How a Lady Weds a Rogue fc-3 Read online

  But if he could keep temptation distant he could fight it. Riding provided some relief. When she rested from driving, however, and he tethered Galahad behind the carriage and took up the ribbons, she did not retire to the back of the carriage with Mrs. Polley. Instead she sat beside him, her arm brushing his with each bump in the road, and she told him stories obviously intended to amuse that gave him opportunity to watch her supple lips move, her hands that had clutched him gesture. She spoke with warmth and laughter, frequently darting glances at him. Despite her open manner, she was not at ease; her eyes shone in a manner they had not before.

  He did not trust her not to come at him again. And so, rid of her he must be.

  Opportunity presented itself mid-afternoon as the sun dipped, hovering over the hills of the Welsh marches as it did so often in his dreams. Years ago, smothered in the heat of the East Indies, during fitful nights he’d dreamed of this temperate, emerald land, the land he’d come to know in his youth, moving from farm to farm as he found work, carrying only his strength, a pack full of books, and the anger in his heart. During those years he had occasionally allowed himself rest. Every six months or so he visited the single place he’d ever felt at home. The only place he had ever been safe. The place he hadn’t allowed himself to go now in five years and to which he had intended to take Miss Lucas until Carlyle came to retrieve her.

  Now he could avoid going there. This was not the opportunity he would have chosen, but he couldn’t throw it away. She seemed shy of nothing and her dedication to her mission was high. But when faced with true danger, she would not continue.

  Duncan Eads would assist. Unintentionally. The Highlander had found them. Now he trailed them on the road, never approaching close. But soon Wyn would allow him to come close—not close enough to truly threaten her, but enough to frighten her into being eager to return home.

  The man in brown pursued too, albeit less subtly, in plain sight throughout the morning. It was frankly a miracle Eads hadn’t yet dispatched his competition.

  They stopped to eat the lunch Mrs. Bates had prepared, pulling the carriage into the shade of a copse of pine and oak in a shallow valley dominated by a mill. The place was deserted, miller and laborers at home for their midday repast. Nothing stirred now but the wooly denizens on the hills and the wildflowers that carpeted the valley fields in yellow, blown by the autumn breeze.

  “The birds sing in every voice imaginable here.” She tossed the reins into his hands and hopped off the box. “At home I only ever hear endless crashing waves, and gulls.” She opened the carriage door and, as though she were the servant, hooked her arm beneath Mrs. Polley’s to support the elder woman. “At the Park it’s even worse up on that rock. Mrs. Polley, you must come visit Savege Park someday. It is far too grand for my tastes, but my stepsister is a countess. Truly! I knew you would never believe it, so I didn’t mention it before.”

  Mrs. Polley patted her charge’s arm. “I’ll believe anything fine of you, miss. You’re such a sweet one.” She climbed stiffly from the carriage, nevertheless managing to glare at him. “Isn’t she, sir?”

  “She is, indeed.” Sweet to taste. Sweet in his hands.

  He glanced down the road. Eads would come along soon.

  “The two of you will flatter my head into enormity.” She dimpled but her gaze skittered away from him. She did not believe the praise. All the better.

  She led her companion to a stone seat devised from a wall of the mill. The building was high-roofed, the wheel turning as the little river snaking through the valley rushed beneath it, washing the place with sound. Within the hour the miller would return and again set to work on the mounds of freshly harvested grain stacked beneath the roof. Wyn knew the rhythm of harvest season in this country as well as he knew the workings of a pistol and precisely how to employ it to his advantage. For now they were alone, appealingly isolated.

  He uncorked the bottle Bates had given him that morning and made certain she saw him drink from it. White gin, poorly distilled, it burned his throat and empty stomach. But it served the purpose. Within minutes the tremors in his hands would cease, and within half an hour she would believe what she must to make this charade a success.

  Pretense and lies, masquerades and subterfuge. The stuff of his life. He swallowed another mouthful, peace streaming through his veins at last.

  It was a damn good thing his great-aunt had died when she did, before she knew the truth. She would never have believed it. Or she would have, and it would have broken her heart.

  Diantha watched him covertly. She was accustomed to covert watching. Discouraged by her mother from putting herself forward among her parents’ friends, and perfectly aware that behind her back the other girls her age were poking fun at her, she’d learned how to watch and listen without being seen. With one exception: Serena had always seen her. Her stepsister, the kindest person she had ever known, had eyes in the back of her head. If she’d learned anything good in life, she’d learned it all from Serena. But when she found her eavesdropping, Serena’s loving looks always made Diantha feel guilty as sin.

  But her mother was a sinner, so she clearly had gotten that in her blood.

  She laid out the picnic, serving Mrs. Polley from the loaf of bread and crock of soft cheese, watching out of the corner of her eye as Mr. Yale again eschewed food for drink. She didn’t blame him. Her appetite had fled, though undoubtedly for another reason than his.

  The butterflies in her stomach would not cease. Even prattling on about thorough inconsequentials while he drove hadn’t distracted her. His hands holding the reins looked so strong and they had been on her. On her waist. Nearly touching her breasts. Recalling it made her short of breath. And recalling his tongue in her mouth made her very hot, especially in her most intimate quarters.

  She was a thorough wanton.

  He reclined now in the rear seat of the open carriage, a bottle in one hand. Beneath hooded lids, he watched her. With an indolent grin, he lifted the bottle in salute to her.

  A strange pulse went through her. It was not his usual smile, not the slight smile that gave the butterflies wing. This one made her feel a little sick.

  She glanced about her. The brown horse grazed peacefully in the shade at the edge of the trees. But Galahad’s head was up, his ears perked high. Diantha threw her escort another glance. His eyes were closed now, his hand slack about the bottle. Mrs. Polley snored, propped up by Diantha’s folded cloak, Ramses curled in a ball at her feet, worn out too.

  She slipped off the bench and crossed to Galahad, passing the carriage and the sleeping man. Diantha knew little about horses, but he was certainly alert. Perhaps a rabbit had caught his attention, or the miller had returned. Galahad turned to glance at her approach, his ears flickering, then shifted his attention ahead again.

  “What is it?” She changed direction toward the corner of the mill, the ground beneath her feet damp in the shade of the trees abutting the far side of the building. “It must be very—”

  She froze.

  Her first reaction should have been to scream. Her sisters would have. They would respond appropriately to encountering a villain. But all Diantha could think was how huge the man was. At least a head and a half taller than her, he was not fat but thick in his arms, chest, and neck. Even the pistol he pointed at her looked burly.

  “Whisper a breath o’ sound,” he said in a deep, quiet voice, “an A’ll shoot ye.”

  She locked her lips shut. But they quivered. Her entire body quivered. If Mr. Yale were to glance her way, he would see her standing unnaturally like a statue and come to her rescue. But he was asleep from too much liquor. And if he came running then the man would shoot him, for this must certainly be the Highland Scot who was as strong as a Dover dockworker.

  She nodded, pleading instead with her eyes to be allowed speech.

  “Ye’ll go inta those woods nou.” He gestured with the pistol. “Ye’ll remain there until A tell ye ta come out.”

  “I w
on’t,” she whispered.

  He cocked the pistol.

  That it had not been cocked before took some of the edge off the rush of fear that accompanied the clicking sound. But she really should have screamed. She should have run. She was a complete failure as a heroine, and now her hero would be killed. “I won’t,” she repeated with as much volume as she could muster; fear choked her throat. “You are the man following Mr. Yale, aren’t you? Mr. Eads?”

  Interest lit his dark eyes. His skin was tanned by the sun, the hair beneath his hat dark and long. He was clean-shaven and well-dressed, and except for his accent spoke like a cultivated Englishman. He must be a gentleman of sorts.

  That notion opened her throat a bit. “I won’t go,” she rasped.

  From the edge of the woods came the unmistakable click of another pistol cocking.

  “Miss Lucas, do oblige me by removing to the carriage at this time.”

  Mr. Eads went perfectly still. “Yale.” The single word conveyed anger and threat at once.

  “Good day, Eads. I would bow to you but it would ruin my aim, and in any case if you even flinch, mein tumhe maar daaloonga.” He stood in the shadow of trees. “But I should rather not do so in the presence of a lady. Miss Lucas, if you will?”

  “No. Was that Scottish? What did you just say?”

  “Lass,” the giant rumbled, “tell him ta lay down the pistol nou.”

  “No. You have evil designs upon him and I will not allow you to see them through.”

  “Evil designs he brought upon himself.” He seemed very certain of that. Diantha’s heart leaped from a gallop into a careen. “Nou, tell him ta lay down the pistol.”

  She scrambled for words. “Well, who hasn’t brought bad fortune upon themselves at one time or another?”

  “Eads, lower your weapon and release the hammer. Carefully.” Mr. Yale’s voice had dropped.

  “Ye told her ma name.” Mr. Eads studied her with his dark eyes. “Ye willna allow her ta be harmed, A think.”

  “Ah, the mountain pauses to think. This is something of a surprise, I shall admit.”

  “Ye imagine the Raven is the only man to think in the midst of action?”

  “The Raven?”

  “Madam, if you would step away from the man pointing a pistol at you, that would uncomplicate matters considerably.” His voice was so smooth she knew he could not be inebriated. The breeze fluttered in the tails of his coat and the lock of black hair across his brow, but his hand pointing the pistol at the Highlander did not waver.

  She must not allow this.

  “Mr. Eads, do you have a Christian name?” she blurted out.

  He frowned.

  “A first name,” she explained. “So that I may speak to you as a friend of sorts.”

  He didn’t look away from her. “What is this, Yale? What trick are ye playing?”

  “No trick to speak of. She does this. Befriends people.” He sounded perfectly at ease. “It is one of her many charms.”

  Diantha did not take her eyes off the tower of man. “I suspect Mr. Yale is being sarcastic, but—”

  “I am not.”

  “But I should like to know the Christian name of the man who will murder me. Because you see, Mr. Eads, I shan’t allow you to kill him.”

  His gaze flickered over her gown then back to her hair. “No even ta save yer life?”

  “Of course not. What would my life be worth if I allowed another to die so that I could live? But more to the point, I have need of him at present. You see, four years ago my mother ran away from home, abandoning me with my young sister and going off to live in a brothel.” A brothel from which, she realized quite abruptly, she did not wish to retrieve Lady Carlyle. “I—I am determined to—to find her.” Her heart pounded. That was what she wanted, after all, to see her mother and speak with her, not however to be thrown back into the daily misery of life with her. Somehow contemplating the potential end of her existence presently, amidst the shimmering glow of an adventure both dangerous and delicious, this became very clear to her.

  “Despite my stepfather’s objections I have set off on this road to find her,” she continued a bit less steadily. “But, being unfamiliar with the route, I require assistance, and Mr. Yale has pledged to render it to me. So, you see”—she could hear her voice growing stronger with each word—“if you kill him I shall be destitute, not to mention rather desperate, for I have only a fortnight to find my mother again before I am discovered by my family and sent home probably to be locked away for the remainder of my life for having done such a scandalous thing. In any case, I simply must go. Therefore, you and Mr. Yale must settle your differences in some manner today that is not killing each other.” She glanced at her traveling companion then back at the giant. “Do you both completely understand?”

  To her utter astonishment, Mr. Eads lowered his pistol. The weapon made a soft metallic sound as he released the hammer. Diantha didn’t dare breathe.

  “Wise man.” Mr. Yale walked forward, pistol still pointed at the Scot’s chest.

  Mr. Eads’s square jaw locked and he slewed his gaze aside. “Damn ye, Yale.”

  “Already taken care of, old chap.”

  She darted glances between the two. Their eyes looked deadly.

  “You may not shoot him,” she said hastily.

  “Thank you, Miss Lucas. But if you could now—”

  A female shriek cut the air, followed by a cracking noise, a massive thud, and a series of yips then a man’s shout: “Oh, God!”

  Then everything seemed to happen at once. Ramses came flying around the corner, barking wildly. Mr. Yale snapped the pistol across Mr. Eads’s wrist. The Scot cried out, dropped his weapon, and swung a huge fist at Mr. Yale’s jaw. It went wide of the mark while the butt of Mr. Yale’s pistol instead found its home upon Mr. Eads’s brow. Ramses clamped on the Highlander’s boot, snarling. Mr. Eads’s hand flew to his head, a string of foreign words flowing from his mouth, and the little dog left off his ankle and retreated warily.

  “Don’t try it again.” Mr. Yale plucked the weapon from the ground. “Are you otherwise armed?”

  “O’ course A am.” The other man scowled, pressing his fingers to a small gash on his forehead. “A won’t use them. A only hit ye because ye hit me.”

  “You should have dropped your weapon when I told you to.”

  The moaning from the yard beyond took up epic proportions. Mrs. Polley’s scolds rang over it. Diantha moved toward the sounds then glanced back. Her breath jerked. Her traveling companion was holding his pistol barrel against Mr. Eads’s brow.

  “I will have your word on that, Duncan.”

  Duncan?

  The Highlander’s massive shoulders heaved. “God damn, Yale.” He glared. “Ye have it.”

  Mr. Yale lowered the pistol. “And I’ll know why you’ve given it too, after I have seen to the trouble that lies beyond.” He tossed the other man’s weapon onto the ground at his feet again, as though it were nothing at all. “Leave now or assist, as you wish. But do not go far, or your fate will prove much worse than in Calcutta.”

  Diantha stared. He came to her side and she finally thought to snap her gaping mouth shut.

  “You are giving him back the pistol? You know him? His Christian name?”

  “And his birthday, as well as his mother’s favorite marmalade. Now, Miss Lucas, if you would finally oblige me by following my instructions, I pray you make yourself a shadow behind me and come along. Your lady’s companion, it seems, has attacked a man.”

  She did as he bid, mostly because it seemed foolish to defy a man who had bested a person of Mr. Eads’s size with such little to-do, but also because she was rather shaky and following him felt safe. He made her feel safe, despite the hulking Highlander retrieving his pistol behind her and the moaning man in the yard ahead. Yet at the same time it was quite apparent to her that he was the cause of her shaking.

  “This may all be somewhat unusual to me,” she whispered. “Na
turally.”

  “I imagine so, but it is over now.” He paused and looked down at her. “Thank you for your assistance.” It was not what he wished to say. She could see this clearly in his silver eyes that seemed to seek within her where she trembled with emotion at once both terrible and wonderful. His gaze only made the trembling worse.

  “And?”

  His brow drew down. “And you needn’t worry again.”

  “Mr. Eads will not threaten me again, or he will not threaten you?”

  “Even were he to, I suspect you could hold your own.” It seemed for an instant as though he wished to smile, but now his eyes held no light.

  “Why did you pretend to be inebriated?”

  “You mistake it. I did not pretend.” He turned and followed the wall around the corner.

  Mrs. Polley stood over a prone man, little bits of white cheese and crockery spread all about the place like snow. The man’s face was contorted with pain. He glanced at Mr. Yale and groaned anew.

  “See here, sir,” Mrs. Polley directed at Mr. Yale, “if this is that man you’re so worried about following us, he’s a bag of cowardice.”

  “Perhaps his courage is merely not as hearty as yours, ma’am.” Mr. Yale crouched at the man’s shoulder. “It seems your pursuit of me, sir, has landed you in an unhappy place today.”

  “Who is that harpy?” He gritted his teeth. His left leg was thrust beneath his other at an angle that made Diantha’s stomach queasy again.

  “Come now, sir. That is no way to speak of a member of the fair sex.”

  “She—” The man gritted his teeth. “She said you would be a clever son of a—”

  “Ladies present, my friend.” Mr. Yale clucked his tongue. “Do mind your manners. Now, tell me, who are you and who is ‘she’?”

  The man closed his eyes, his lips a zigzag.

  Mr. Yale nodded. “I see. You are probably wise. I would not tell me who I am and what my purpose is in following me if I were you either.”