To her amazement, he took her arm in a vice-like grip.
‘I want to talk to you.’
He would have drawn her out of the church then and there but for the combined expostulations of the vicar and the putative groom.
‘I say, Merton, she agreed to marry me, y’know!’
‘What is the meaning of this, sir?’
Martin looked at the vicar, a frown rapidly developing.
But the vicar, secure in his own house and thoroughly disapproving, was not readily cowed. ‘This is a marriage ceremony. How dare you interrupt?’
Glancing up into Martin’s arrogantly handsome face, Helen saw the cynical gleam in his eyes. Her heart sank. Oh, God! He was going to be outrageous.
‘But you asked for objectors to speak up,’ Martin replied reasonably. ‘I’m merely obliging.’
For one instant, as the truth dawned, the vicar looked blank. Then he looked thunderstruck. ‘You’re objecting?’ His gaze took in Martin’s austerely expensive dress, and his commanding visage. Then the vicar turned to gaze at Hedley Swayne. ‘I knew I should never have agreed to such a hubble-bubble affair,’ he said snapping his bible shut.
‘No such thing!’ Hedley had turned several shades of puce and was all but flapping in agitation. ‘Ask him what his objection is—this is nothing more than some lark because he knows she agreed to marry me!’
Hedley glared at Martin. Helen felt ready to sink. But the grip on her arm eased not one whit.
The vicar glanced uneasily from Hedley to Martin. ‘If you could, perhaps, tell me what your objection is?’
Without a blink, Martin said, ‘Lady Walford agreed to marry me.’
Hedley gasped at what was, quite obviously, a brazen lie. Helen decided it was time for her to take a hand. Despite all, Martin could not be allowed to give up his dreams— not after all the mental agony she had been through to save them for him. ‘I did not, nor have I ever, agreed to marry you, my lord.’
Martin looked down at her. As she watched, a glow of warm appreciation filled his eyes, shaking the grip she was endeavouring to keep on her senses. Her eyes widened as that look was superseded by an expression she could only describe as unholy. ‘You did, you know,’ he said with a slow smile. ‘When you were in bed with me that afternoon.’
Helen felt her mouth fall open. Her cheeks were aflame. How dared he say such a thing? In church, with the entire congregation for witness?
The vicar threw up his hands in scandalised horror. ‘I should have known better than to have anything to do with fashionable folk. London folk,’ he added, glowering at Hedley. ‘In the circumstances, I must ask you—all three of you—to leave the church immediately! And I most seriously advise you to look to your souls.’ And with that parting shot the vicar turned and marched into the sacristy.
The congregation erupted. Under cover of the ensuing uproar, Martin dragged Helen through a side-door and into the graveyard. They were midway across the grassed expanse, dotted with worn headstones, before Helen found the strength to haul back, bringing them to a halt.
‘My lord! This is ridic—’
The rest of her words disintegrated under the force of his kiss. Fiery passion seared her lips, then, when they surrendered, threatened to cinder what was left of her wits. She struggled, trying to escape a too well-desired fate, trying to deny the hunger that rose up to overwhelm her reason. In response to her ineffectual wriggling, Martin’s arms tightened about her, pressing her more fully against his hard chest, until, at last, she admitted defeat and melted against him.
Only when all trace of resistance had been vanquished did Martin risk releasing her lips. She was a stubborn goddess, as he had every reason to know.
‘Don’t talk,’ he said, laying one finger across her reddened lips to enjoin her obedience. ‘Just listen.’ Gazing down into her wide green orbs, he smiled and enunciated clearly, ‘My fortune is mine. Not my mother’s, not even vaguely dependent on her whim. I’m excessively wealthy in my own right and have every intention of choosing my own bride. Do you understand?’
The wide eyes widened even further. Helen could barely find the breath to speak. ‘But your brother said…’ was all she could manage.
‘Regrettably,’ said Martin, his jaw hardening, ‘Damian was labouring under a misapprehension.’
Helen detected his anger but knew it was not directed at her. ‘Oh,’ she said, struggling to decide what it all meant.
‘Which means I’m going to marry you.’
The decisive statement brought Helen’s eyes up to Martin’s grey ones. His stern, not to say forbidding expression gave her pause. ‘Oh,’ was all it seemed safe to say.
‘Yes, “Oh”,’ Martin repeated. ‘I’ve asked you three times already, which is more than enough. I’ve given up proposing. You’re going to marry me regardless.’
Helen simply stared, too enthralled by the vision of the rainbow rising once more on her horizon.
When she said nothing, Martin went on, entirely serious, ‘If necessary, I’m prepared to lock you in my apartments at the Hermitage and keep you there until you agree.’ He paused, brows rising. ‘In fact, that’s a damned good idea—far more appealing than proposing.’
Helen blushed and looked down. Things were moving so fast; her head was spinning, her heart was beating an insistent but happy tattoo. She could barely formulate a thought, with her mind whirling with the giddy promise of happiness his words had implied. Could it really be true?
Martin examined her flushed countenance, conscious of a medley of emotions coursing his veins. Relief that she was once more in his arms was slowly giving way to pride that she had loved him so much she had been willing to accede to another meaningless marriage to save his dreams. An urgency to secure her hand, beyond all possible loss, was slowly growing. He was about to speak, to assure her that he now understood her odd behaviour, before showing her that he appreciated it as he should, when, from the corner of his eye, he saw Hedley Swayne, also leaving the church by the side-door. The fop saw them and turned away, disgruntlement visible in the slump of his shoulders as he made his way jerkily through the headstones.
Reluctantly, Martin released Helen. ‘Wait here. And don’t move!’ He enforced his command with a meaningful look, then strode after Hedley Swayne.
Mr Hedley Swayne had tried very hard to get Helen to marry him—why? Martin held no fears for his future wife—he intended to keep her safe from all danger. But the stone of Hedley Swayne’s interest was too intriguing to leave unturned.
Hedley heard him and stopped, all but sulking with disappointment. ‘What do you want now?’ he asked as Martin drew near.
‘One simple answer,’ Martin said, coming to a halt directly before the slighter man. ‘Why did you want to marry Lady Walford?’
Hedley scowled, then, after a pregnant pause, gave a petulant shrug. ‘Oh, very well. You’re bound to learn of it sooner than late, what with your business connections.’ He eyed Martin with resignation. ‘That little cottage of hers is on land bordering my estate. I own many of the tin mines around here. But the purest deposit my people have ever found lies under those five acres. Can’t be accessed by any other route.’
For one long moment, Martin stared at the fop, now seen in a new light. Abruptly, he made up his mind. ‘Here,’ he said, pulling out his note-case, and extracting a card. ‘Come and see me when we get back to town. We can discuss a lease then.’
‘A lease?’ Hedley took the card, speculation dawning in his pale eyes.
Martin shrugged. A crooked smile twisted his lips. ‘I warn you you’ll have to wait a few months but by then I think it very likely that both Helen and I will feel somewhat in your debt.’
With a nod, he left Hedley Swayne pondering over that cryptic utterance.
Helen was seated on the marble coping of a grave, trying to see her way forward. Could she safely agree to all Martin said—or was he making their situation appear more rosy than it, in reality, was? He wanted to marry
her—that was beyond question. He was ruthless and determined and very used to getting his own way. Was it really in his best interests to marry her? And, most importantly, how could she find out? She looked up as he approached, a frown nagging at her fine brows.
Martin ignored it, holding out his hands to her. Dutifully, Helen put her hands in his and he pulled her to his feet. ‘And now, fair Juno, it’s time for us to depart.’
‘But Martin—’
‘I’ll leave Joshua here to collect your maid and baggage. We can send a carriage for them from the Hermitage.’ Martin paused to glance at her dress. ‘Where’s your coat?’
‘In the carriage. But Martin—’
‘Good. If we leave straight away, we should be able to reach the Hermitage by nightfall.’ He guided her down the shallow steps to the roadway and fetched her coat from Hedley’s carriage.
Taking her arm, Martin led her to his curricle. Beside him, Helen allowed her eyes to seek the heavens for one brief instant. If this was how he was going to behave, she would never learn anything to her purpose. With her own determination growing, she put her hands on his arms as he reached for her waist. ‘My lord, I cannot simply go with you like this.’
Martin sighed. ‘You can, you know. It’s quite simple. But if it’s all the same to you, my dear, while I’m perfectly ready to discuss our future together in whatever detail you desire, I’d rather not do so in such a public location.’
He stood back to allow Helen a clear view of the churchyard, now filled with a sea of curious faces. Her eyes grew round. ‘Oh,’ she said. She held her peace while Martin lifted her to the box seat, shifting across to give him room. He paused to give directions to his groom, before mounting beside her. Within two minutes, they had left Kelporth, and her past, behind them.
Helen took a moment to savour the fresh tang of the breeze on her face, to allow the feeling of having escaped a dismal prospect sink in. Ahead, the future beckoned, exciting and beguiling. But largely unknown. Drawing a deep breath, she turned to view the man beside her, noting the strong hands on the reins, the slight frown—was it of concentration?— tugging at the black brows. ‘My lord—’ she began.
‘Martin,’ promptly came back.
Despite her determination, Helen’s lips twitched. ‘Martin, then.’ She raised her eyes to his face. ‘Is it really true that marrying me will not alter your state?’
The smile Martin turned on her was dazzling. ‘I very much hope it will alter my state.’ At her confusion, his smile grew. ‘But if you mean will it affect my financial state—no. Other than making suitable settlements on you, marriage to you will not seriously erode my fortune.’ When she remained silent, he added, ‘I did say so, you know.’
‘You also said I’d agreed to marry you!’ Helen countered, indignation at the way he had said it returning.
His grin was unrepentant. ‘Ah, well. Needs must when the devil drives, I’m afraid.’
Helen swallowed a snort and looked away. He was impossible and, she was quite sure, would remain so, behaving outrageously whenever it suited him, making amends with a wicked smile in the sure expectation of being excused. For the space of a few miles, she let the steady swaying of the carriage soothe her ruffled sensibilities. ‘I didn’t want you to lose your home,’ she eventually said, her voice rather small. Without that information, she was not sure what he might make of her own behaviour.
‘My home—and my dreams of restoring it?’ Martin asked gently.
Wordlessly, Helen nodded.
‘Finally, despite the dust you and fate seemed intent on throwing into my eyes, I figured that much out. You’ll be pleased to know that my dreams are all but reality, as far as the Hermitage goes. However, there’s an even more important dream that I’m very keen to see transmuted to reality— one you can help me with.’
‘Oh?’ Helen glanced up at him, not sure any longer if he was serious or just trying to cheer her up. But the grey eyes were perfectly clear and intent, holding an expression which made her feel quite breathless.
‘Yes,’ said Martin, slowly smiling before giving his attention to the road again. ‘It’ll take some time to achieve, this dearest dream of mine, but I’m more than prepared to devote myself assiduously to its achievement.’
Helen puzzled for a moment before asking, ‘What is this dream of yours?’
Martin considered long and hard before shaking his head. ‘I don’t think I should tell you just yet. Not until we’re wed. In fact, possibly not even then.’
‘How am I supposed to help you attain it if I don’t know what it is?’ Helen threw him an exasperated look, wondering again if he was merely trying to distract her. But his face remained serious.
‘If I tell you what I want,’ said Martin, frowning in earnest as he tried to unravel the tangle of his thoughts, ‘then, with your propensity for giving me what I wish regardless of your own feelings in the matter, how will I ever know if you’re helping me because you really wish to, rather than because you want to give me my heart’s desire?’
Helen stared at him in total confusion. What on earth was this latest dream of his?
Seeing her confusion, Martin laughed. ‘I promise to tell you if I need your—er—active assistance.’ With an effort, he kept his face straight, despite the wild scenes his rampant imagination was fabricating. Thankfully, his horses gave him excuse enough to keep his eyes on the road.
As the miles fell beneath the powerful hooves, Helen brooded over Martin’s disclosures, but could make all too little of them. His assurance about his home had relieved her mind of its most persistent worry, but there still remained one potential cloud hovering over his rainbow. ‘Tell me about your mother,’ she said. ‘She lives at the Hermitage, doesn’t she?’
Martin was only too ready to supply his bride-to-be with information on that subject, eliciting her ready sympathy for his ailing parent. ‘And regardless of anything Damian may have said, she most definitely approves of my offering for you. In fact, it was she who told me of Damian’s interference. Although she didn’t say so, I have reason to suspect she was somewhat disappointed that I didn’t leave to come after you last night.’
Privately, Helen considered that a reasonable reaction. Her thoughts must have shown in her eyes, for, when she glanced up and found Martin’s gaze upon her, he smiled and added, ‘I didn’t because, quite apart from the state of the roads, I was—er…somewhat under the hatches. Your fault, I might add.’
Understanding this to mean he had been drinking rather more than usual because of her, Helen felt an odd inner glow warm her. As the curricle shot past a farmer’s cart, she reflected that it was just as well Martin was not drunk now, for he was driving at a shocking pace.
Martin kept his horses well up to their bits, only easing them when absolutely necessary. They were a strong pair of Welsh thoroughbreds and made short work of the relatively level roads. Lunch was a hasty affair—some bread and cheese washed down with ale, taken in a small inn at Wade-bridge. Even so, by the time they left Barnstaple, and Martin headed the horses on to the road to South Molton, the sun was sinking in the west, the way ahead lit by its slanting rays. Realising that they would not reach the Hermitage, just north of Wiveliscombe, until evening, Martin bethought himself of a pertinent point he would do well to inform fair Juno upon.
‘We’ll be married tomorrow.’
The bald statement jerked Helen’s slumbering wits to life. Tomorrow? She looked up in time to catch Martin’s glance. He was deadly serious. As she watched, one dark brow rose arrogantly. ‘I’ve a special licence, supplied by the Bishop of Winchester.’
Helen straightened in her seat. ‘Don’t you think…?’ she began lamely.
‘No,’ said Martin. ‘I want to marry you as soon as possible and that’s tomorrow.’
Seeing his jaw firm and the line of his lips narrow, Helen resigned herself to walking up the aisle at the earliest possible hour the next morning. But she was beginning to feel that her overbearing suitor
was having things a great deal too much his own way. Consequently, she composed her features to calm and stated, ‘That’s as maybe. However, despite whatever outrageous claims you may choose to make to the contrary, I have not yet agreed to marry you, Martin.’
A worried frown, tending black, was thrown at her. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, ‘All you have to do is say yes.’
The low growl suggested that was her only option. Helen put her head on one side, to consider his point. ‘I would really feel much happier waiting until after I’ve met your mother.’
‘You can meet her tonight and spend all tomorrow morning with her. We can be married in the afternoon.’
‘But I’ve nothing to wear,’ Helen said, appalled as she realised this was true. She had not thought anything of marrying Hedley Swayne in whatever was to hand, but the idea of becoming the Countess of Merton in a worn ballgown was too hideous to contemplate. ‘No, Martin,’ she said, her voice increasing in firmness. ‘I’m very much afraid you’ll have to wait at least until I get a suitable gown. I will not marry you otherwise.’
A groan of surpassing frustration fell on her ears. The horses were hauled to a halt; she was hauled into Martin’s arms and ruthlessly kissed.
‘Woman!’ he growled when he eventually raised his head. ‘What further tortures do you have planned for me?’
With an enormous effort, Helen focused her faculties. Heaven preserve her, but if he realised she lost her wits every time he kissed her she would be in serious trouble. ‘Is it torture?’ she asked, quite fascinated.
That question got her kissed again. ‘Dammit—I want you, don’t you know that?’
She did, but Helen also wanted a wedding to remember. Her first, she had spent years trying to forget. And, despite the facts, a rushed wedding would be food for the gossip mills. Suppressing the shiver of delight that Martin’s gravelly tone sent coursing through her, she set herself to the task of winning him over. ‘It’ll only take a few days— a week at the outside,’ she offered.