The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel (2 page)

“Oh, that’s a given,” Marcus shot back in a painfully perfect London accent. For as long as he could remember, he had made it a habit to hide his burr from everyone but Sully and the Scottish side of his family. There was simply no good reason to remind people of his ancestry.

“I’ll send the hounds out if you’ve not limped your way home by dark.”

“That’s terribly thoughtful of you, old friend.”

“Don’t mention it—”

“And I do mean
old
,” Marcus added with a gleam in his eye.

He could just make out another harrumph as Sully rode on, his pace quickening as he disappeared into the copse of trees that separated the expansive lawn of Lulworth from the rest of the grounds.

Marcus stretched, trying to ease the aches in his travel-weary muscles without irritating his wound further. He turned and strolled, limping slightly, toward the wood, his destination undecided. The tension that had gripped his gut when he’d first spied the castle slowly dissipated as he moved farther into the trees. He tugged at his carefully tied cravat, a low sigh escaping his lips as he yanked the length of white linen free of its intricate knot and unwound it from his throat. He mopped his brow with the dust-covered cloth before dropping it into the pocket of his deep brown riding coat.

The shade from the green-leafed canopy of oak trees provided some relief, but Marcus needed more. He stopped to orient himself, looking north, then east. Realizing
that he wasn’t far from the lake where he’d fished as a child, he set off at a faster clip.

A refreshing swim was precisely what he needed. The water would cool his body, clear his head, and, hopefully, tire him to the point that he no longer cared about where he was.

A high-pitched scream shattered the quiet and stopped Marcus in his tracks. A second scream followed, and Marcus ran, willing his wounded leg to keep pace with the rest of his body as he crashed through a bank of quickthorn bushes.

He fought his way through the thicket, the branches lashing his arms and legs until he broke into the open. The castle’s lake lay before him, sparkling in the sunlight.

He scanned the water’s surface, then the shore from left to right, but failed to find the source of the screams. Something moved suddenly in his peripheral vision. He narrowed his eyes and once more searched the lake. Water rippled in a circle too large to have been caused by a jumping trout.

He stripped off his coat and prepared to dive in. Just then, two figures broke the surface of the water. A peal of feminine laughter filled the air.

“You promised!” a young male voice whined indignantly.

Marcus squinted against the sun and made out a boy, sodden hair plastered to his skull.

“I never promised, Nigel,” a woman’s voice answered teasingly, “and it’s very poor form of you to lie.”

Marcus shielded his eyes with one hand to see the woman better. She bobbed up and down in the water, clearly amused with whatever had transpired between her and the boy.

She looked straight at him, her eyes widening in surprise. And then she smiled. A brilliant, wide smile that
seemed to light up the entire world. She was soaking wet, long auburn curls in damp corkscrews atop her head and hanging to her shoulders. Her delicate skin flushed under the hot sun, a trailing frond of green water weed peeking out above the neckline of her dress.

And Marcus could not imagine a more bonny sight.

She seemed about to speak to him when her gaze shifted past him and over his shoulder. Shock and dismay filled her expression. “No, Titus!” she cried out. “No!”

Marcus turned his head just in time to make out a massive dog galloping toward him. The fawn-colored animal launched himself into the air, toppling Marcus backward onto the clay earth of the lake bank.

The weight of the beast’s body settled on Marcus’s chest and he planted a dinner-plate-sized paw on either side of Marcus’s head. Then the dog lowered his massive face, the drool from his sharp-fanged mouth threatening to drop at any moment.

Marcus held himself completely still, knowing full well the animal had the upper hand. The dog sniffed carefully, his noxious breath hitting Marcus’s nostrils with pungent force.

“Titus, get off that gentleman now. This! Very! Instant!”

The dog offered Marcus a sheepish, apologetic look before swiping his lolling tongue in friendly salute across Marcus’s face.

“Now! Get off him. You bad, bad boy!”

Another apologetic look and the dog rose, allowing Marcus to sit up.

The woman leaned down to peer anxiously into Marcus’s face.

“I must apologize for my dog’s behavior,” she began, now standing so close that Marcus felt tiny droplets of lake water hit his skin when she moved. “He is—”

“A menace to society?” the young boy at her side offered, giving Marcus a toothy grin.

“He is an enthusiastic participant in life.” The woman rose to her feet to glare at the boy. “Titus is simply in need of proper instruction in manners.”

“That is one way of looking at it,” the boy countered, pointing at the dog, who was now a few feet away and busily tearing holes in Marcus’s cast-off coat.

“Titus!” the woman protested, dashing toward the Shetland pony–sized dog. She tripped on a tree root and landed awkwardly on all fours, her nicely rounded derriere sticking up in the air.

Marcus stood with difficulty, wincing, his leg throbbing like the devil. He brushed without much success at the dirt stains on his buff-colored breeches and white linen shirt.

“Who is she?” he asked, failing to hide his stunned reaction.

The boy, whose features exactly matched the young woman’s, chuckled. “Oh, no one of consequence, I assure you.” He offered his hand to Marcus and shook enthusiastically. “I, on the other hand, am Nigel Edward Tisdale.”

She was now engaged in a heated game of tug-of-war with the dog, her petite frame hardly a match for the big dog’s superior strength.

“Marcus MacInnes, Earl of Weston,” Marcus replied, hiding his burr with practiced ease. His gaze returned to the woman. “I wonder, should we assist Miss—”

“Not
the
Errant Earl?” the boy asked in wonder.

Marcus turned and looked at the lad, assuming that he had misheard. “I’m sorry, what was that you said?”

“Surely you know what people in these parts call you? I’d rather poke myself in the eye with a sharpened stick than listen to my mother and her friends gossip, but even I’ve heard the talk, and it’s—what is the word I’m
looking for?” Young Nigel paused and drummed his fingers against his lips as he thought.

“ ‘Unfavorable,’ ” Marcus offered helpfully.

“Well, I was going to say ‘downright nasty,’ but yes, ‘unfavorable’ will do.”

Clearly, while the world about it had moved forward, the village of Lulworth continued to stalwartly cleave to unfounded and exaggerated assumptions. Marcus assumed that he should be offended, but honestly, he had neither the energy nor the interest at the moment.

He looked back to the woman, who was desperately attempting to maintain her foothold. “Shouldn’t we …” he began, gesturing toward the pair.

“Oh, no, that would irritate Sarah to no end,” the boy answered, watching the scene with marked delight as he wrung out his sodden shirt. “And trust me, you don’t want to irritate my sister.”

Marcus couldn’t help but picture the woman irritated—enraged, really, as he sensed it would take very little to make her so—her auburn hair flying about her like a fiery halo, her skin heated to a delicious pink hue.

Marcus shook his head from left to right, wondering if the dog had indeed done some sort of damage to his mental faculties.

The two males watched for a moment more as the woman dug in her heels and seemed to be gaining the upper hand. But then the dog began to drag her forward, pulling her lower and closer to the ground until she collapsed with an audible expulsion of breath, facedown in the dirt.

“Sarah?” the boy queried in a mischievous tone. “Have you rescued Lord Weston’s coat?”

The woman froze. Then slowly she released the torn coat and pulled herself upright, brushing lightly at the front of her wet, mud-stained gown.

“I beg your pardon, Nigel. Did you say ‘Lord Weston’?”

The dog galloped to a stop beside her and dropped the coat at her feet.

“Bad dog!” she whispered vehemently, bending to snatch up the torn garment.

The boy elbowed Marcus in the ribs. “Why yes, Sarah,” he said, drawing her attention back to her question. “The coat belongs to Lord Weston.”

The lady’s demeanor changed instantly. She leveled a cool glance at Marcus, her chin tilting slightly higher. Her diminutive shoulders squared and she attempted to unobtrusively peel the clingy gown from her fair skin.

Marcus stifled a laugh. She was covered from head to toe in dirt and God only knew what else. Any woman in her right mind would have fainted from the embarrassment of the situation. And, he realized, any man would have politely excused himself by now.

Yet, here he was.

“I do apologize for my dog’s behavior, Lord Weston,” she said agreeably. The trailing bit of bracken at her hemline did little to aid her dignity as she walked toward him. “And I will, of course, pay for the damages to your coat.”

She thrust the ruined article of clothing toward him, avoiding his gaze.

“Mother is going to be apoplectic when she hears about this!” Nigel said with glee.

She caught Nigel’s arm with some force, if the boy’s pained expression was any indication. “Nigel, make yourself useful and properly introduce us, please.”

“She’ll be abed for days with this one—”

“Nigel!” the woman remonstrated, maintaining a polite if strained smile.

“Very well,” Nigel begrudgingly agreed. “Sarah Elizabeth
Tisdale, may I present Marcus MacInnes, the Earl of Weston.”

The bizarre quality of the moment was not lost on Marcus. Here he stood, clothing torn and mauled by what was clearly the result of a misguided romantic encounter between a canine and large bear. The female standing in front of him was in absolute and, not to put too fine a point on it, scandalous disarray. And a devilish sprite was performing polite introductions in the middle of the wood.

It was of Shakespearean proportions. A farce, to be sure.

He should be appalled. Any man of his standing would be.

But he was delighted.

And he couldn’t remember a time that he’d been so thankful for the ache in his leg and the need of a walk.

“Miss Tisdale,” he said, offering her a respectful bow.

She executed an awkward curtsy. “Lord Weston, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Marcus found it oddly amusing, their mutual adherence to the proprieties despite the clearly
improper
circumstances of this encounter. “And I yours.”

She looked at him then, a blush settling on her ivory skin. “We were not aware you were in residence at the castle.”

“Do you always make use of the lake in my absence?” he asked teasingly, his charm returning.

“I can assure you, sir, that we do not make a habit of trespassing on your—”

“We most certainly do,” Nigel interrupted indignantly. “It’s the best fishing in the county.”

Miss Tisdale looked as if she might spontaneously combust. The flush of heat traveling from her neck upward would certainly erupt in flames among her fiery auburn curls.

She took a deep breath, an impish grin coming to rest on her lips. “Oh, all right, then. We do. Now, Nigel,” she paused, looking about as if searching for something, and then whistling in a most unladylike fashion. “Do secure Titus’s leash.”

The earth shook as the huge dog ran toward them. Marcus braced himself as Titus came to a sliding stop mere inches from his legs.

Nigel retrieved a leather lead, coiled in a serpentine pile near the bank. “I don’t know why we bother with this. It would hardly keep him—”

Miss Tisdale daintily cleared her throat and shot Nigel a murderous look. “The lead, Nigel.”

No sooner had the boy obeyed when Titus lifted his massive head and caught the scent of something on the wind. He bounded off with Nigel in tow, leaving Marcus and Miss Tisdale quite alone.

Miss Tisdale watched as Titus dragged her brother along, a small smile forming on her mouth. “Serves him right,” she said under her breath.

Marcus pretended not to hear her, as it was the polite thing to do. Still, he smiled.

He could not look away. The sun had begun to dry her auburn hair so that it gleamed. He wanted to reach out and touch it, to measure the weight of it in his hands.

Her profile enthralled him. Her pert nose—sprinkled with freckles, no less—was the ideal accompaniment to her high cheekbones and that perfect mouth.

“I apologize, Lord Weston,” she offered quietly, without looking at him.

Marcus abruptly ended his cataloging of her features. “For trespassing or for Titus?” he quipped.

“Both, actually,” she answered, turning to look at him, a charming smirk lighting up her face. “And the mud. I’m really quite sorry for the mud.”

And just like that, she ran from the lake bank and disappeared into the shrubbery, her long hair swaying behind her as she went.

“What in bloody hell just happened?” Marcus said aloud, not sure what to do next.

“Ouch!” Nigel cried, rubbing at his head. A moment before, Sarah’s knuckles had come in all-too-enthusiastic contact with his scalp. “What was that for?”

Sarah took Titus’s leather lead from Nigel and yanked the dog to a slower pace. “Do not play innocent with me, young man.”

Nigel gave her a mystified look. “Honestly, Sarah, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Oh, wait,” he offered, “is this about me calling Lord Weston the Errant Earl?”

“You did what?” Sarah shrieked.

Nigel scurried ahead. “It’s not as if I lied to the man. I’ve heard Mother and her friends call him by that name plenty of times.”

So had Sarah, but she wasn’t about to validate Nigel’s point. Besides, she’d always thought it rather presumptuous of the women to label him as such. If he’d spent so little time in the district, then it was surely impossible for anyone to know the man well enough to judge.