Make Me Yours Read online

  He had defended her.

  She relived in her mind’s eye the moment when he’d slammed into Clapford to keep him from reaching her…the way his big frame braced and strained…the fierce determination in his face. The elemental female in her savored the raw male power that had come to her defense. The rational woman in her wanted to express how grateful she was. But the feminine heart of her wanted to curl up around that battered hand and soothe—

  A well-timed shiver claimed the rest of that thought. She forced her gaze away from him, and it fell on her cold, sodden footwear.

  “My shoes.” She hiked her skirt to the top of her nine-button boot. “I didn’t realize I’d stepped into the water. They’re wet through and through.”

  Mercy bent to feel the leather. “We got to get ye out o’ them, miz.” She patted the seat beside her, then reached into her carpet bag for a button hook. “Set yer feet up here. We’ll get ye warmed right up.”

  Jack jerked his chin back. “We?”

  10

  “BREAK OUT yer flask, sarr,” Mercy ordered, glowering when he hesitated. “She needs a nip. And don’t pretend ye ain’t got one. Genl’men always got a drop tucked away somewhere.”

  His jaw loosened at the old girl’s audacity, but he reached into a compartment under the seat and retrieved a silver flask. Removing the cap, he took a sizeable swallow himself before passing it over to Mercy, who astounded him by doing the same before handing it off to Mariah.

  “This is outrageous,” he said, his eyes narrowing on the trim ankles and French-heeled boots now on the seat. He could barely swallow.

  “Removing my cold, wet shoes to prevent catching pneumonia is outrageous?” Mariah took a drink from the flask and closed her eyes, clearly appreciating its warmth. “I suppose you think a lady should rather die from lung sickness than reveal her ankles?”

  Hell, yes, he wanted to say. He managed to rise above it.

  “Then, it’s a good thing that I’m a simple widowed innkeeper instead of a lady.” She sank back, cradling the flask against her breasts. “Absurd, isn’t it, how society decides such things? A woman in a ball gown bares her entire bosom with impunity, but let a man catch a glimpse of a common, ordinary ankle—”

  “I think you’ve had quite enough brandy,” he said, holding out a hand for the flask. She ignored it.

  “All the more nonsensical because ankles aren’t erotically responsive and breasts are,” she continued. “However did such a paradox come to be?” When Mercy’s surprise turned into a frown, she winked at the old girl and took another sip. “Speaking philosophically, of course. Every topic is allowed in discourse on natural and social philosophy. Is that not so, Jack?”

  “Pay her no mind, sarr—she jus’ likes to talk hot peppers,” Mercy said, scowling at her mistress. “She were alwus tormentin’ the old squire.”

  “Teasing,” she corrected. “And he liked it.”

  Mercy addressed Jack. “He let her get by wi’ a lot, sarr.”

  Mariah affirmed that comment with a mischievous smile.

  “Because I let him get by with a lot.”

  Jack could barely follow the exchange; he was stuck on erotically responsive. The words had set his blood humming and his skin aching. That sin-tainted smile…she was determined to provoke him and he was just as determined not to allow himself to be provoked. Not in that way.

  Not again. Too damned much was at stake.

  To think that moments ago he was thinking of her as selfless and upright and telling himself she deserved better than Bertie’s wandering lust.

  Mercy inspected the boot and set it on the floor to dry. “Yer stockin’s soaked clear through.” She shook her head. “Better take it off, too, miz.”

  Mariah lifted her knee and reached beneath her skirt to undo her garter and slide the stocking down her leg. It was all Jack could do to keep his tongue in his mouth as the maid draped the stocking over the seat beside him. The knitted silk retained the erotically charged shape of her leg.

  “That feels wonderful.” Mariah closed her eyes as Mercy rubbed her foot briskly with the blanket and started on the other shoe. She wiggled her toes under the cover. “Much better.”

  For a long, harrowing moment, he was unable to tear his gaze from the suggestive bump her toes made under that cover. Then he mustered the will to tilt his hat over his eyes and jam his shoulders back into the seat.

  SOMETIME LATER, Mariah awakened feeling a little cramped but deliciously warm. Her head and shoulder were propped against the side of the coach and her feet were drawn up beneath her skirts on the seat. As she pushed upright, she smelled sandalwood and soap and “essence of Jack.” Looking down, she found a familiar charcoal-gray suit coat spread over her, its sleeves tucked around her. She felt a rush of pleasure. It was as if the coat was proxy for the arms of its owner…who sat across from her in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves…watching her.

  The rosy light of sunset cast a dusky glow over his angular face and lent a sheen to his bronze eyes. She tried not to stare. Or want. And failed.

  “Are we almost there?” she asked, her throat tight.

  “At the outskirts of Cambridge.”

  “About time.” She pushed upright, conscious of the location of every part of her body in relation to his. “I am desperate to stretch my legs.”

  He consulted his watch, holding it up into a wedge of bright light coming through the window. “We’ll have a bit of supper while I make inquiries. I still have connections among the faculty, but I doubt we’ll locate Martindale before tomorrow.” He sounded distracted. “There is an excellent hotel—the University Arms—overlooking Parker’s Piece in the center of the city. We should be able to find rooms there.”

  “A warm meal and a clean, comfortable bed.” She smoothed wrinkles from his coat as it lay over her lap. “I never fully appreciated how important they are to travelers. This gives me a new perspective on my own inn.”

  He took a deep breath and fixed his gaze on the wall behind her.

  “Mrs. Eller—”

  “Mariah, please.” She sensed something important was coming.

  “Mariah,” he said, as if it were a hurdle he had to jump. “I want you to know that I am not insensible to your situation. I know now that this liaison with the prince was not your idea. And I recognize that this marriage requirement has lasting consequences for you. It may not be how you wanted to spend your life, but…it is my hope that we can find someone who will be genuinely acceptable to you as a husband.”

  “That is very thoughtful of you,” she said, relaxing as warmth toward him bloomed in her core and flowed into her smile.

  “It only makes sense.” He tensed sharply and looked away. “After all, if you are unhappy, you won’t be a very good ‘friend’ to the prince.”

  She felt as if he’d just tossed icy pond water on her. Every time she thought she glimpsed some humanity, some warmth or sincerity in him…She yanked his coat from her and tossed it into a heap on the seat beside him.

  “Are you sure you want me to be a good ‘friend’ to the prince, Jack?” She speared him with a look that her husband had always likened to blue Damascus steel. “Perhaps you’d rather I be your ‘friend’ instead.”

  Even in the darkening coach she could see she’d struck sparks.

  “You know, while your esteemed husband was educating you,” he said irritably, “he might have found time to teach you a bit of discretion. Along with some propriety and sense of a woman’s place in the world.”

  She leaned over to snatch up her stockings and boots.

  “Sorry. Didn’t have time. He was too busy teaching me thirty-seven different ways to make a man moan.” She turned sideways on the seat and folded her skirt and petticoats back.

  Lifting one bare leg, she slid toes into the stocking and slowly—ever so slowly—pulled it up while raising her leg. A leg he had explored so briefly but memorably in her hotel room yesterday. When the silk stocking was smoothed up her calf and
over her knee, she slipped the garter on and rolled it into place. Halfway through the second stocking, there it was: a quiet, tormented exhalation. She aimed her smile straight ahead, while glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

  “That,” she said with a purr, “was number nine.”

  THE NARROW Cambridge streets were crowded with black-robed students emptying out of libraries, lecture halls and tutors’ offices into the town’s taverns. The coach had to stop periodically to wait for the throngs of boisterous students to clear. Jack commented that the wheels of Cambridge scholarship—like those of academia everywhere—were lubricated by the nectars of grape and grain. He knew that, he revealed, because some years earlier he had been one of those parched Cambridge scholars headed for the closest tavern at the end of the day.

  The gas streetlamps had been lit by the time they reached the University Arms in the center of the city. The large, Gothic-style hotel was furnished with all the modern conveniences: a number of bathing rooms en suite, a ladies’ sitting room, a library and a well-regarded restaurant that served dinner into the evening. After freshening up in their rooms, Mariah and Mercy met Jack downstairs for dinner.

  The dining room was large and appointed with fine linen, crystal and china that reminded Mariah of her childhood home. As Jack explained that he had sent inquiries about Winston Martindale to old acquaintances and was awaiting word, she ran her hands over the silver and rolled her empty wineglass back and forth, watching the light reflected in its facets.

  It had been a long time since she had thought of her girlhood home…of the way her lovely mother always dressed for dinner and how dignified her father had looked in his evening clothes. They had insisted Mariah take meals with them in the dining room instead of in the nursery, even when they entertained. They were determined that, despite being an only child, she would have a strong sense of family. The thought gave her a hollow feeling. Family. Once she had dreamed of having a home and children—

  “Are you listening?” Jack asked with annoyance.

  “Sorry.” She abandoned the stemmed glass on the tabletop and smoothed her napkin across her lap. “You were saying?”

  He had just begun to repeat his plan for the next day when a stout-looking older man with a ruddy complexion and prodigious mutton chops appeared in the arched entrance to the dining room.

  “There you are, my boy!”

  At the sound of that voice, Jack was on his feet and turning with an outstretched hand and a huge smile.

  “Professor Jamison! How good to see you. You didn’t have to come here, sir. I intended to call on you first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Balderdash. Did you think I wouldn’t hurry across campus to see my favorite student, no matter what the hour?” He pumped Jack’s hand as he clapped him affectionately on the shoulder. Jack basked in his professor’s delight until the old boy’s gaze fell on Mariah. “Well, well, St. Lawrence.” Jamison’s grin broadened. “I hadn’t heard that you had married.”

  “Married? No!” Jack said too loudly, then reddened. “May I present Mrs. Mariah Eller. We’ve come to Cambridge to, um—”

  “Locate a gentleman. On a legal matter,” Mariah provided. “Pleased to meet you, professor.”

  “Charmed, Mrs. Eller.” Jamison made a courtly bow over her extended hand and then nodded politely to Mercy, whose single-name introduction and simple garments indicated her role as lady’s companion.

  “Won’t you join us for dinner?” Mariah waved to the unused fourth place at their table.

  “With pleasure.” He quickly took a seat. “St. Lawrence, I never thought to find you in the company of ladies.” He raised his eyebrows and leaned toward Mariah. “Not ‘Iron Jack.’ All work and no play—that was his motto. Never met a more serious eighteen-year-old in my life.”

  With that, his garrulous mentor began to recount tales of Jack’s student days that made Jack wince and look pained. The professor, undaunted by his former student’s chagrin and encouraged by Mariah’s interest, rambled on to draw a portrait of an eager and driven young man.

  “Rewrote the answers to his exams after scores were assigned. Checked and rechecked his measurements and calculations. Was twice the scholar his brothers were. Would have made a superb scientist. Mathematics came as natural as breathing for him. Damned fine mind.” Jamison sighed, wagging his head. “Begged him to stay on, you know. Had a number of projects for him to undertake as graduate studies. But it was not to be. The faculty still laments his loss to the bright lights and fast company of London.”

  “A man has obligations, Professor,” Jack said uncomfortably, studying the wine in his glass.

  “To his country, of course. To his family, unquestionably.” Jamison spoke in a way that made it clear they had discussed this point before. “But also to himself.” The professor studied him with visible regret. “One must endeavor to see that all three are served by the course one chooses in life. To neglect to use one’s talents and opportunities is to deny Destiny. And Destiny has a way of calling us to account for unused gifts.”

  Mariah noted the way Jack’s face tightened and saw in him traces of the young boy he had been: full of promise and torn between conflicting goals. And there were those brothers of his again. She warmed to the recurring image of him as the always-pushed, ever-hungry “third of five.”

  When Jack caught her watching him with a discerning gaze, he cleared his throat to change the subject.

  “Back to the business that brought us here. What about this Winston Martindale? Do you know him, Professor?”

  “As it happens, I do. He is another old student of mine. Before your time. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a decent enough chap. Now a fellow in Philosophy at Magdalene College. But hardly a serious scholar. Does most of his ‘supervisions’ of an evening—” he paused “—at the Quill and Scroll.”

  Jack sat back with a look of distaste. “Thank you, Professor. I shall try to catch Martindale someplace more conducive to a lady’s business.”

  “What is this Quill and Scroll?” Mariah studied Jack’s disapproval.

  “An ale house frequented by students,” the professor provided.

  “What’s a perfessor doin’ overseein’a tavern?” Mercy asked.

  “Not that kind of supervision,” Jack explained. “Supervisions here at Cambridge are the core of the teaching-learning process. The fellows hold individual or small-group tutorials in which students discuss their studies, present their work and are evaluated. And Martindale…”

  “Conducts his in an ale house,” Mariah said when he paused. It didn’t speak well for her prospective husband.

  When dinner was over and the professor had departed and they headed upstairs, Mariah spotted Jack collecting his hat and coat from his room and trying to slip past her.

  “Where are you going at this hour?” She planted herself in his path.

  He fingered the brim of his hat and refused to meet her gaze.

  “You’re going to this Quill and Scroll, aren’t you?” She read her answer in his avoidance. “Well, not without me, you aren’t.”

  “Look, I know this place,” he said, exasperated. “The Quill and Scroll is an old college hall that was bought by a German brew master and turned into a large tavern. It’s loud, rude and not at all suitable for ladies.”

  Was this new designation as a “lady” an elevation or a dismissal?

  “All the more reason I should accompany you. I need to see my prospects in their natural settings, whether appropriate for ladies or not.” She turned to Mercy. “Don’t let him leave without me.”

  The loyal maid positioned herself between Jack and the stairs, crossed her ample arms and glowered. Shortly, Mariah returned, wearing her coat and hat, and gave the old woman a one-armed hug.

  “You needn’t wait up, Mercy. After such a long day, I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

  Mercy nodded gratefully.

  “Careful, miz. Them students look none too trusty.”

 
11

  THAT WAS how she and Jack came to be entering the noisy hall of the Quill and Scroll at ten o’clock on a weekday evening. The place was filled with smoke, the scent of spilled ale and tables ringed by a motley collection of chairs and benches swiped from lecture halls. Generations of aspiring scholars had whiled away their undergraduate years on those worn seats and carved their names for posterity in the posts and beams that held up the roof.

  All the way over in the cab, Jack had admonished her to stay close, let him do the talking and not engage any of the drunken students. He behaved as if she—essentially a tavern-keeper herself—had never been in an ale house before. By the time he steered her briskly to the crowded bar to inquire after Winston Martindale, she was roundly annoyed.

  They were directed to one side of a massive fireplace, where two groups of young men in black robes were engaged in a rowdy and freewheeling dispute. As she and Jack approached, it became clear that their discourse was being refereed by a portly, red-faced fellow in a scholar’s robe and cap. He had on the table before him a stand holding a line of wooden beads, which he shuttled back and forth with sausage-like digits whenever one of the sides made a point. Martindale.

  Oh, dear.

  They watched for a few minutes, trying to make sense of the ale-fueled chaos. Between issuing “hear-hear’s” and awarding points in the debate, the pudgy professor gnawed on a roast turkey leg and sucked ale from a large tankard. Then he caught sight of Mariah watching him.

  “Whoa-ho—we have company, ladsss!” he roared. “Mind your mannersss and make some room!” He shoved to his feet and beckoned. “Come, join usss, my lovely. And you, too—” he pointed at Jack with his drumstick “—whoever you are. Beer—get our visitors sssome beer!”

  “Jack St. Lawrence, Professor Martindale. And this is Mrs. Eller.” Jack held his top hat with one hand and Mariah’s elbow with the other. He looked over the seats the students had vacated and urged Mariah forward. “We were hoping we might have a private word with you.”