche—he’d forgotten her name, if he ever knew it. He supposed he’d never heard it mentioned in his hearing. There was no reason why it should have been in the circumstances. He had become persona non grata in the Hallaston household after that night. He’d heard later of her existence, of course, from George Gadie, who knew all the Hallaston affairs. French, married to Captain Marcus Hallaston and widowed, cast adrift in Spain with a child, taken under the unscrupulous wing of some French rogue—called Jean-Jacques Noir, was it?—who had held her to ransom to bleed Luke Hallaston, the Earl of Venmore, dry in return for her safety. Threatened to use her as a whore in one of the military towns if the tale ran true. And she had been rescued by Venmore and Harriette in that eventful run to the French coast, bringing her back along with the barrels and bales of contraband.
Oh, yes. He recalled that night, right enough. The night that had brought an unmendable rift with his cousin Harriette. The night when he had been accused and found guilty, albeit without trial, of treachery, wrecking and attempted murder.
He knew the widow had been rescued, but had never met her, nor she him. She did not even recognise his name. Obviously no one had ever spoken the name Zan Ellerdine in the Hallaston household from that day to this. He tightened his hands on the reins to bring the mare back into a more controlled canter. Alexander Ellerdine no longer existed in that august circle.
In the circumstances, he could hardly blame the noble Earl and his family, could he?
Well, he had delivered the pretty widow home and that was that. He had not compromised her sensibilities too greatly, nor damaged her spotless reputation. He set the mare to a low hedge, pushing her on into a stylish leap. And then another as he increased the distance between himself and the Pride. But the speed and exhilaration did not take his attention as he might hope. Clear blue eyes with no hint of shyness. Soft lips that parted beneath his. Smooth fingers that touched his cheek. Desire curled in his gut, tightened into urgency in his groin.
Forget about her. Forget how for those few short minutes she turned your blood to fire. Forget how she made you think that life could have been different. Forget how she called you Zan and wound her fingers into your hair as she wound them into your heart…
When Marie-Claude smiled at him in his mind, Zan ruthlessly banished the image. An unfortunate dose of lust, that’s all. Easily remedied. He’d been right all along. Love did not exist. Not for men like him. And certainly not with one of the Hallastons, a family who hated him with every breath it took.
Marie-Claude stood on the steps, ignoring the cold striking up through her bare feet, her boots and stockings clutched to her bosom. She stared after Zan Ellerdine in disbelief.
What had happened? What had she done?
Surely she had not imagined that intense closeness. And surely he had felt it too. Some of the things she had said to him…She blushed to recall them. And he had kissed her. He had actually kissed her on the lips. Raising one hand so that she dropped the boots—not that she noticed—she pressed her fingers to her mouth, reliving that moment when her pulse had rioted and desire had flooded her veins. He had kissed her and she had kissed him back. She could still feel him there. Taste him there. Even the scent of him, a purely male blend of sun and sweat and salt-water, still filled her head.
And then what had happened? It was as if a curtain of icy rain had cascaded down between them, separating them so there was no connection, no sense of oneness between them at all.
What had he said about the Hallastons and Lydyards? Once I knew them. No longer. What was that about? Some mystery here. And he knew about Meggie and her association with the family.
He had been so kind, so considerate. He had taken off her shoes, ordered her tea, kissed her hand, a burning brand that had been anything but a formal caress. Had he not told her she was beautiful? He had rolled down her stockings and dried her feet. She swore she could still imagine the gentle impression of his fingers. And then when he had kissed her she had abandoned all modesty and offered herself.
And what had happened? The enchantment had been smashed, destroyed.
It was her name. As soon as she had mentioned Lydyard’s Pride. The Hallaston connection had caused the rift.
Well, she would not tell Meggie—for some reason she did not want to talk about this meeting with Zan Ellerdine—but she would find out who he was.
‘Meggie…’ Once servant and confidante to Harriette Lydyard, now Harriette Hallaston, at present with Marie-Claude at the Pride, as stout and buxom and forthright as she had ever been, was the obvious source. Ask her, Zan had advised with no pleasant anticipation. So she would.
‘Miss Marie-Claude! Just look at you…What have you been doing?’
Well, she would ask eventually. First she must soothe Meggie’s eagle eye.
‘Oh…I was caught by the tide. Silly of me. I’ll learn.’ She cast her bonnet on to the scrubbed wooden table in the kitchen where she had run Meggie to ground, and prepared to deflect the flood of concern.
‘It’s dangerous. One minute out of my sight and just look at the state of your clothes…’
‘The only things to suffer are my shoes and my gown. Both beyond redemption…although my feet are cold and damp.’
It did the trick. Meggie bustled her out of the kitchen, insisting on ordering up the tub and heated water to Marie-Claude’s bedchamber. Nor was Marie-Claude sorry. All things considered it had been an exhausting day.
She sank back into the soothing water with a sigh. Here was the chance as Meggie fretted and fussed around her.
‘Meggie—who is Alexander Ellerdine?’
A short expectant hiatus. Meggie angled her a glance.
‘Who?’
‘Alexander Ellerdine.’ Marie-Claude fixed her with an innocent expression.
‘Now why would you want to know that?’
‘I heard his name mentioned in the village, that’s all.’
A pause. The glance became even sharper as Meggie folded a pile of linen. ‘Did you meet him?’
‘No.’ Marie-Claude hoped the flush of colour would be put down to the heat of the water.
‘He owns Ellerdine Manor.’
‘Oh.’ This was not getting very far. ‘Is there a—a problem about him? Some scandal, perhaps?’
‘Yes.’ Meggie folded a linen shift with a sharp snap of the cloth.
‘Will you tell me?’
‘No.’
Marie-Claude could not help the frown. ‘Then I shall have to ask elsewhere.’
‘No need to do that. And Miss Harriette wouldn’t wish it.’
‘Well, if that’s so, there must be a good reason.’
Meggie pursed her lips as if coming to an unpleasant but necessary decision. ‘Well, if you must know…he’s a smuggler—amongst other things.’
‘Is that very bad?’
‘Isn’t that enough, miss? It’s not a reputable occupation for a gentleman, is it?’
Marie-Claude read the disapproving expression on Meggie’s face and gave up the hunt. ‘No. I suppose not. That must be it then.’
‘All I’ll say is—no woman of taste or discrimination would seek his company, however handsome his face. Handsome is as handsome does…He’s a dangerous man.’
‘Is he? Why?’