The Wyndham Legacy (Legacy 1)

“But who?” the Duchess asked. “And when?”

“A long time ago,” Mr. Burgess said. “There’s yellowing at the edges. See?”

“I do wonder who,” Trevor said. “In any case, the thief didn’t find the treasure, else it would have been the news of the decade.”

Marcus said suddenly, “You, sir, look very familiar to me. It’s the way you hold your head, the way—”

“Aye, my lord. I believe I would be your half-cousin, and yours as well, Mr. Wyndham. Goodness,” he added, smiling at the Duchess. “You’re all my kin. My mother was born on the wrong side of the blanket, begging your pardon, my lady, thus she was a half-sister to your grandfather. Thus it wasn’t difficult for me and your father, Mr. Wyndham, to be friends as boys and to keep that friendship once he’d left for the Colonies. The earl, naturally, didn’t acknowledge me.”

Marcus shook his bastard half-cousin’s hand before they left the shop, assuring him of acknowledgment.

“Good God,” Marcus said, shaking his head, as they walked back to where the young boy was patiently tending their horses. “I believe that there is some sort of precedent here.” He said to the Duchess, “Do you think I am expected to continue in the tradition of producing offspring out of blessed wedlock? Will my ancestors’ ghosts haunt me if I don’t populate the area with my bastards?”

“That is all well and good, Marcus,” she said, frowning at him, “but not to the point. What we learned makes me believe there is more to this treasure than fevered brains making up stories.”

“I wrote it all down,” Trevor said.

“And you,” Marcus added to her, “sketched those drawings very nicely. I had no idea you had a lady’s talents. You continue to surprise me. I don’t like it.”

“You have no idea of many things, Marcus,” she said. “Or perhaps you do, you just don’t want to accept them.”

He saw the half-smile on her mouth and wished devoutly that Trevor was in Algiers. He wanted her. Quite simply, he wanted to jerk up that riding skirt of hers, brace her against a tree, and bury himself inside her.

He trembled. Damn Trevor.

She turned then to look up at him. The half-smile froze on her face but she didn’t look away. She simply stared at him, unconsciously taking a step toward him. Marcus cursed.

Trevor, eyeing the two of them, quickly mounted Clancy and dug his heels in the stallion’s sides. He called out over his shoulder, “Take care not to fall off a cliff.”

Marcus cursed again and helped her to mount Birdie. “Just wait,” he said. “Just wait.”

She said slowly, not looking away from his blue eyes that were glittering brighter than the summer sky overhead, “I’ve a mind to find that treasure, Marcus.”

“Which treasure?” he said, his eyes on her breasts.

17

MARCUS SAID ABSOLUTELY nothing throughout the two-hour ride back to Chase Park, staring straight ahead between Stanley’s ears. She didn’t look at him either, but her thoughts were of him, all of him and what he was thinking, what he wanted, what he would do to her. She spurred Birdie to a faster pace.

When they reached the Chase stables, he nearly jerked her off Birdie’s back, grabbed her hand, and said low, “Come on. Now.” He grabbed her hand and nearly ran to the stables, kicked open the door to one of the tack rooms, then slammed it shut again with the heel of his boot. There was a key in the door and he turned it, still not releasing her right hand.

She had never imagined that a man could be so very urgent in the middle of the day. And here they were, not five minutes from his bedchamber and his bed. He’d waited two hours, but no longer? It was fascinating. Maybe this had something to do with that beyond business.

She devoutly hoped so. Suddenly, she was doing more than hoping.

“Now,” he said, turning to face her. He pulled on her hand, bringing her against him. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes narrowed, focused entirely on her. “Hurry, Duchess.”

She was pressed to his chest, feeling the deep pounding of his heart. She closed her eyes, those two simple words of his roiling through her. “What do you want me to do?” She was whispering, feeling suddenly so urgent she could barely talk. She flattened her hands against his chest, felt the pounding of his heart beneath her palm, and rose on her tiptoes. “Marcus, tell me what you want me to do.”

He stared down at her, his look intent. “Just be you. I want to see if you will moan for me again, if you will scream and nearly buck me off you. I want to see if you will become frantic for me again.”

She felt his large hands pulling open her riding jacket. He was holding his breath, she realized, when suddenly his hands cupped her breasts through the thin white lawn of her blouse. He closed his eyes, throwing his head back as he kneaded her through the soft material.

“Marcus,” she said again. He hugged her to him. He pulled off her jaunty riding hat, then tugged the pins from her hair. “Ah,” he said, and kissed her ear, blowing tendrils of hair from his mouth, his breath warm against her flesh, his fingers tangling in her hair.

“Do you want me, Duchess?”

She pulled him more tightly against her. She let her hands go down his back to his flanks. “I think that’s quite the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”