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  Piers Larne had learned to hide his feelings behind a mask of bitter indifference and a large decanter of brandy. But the sight of the heiress his father was forcing him to wed sobered the viscounts dissolute soul. Her silvery blond hair and flawless pale skin could lure a man to madness. Not that Vivian Marleigh would be a willing bride; her hatred for him shone clearly from eyes the color of moonlight on water. But she could not very well refuse. Long ago, the shock other mothers death had robbed her of the power of speech, and the delicate beauty could not say what was in her heart. It was up to Piers to spark the fires that would melt her icy reserve, and teach her the pleasures that await those who seek only passion and SPEAK ONLY LOVE

  ************************************

  UNEXPECTED PLEASURE

  "Pledge me your hatred, my lady," Piers challenged, looking down at her.

  Vivian's lips parted, revealing her tightly clenched teeth. She aimed a sibilant hiss at him.

  He laughed. "A tiger cat with fangs bared. But a small tiger. Much overmatched, I fear." He took another sip of brandy, then slowly inclined his head, bringing his lips nearer and nearer to hers. His eyes were so close to her own that she could now see they were not a single opaque dark color but brown, floating, shifting shades of brown with a golden radiance around the pupil.

  His lips touched hers. And something happened. Something swift and hot as lightning streaked through her limbs. It made her curl her hands into fists and draw her breath in sharply. She could not help herself. The need to taste more of him and heighten this fiery sensation drove her to pull him even closer.

  A wave of unsought passion swept over him. Suddenly, there was nothing but the sweetness and warmth of her mouth. . ....

  Zebra books, Kensington Publ

  Copyright 1991

  Prologue

  December 1809

  The coach slid sideways on the icy highroad, bumping crazily as its wheels dropped into the ruts frozen solid by the harsh December blast. The coachman, muffled to his eyes, swung his long whip over the backs of the horses and cursed his mistress viciously. Lady Marleigh was seven kinds of a fool. No one should have started a journey on such a day. Christmas bedamned! The weather was too bad; the roads, too dangerous. A heavy fall of snow had turned to sleet the previous night. On either side of the dark road, trees and hedgerows bowed their limbs to the white earth in arcs of shimmering ice.

  The near impassability of the road had made the journey last far into the evening. With an angry scowl at the darkening sky, he cracked his whip again. One gray wheeler neighed shrilly as the coach bumped in and out of the frozen ruts of the crossroad with a series of bone-jarring jerks.

  Within the coach Lady Marleigh rubbed her elbow tenderly before wrapping her hand more firmly around the leather strap beside the window. The tightly drawn curtains and windows provided maximum protection from the elements. Unfortunately, they contributed to a feeling of disorientation as the coach tipped crazily in every direction as if it were being shaken by a giant's hand.

  Around her was a sad welter of cushions and rugs originally bestowed amid the leather, wood, and metal of the coach's interior to shield the occupants from the cold. Now they did yeoman's service as protectors from the bruising jolts of the road's rough surface.

  Lady Marleigh swallowed before looking disgust­edly at her maid. The girl's tear-streaked cheeks were greenish pale. She had been wretchedly ill throughout most of the journey thereby adding to the unpleasant­ness of the coach's interior. Even as Lady Marleigh frowned at her, the maid bent over her knees pressing a handkerchief to her mouth in an effort to control her nausea. "Really, Maud," Lady Marleigh said with a sigh.

  "Sorry, milady," came the wretched gasp as the coach caromed to the left and then to the right.

  Alarmed at the roughness, the gentlewoman wound her arms protectively around the body of her sleeping daughter Vivian. With the complete relaxation of innocent youth, the nine-year-old girl slept soundly against her mother, blissfully oblivious to the tortuous way.

  A wave of love swept the mother as she caressed the small thin arm and shoulder. Gently she pressed a kiss against the pale silvery hair curling softly on the smooth forehead.

  With incredible swiftness the coach slewed viciously to the side of the road. A loud crack accompanied by the hoarse shout of the coachman was the last sound Lady Marleigh heard. She was flung violently against the opposite side of the coach. Her temple struck the cast brass lamp bracket, stifling her scream of terror forever. As the broken wheel shattered on the curve and threw the coach toward the ditch, the harness bar snapped loose from its fittings.

  The terrified horses, freed of the weight and maddened by the whip broke free, pulling the coachman headlong from the box by the reins wrapped around his wrists. His body struck the icy roadbed face down snapping his neck beneath his falling weight.

  Caught with her head bowed to her knees, Lady Marleigh's maid struck the door of the coach head­first. It burst open flinging her body outward. Knocked unconscious by the blow and the fall onto the frozen ground, she lay in a crumpled heap in the snow. Teetering for only a moment on the side of the highroad, its broken wheel collapsing beneath it, the coach toppled with a crash onto its side into the deep ditch. With a heavy thud, the door now turned upward toward the stars slammed shut. Icy silence closed round as two wheels parallel to the ground spun uselessly, slowed, and ceased.

  For several minutes the silence prevailed. Then a shrill wail, a child's high-pitched voice, penetrated the icy dusk.

  "Mother! Mother! Help! Help! Please, somebody, help!" The screaming became muffled as more snow began to fall on the still bodies. Screams gave way to hysterical sobs. Small fists pounded on the sides of the coach, "Please, God! Please, Jesus! Help! Somebody! Mother! Oh, Mother, don't die!"

  ************************************

  Not for several hours did the shivering, shuddering team find its way into the yard of a posting inn. The sleepy hostler turned over several times before rousing sufficiently to hear the animals stamping and blowing. Almost another hour passed before a party had been grudgingly organized to follow the fast-disappearing tracks back along the road. Finally, the searchers neared the wreck.

  One man turned over the distorted body of the coachman dragged several hundred feet down the road, before the reins broke free from his wrists. "Coachy's dead," he reported laconically.

  The leader grunted as he led his party stumbling onward through the white night. He had expected little else when he had seen the team.

  "Woman dead here," another reported, bending over the mound of snow that covered the body of the maid.

  Slogging to the side of the road, the leader of the party pounded on the bottom of the overturned vehicle. "Anybody there?" he called.

  Silence greeted his question.

  "They be all dead, froze most likely," one man said irritably. "Told ye there'd be none left. They'd ha' been just the same in the momin', and we'd ha' saved ourselves a walk in the dark."

  "Up on the coach, Tim," the leader ordered. "Open the door and shine your light in."

  A youth scrambled up with some difficulty and stood on the side, tugging manfully to lift the door. Laying it back, he lowered his lantern into the interior.

  "Sweet Jesus!"

  The swinging light revealed the body of a woman, her mouth agape and blood frozen in a ghoulish mask down one side of her face. Obviously, she was dead. Pressed against her body was the smaller body of a girl. Tears streaked the little face that blinked owlishly in the light. The child's mouth opened and closed, but no sound came from the blue lips.

  Hanging the lantern from the interior door handle, the boy dropped clumsily into the coach and gently began to pry the little stiff finger
s from their grip. Only with difficulty could he loosen the child's hold on her dead mother and lifted her in his arms. When he did, her mouth opened and closed silently. Wildly she struggled, reaching backward in terror for her mother.

  "What'd you find?" came the call from outside.

  "There be one alive," the boy replied. "One of you climb up and help me get her out. She be scared to death, and that's a fact."

  Another man scrambled up onto the coach and peered in. "What about the woman?" he asked as he held down his arms.

  "She be dead." The boy held up the struggling girl who twisted in his grasp, trying to avoid the hands of the man reaching for her through the coach door. Her little mouth moved futilely, as her lips formed words, but no sound came.

  Chapter 1

  October 1819

  "Follow me. I'll show you directly to the patient." The housekeeper's mouth drew into a tight pinch-purse, as if the idea of a patient in the household were somehow a reflection on her own industry.

  Sister Grace Hospitaler's rubicund face twisted as she pressed her hand against her chest. "If you please, my good woman. We would like to be shown directly to our rooms to wash before we enter the sickroom."

  Rusty black skirts swirled as the other woman pivoted at the foot of the stairs. "Rooms? I received no instructions about rooms. One room will certainly be all that's needful."

  The nun glanced nervously over her shoulder. Her companion, a much younger woman, shook her head quickly. Perspiration trickled down Sister Grace's wrinkled cheek into the groove made by the starched wimple. Her expression betrayed her frustration. "One room won't do," she told the housekeeper crossly. "We must have two rooms. We’ll be taking turns beside the bed and need our sleep."

  The pinch-purse mouth tightened impossibly. "If one is in the sickroom and one is in the bed, then you don't need two. Besides, I don't have any instructions for two."

  "Prepare two." The voice carried a raspy authority that brooked no argument. All three women started and looked toward the sound. "See to it, Mrs. Felders."

  To the right of the stairs, a door had opened silently. In its archway stood the bent dark figure silhouetted against dim light.

  "Sir—"

  "Two rooms. One for the old one-and one for the young." He laughed once, a single staccato sound.

  "Very well, sir."

  As the three women watched, he closed the door. As if mesmerized, they waited until they heard the faint click of the latch mechanism slipping into place.

  Mrs. Felders moved first shrugging her shoulders. "If you'll follow me, I'll take you to the room that's ready. You can wash there and leave your things. While you're seeing your patient, I'll have another room prepared."

  "Good," the older woman replied. The younger one remained silent, her head humbly inclined.

  ************************************

  The countess scarcely seemed to breathe in the big bed. Her head drooped to one side on the single pillow. Her mobcap had slipped allowing locks of wispy-silvery hair to trail down the side of her neck.

  On the far side of her bed, a man climbed wearily to his feet as the women entered the sickroom. With a groan, he arched his back and pushed his hands into the small of it. " 'Bout time you got here. She's failing fast I'm thinking. A couple of days more and you'd have wasted your trip."

  The housekeeper hushed" him with a frown and a finger to her lips. "Better keep your ideas like that to yourself, Mr. Watkins. She might hear you."

  "Poor lady doesn't know a thing," he replied with a shake of his head.

  The older nun advanced to the side of the bed. "You can't know that. The hearing is the very last sense to go. She might be hearing everything you say and planning to turn you off the minute she wakes up. So be off with you." She made a shooing motion with her hands.

  With a shrug he drifted toward the door.

  The younger nun stepped aside to let him pass.

  "She wouldn't be letting me off in any case," he muttered. "He's the one who says who goes and who stays."

  ************************************

  "Mother." The man leaned over the sickbed. A lock of dark red hair, a most unusual color, worn unfashionably long, had escaped from the black riband at the back of his neck. It swung forward bisecting his temple and sharp cheekbone. "Mother."

  The countess's brows drew together. She sucked in an unsteady breath and released it on a sigh. "Piers?"

  "Yes." He pressed his lips gently to her forehead.

  Her lids fluttered upward. Eyes that took their color from the mauve shadows surrounding them focused on her son. "Piers, why are you still here?"

  He did not miss her meaning. Tenderly he leaned forward to kiss her forehead. His face only inches from hers, he said, "Mother, I can't leave you."

  "You must." The words were only a breath of sound. Her eyes drifted closed, then opened again and sought the nurse. "Go away," she whispered.

  Still bent over his mother, the gaunt face turned toward her. The lock of wine-red hair brushed the pillowcase beside his mother's head.

  The young nun rose. Instead of leaving like a noiseless ghost, she came to the bedside and lifted the blue-veined hand. The pulse fluttered and skipped in the emaciated wrist.

  The countess made a weak attempt to pull herself away. **I said, 'Go away!"' she breathed. Faint color spread across her cheekbones.

  The young woman returned the hand gently to the coverlet and raised her own hand with fingers spread wide.

  "Five minutes." The man nodded his head impatiently. "Very well. Very well. I won't tire her. Just be gone."

  Only as she closed the door behind her, did she recognize the odor of brandy on his breath. Outside in the hallway she hesitated. Should she remain in the room? Better to fetch Sister Grace, an expert at rousting intruders from sickrooms.

  ************************************

  The old nun sat up too quickly and fell back down. One pudgy hand fluttered to her enormous bosom, the other to her forehead. "I—I'll be all right in a moment, milady," she whispered.

  The young woman hurried to pour a glass of water and hold it to Sister Grace's mouth. The nun's close-cropped iron-gray hair stank with perspiration. She emptied the glass greedily and dabbed at the moisture on her forehead with the corner of the sheet. Her hand trembled. She stared at it, then at the pale smooth face hovering anxiously above her. "I'm not well," she said slowly as if admitting a fault. "But someone had to come. Bring me some of my medicine and then leave me alone for a few minutes."

  The younger sister nodded grimly. She brought more water and held the glass while the nun swallowed the tincture.

  Grimacing at the taste, Sister Grace handed the glass back. "Thank you, milady. Now go on. Go on back. Don't leave your charge. I'll be right behind you. Just give me a few minutes." She swung her swollen limbs over the bed and sat up carefully. "I’ll be right behind you."

  The one called "milady" looked doubtful, but the old nurse reached for her veil. "Go on. Go on. I'm right as rain now. Just sat up too fast."

  ************************************

  "—nothing to keep you here,"the woman was saying as the door opened.

  The young man had seated himself on the side of the bed. One knee was drawn up. His hand draped languidly over it, his fingers trailing beneath a fall of lace. "There's you, m'dear," he replied, and then he flashed a mocking grin. "And my own bad habits."

  The countess smiled slightly. "Bad boy, Piers." She sighed. "And you will persist in going to the devil."

  "I'm afraid so, Mother."

  She turned her head into the pillow. Her voice quavered. "God forgive you. And me." She began to cough weakly. Tears spouted from her eyes. She tumbled and found a handkerchief and lifted it to her mouth. The cough deepened.

  The young nun hurried around to the other side of the bed.

  Piers leaned forward to take his mother's hand. "He probably won't forgive any of us. He's forgotten we exist."

&
nbsp; "Ah, Piers. Piers." The paroxym became more violent. The spasms jolted the countess's body. The young nun slipped one arm under the thin shoulders and thrust first one pillow and then another behind them.

  The young man rose to his feet alarmed and angry. "Can’t you do something more? She's choking."

  Her patient's head elevated, the nurse began to unbutton the high-necked gown and clear the area of the throat. Still the choking continued to grow worse and worse. The countess's face reddened. The thin lips turned blue.

  "Mother!" Piers caught hold of her hand. "Mother!"

  "Here. Let me through." Sister Grace Hospitaler brushed him aside. She poured a measure of syrup from a dark brown bottle and held the glass to the woman's lips. "There, there, milady, just try to keep calm and drink a little of this."

  The countess managed a weak shake of her head. Her eyes were starting from their sockets, as her cough grew more agonizing. Blood flecked her lips.

  Sister Grace wiped the woman's chin and presented the glass again. "Steaming hot water and towels. Quickly. Let's try to clear the sinuses."

  The young nun dashed from the room.

  Piers took her place across the bed. "What are you going to do?"

  "Open her head with steam so she can breathe. Just like a poor dear croupy baby." She held the liquid to the old woman's lips. "Swallow, dear lady. Swallow. That's a good baby."

  The countess coughed again violently. The liquid spewed into the nun's face. She blinked and shook her head, but persisted. "That's all right. You couldn't help it. Poor, dear girl. Swallow. Swallow."