Forbidden (6 page)

The lords Serena had met previously had been out-and-out libertines, and she was sure that honorable peers of the realm did not pick up chance travelers out of pure charity. She looked at the road racing beneath the wheels and wondered if she could throw herself from the carriage and live....

"May I not have your name, ma'am?" he asked.

"Serena Allbright." Then she realized she had given her maiden name.

Why?

Doubtless because she wanted to wipe away all traces of her marriage. And because she shuddered at the thought that this man of fashion might recognize the name Riverton, might know her to be Matthew Riverton's well-trained wife. How could she know how far her husband's drunken boasting had traveled?

At least Lord Middlethorpe intruded no further, concentrating instead on steering his team with casual skill along the winding, rutted lane. Serena found her attention caught by his competent gloved hands, so subtly strong on the ribbons. Eventually, her gaze traveled up his caped greatcoat to his face.

He did not look debauched. His classical profile was quite beautiful, in fact. Since her own looks were flawed by a short nose and peculiarly tilted eyes, she had great admiration for pure lines.

Why, what an idiot she was!

Serena almost laughed out loud. She had been nervous of her rescuer's intentions, when just a short time before she had been planning a life of sin! Here, surely, was a candidate for protector. When—like the wool-factor and the half-pay captain—he tried to seduce her, all she had to do was succumb to his wiles and set her price.

Brought so close to it, however, her mind balked.

This man might be handsome, but he was still a man. He would expect what Matthew had expected, do what Matthew had done....

But, asked her practical side, what choice do you have?

And this time, if it becomes truly intolerable, you can leave.

All the same...

Lord Middlethorpe must have detected her shudder. "Cold, ma'am?" he asked. "Shouldn't be long now. But the dashed wind's worsening."

He urged his horses to more speed. In moments, though, a rut caught a wheel and almost tipped them into the ditch. He threw himself over her to correct the balance as he hauled back hard on the ribbons. "Sorry about that," he gasped when he had control again. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, thank you." Serena straightened, all too aware of the power of his body so briefly against hers.

Then concern over that power was swamped by concern over the power of the elements. The wind was now tugging at her cloak like monstrous hands, and even buffeting the carriage.

"'Struth," muttered Lord Middlethorpe. "I feared we were in for a storm, but nothing like this. I see a farm off to our right, ma'am. Do you know if it would offer shelter?" He was shouting now in order to be heard over the wind.

An alarming crack announced the separation of a rotten branch from a nearby tree. It whipped past the horses and he had his work cut out to steady them, again.

Serena couldn't hear his muttered words and rather supposed that was for the best.

"Well?" he shouted. "I'm not sure we can make Hursley."

"I don't know," she shouted back. "I am a stranger to these parts."

He gave her an astonished look, but then steered the curricle into the rough lane leading to the farmhouse. A welcome light flickered through tossing trees.

Serena had no time to worry about what he thought of her. The winds were surely of almost hurricane proportions. She saw a nearby haystack shredded to blow in the wind, and a particularly sharp gust almost tipped the curricle over.

"We'd best get out and walk!" he yelled, and struggled down to go to the frightened horses' heads.

Serena saw he could not help her, and she clambered down as best she could. Her heavy cloak was being flapped like a cotton sheet and was as much hazard as protection.

She managed to make it to the other leader's head and reached up to grasp the strap, as much to anchor herself as to steady the beast. It worked to do both and they fought the wind toward the farmyard.

When they staggered into the yard the force of the wind eased a little, blocked by the sheds and barns. But now flying debris was much more dangerous. Serena let go of the horse and pulled her hood close as protection against the swirling dust and straw. She saw a bucket bowl along and collide with Lord Middlethorpe's shin; saw him jump from the pain.

Serena clutched on to a stone horse trough, wondering how she was going to make it to the house.

A plank ripped free of a sagging manger and whirled just past her head to shatter against a stone wall.

Francis saw her narrow escape and her predicament. Lord, she was quite a tiny thing. He had managed to tow the frantic horses into the shelter of an open barn, so he abandoned them and grabbed her. He shielded her with his body as they fought their way to the farmhouse door.

He knocked but no one would hear him in this racket, so he opened the door and pulled them both in, shutting it thankfully on the violence outside.

They were in a stark tiled corridor, lit only by one small window. Muddy boots and pattens lined it, suggesting a good number of inhabitants. Heavy cloaks and coats hung on hooks on the wall.

In comparison to the outside, the corridor was almost silent, and they were at last free of the raging wind. They both took a moment to catch their breath. With a deep sigh of relief, Serena Allbright pushed back her heavy hood and shook her head.

Francis was transfixed. Even tousled and pale, he had never seen such a woman in his life.

No, he thought, that was ridiculous. He'd seen any number of beauties of all shapes and sizes.

But not like this one.

His dazzled mind absorbed blood-red hair escaping from a knot and pale, flawless features...

No, not flawless. Her lips were too full, her short nose had a decided tilt, and her eyes...

Her eyes could not exactly be called flawed. Deep, dark, and huge, they sat tilted, under sensual, heavy lids. Despite the fact that he knew differently, those eyes said she was emerging, sated, from a well-used bed.

The effect was being heightened, he realized, by a most extraordinary perfume. It surrounded her, not heavily, but unignorably. It had nothing to do with the flower scents his mother and sisters wore, but was composed of spicy, musky odors that spoke of sex.

He realized with a jolt that the last time he had smelled such a perfume had been on Therese Bellaire, the owner of a high-class house of pleasure and the most dangerous woman he had ever known.

A whore.

Serena Allbright had to be a whore.

An available whore? his optimistic body asked.

With a conscious effort, Francis remembered to breathe. With an even greater effort, he summoned caution. He reminded himself that Therese Bellaire had been a viper who had almost destroyed his best friend, Nicholas. To find a woman such as this wandering the countryside could mean nothing but trouble.

She was looking at him quizzically. "They probably haven't heard us because of the storm, my lord. Don't you think we should tell the people here that they have unexpected guests?"

"I am wondering
what
to tell them, Miss Allbright."

"That we need shelter from the storm? In Christian charity they can hardly refuse us."

"I was wondering rather what to say about you. I am about my business. On my way, in fact, to Weymouth. What of you?"

She started in surprise, and he suspected that for a moment she had forgotten her circumstances, whatever they might be. "I have suffered a coach accident?" she offered tentatively.

"Then we must by all means arrange assistance for your coachman and servants."

Her lips twitched in acceptance that she had lied. "I have no good explanation to offer then, I'm afraid, my lord."

"Miss Allbright, I need to arrange for my horses, so we can't remain here exchanging pleasantries. What do you want me to say about you?"

She raised her chin. "The truth, if you please."

He shrugged. "As you will." It was going to present a devilishly odd appearance, though.

Francis walked toward the door at the end of the corridor, but it opened before he reached it, spilling light, heat, and the welcome aroma of food. "Who be out there?" asked a gruff voice, and Francis saw the mouth of a shotgun pointing straight at him.

"No malefactors, sir," he said quickly. "We are just seeking refuge from the storm. You did not hear my knock."

Perhaps it was his well-bred accent that lowered the barriers, for the speaker came fully into view, proving to be a tall, gaunt man with a long, black beard. Behind him Francis could see a kitchen full of people.

"Never let it be said," the man intoned, "that Jeremy Post turned away good Christian folk in their hour of need. So who be ye?" Despite the words, the tone was grudging, the eyes hard and suspicious.

In the face of this biblical presence, Francis made a snap decision. "My name is Haile, and this is my wife. We will pay well for a night's shelter."

A moment later he was doubting his wisdom, as he heard a stifled protest from his companion; yet he knew he was right. It was all too likely that this patriarch would throw Serena Allbright back out into the storm if she didn't have a cloak of respectability.

A plain mystery woman might just have been tolerated, but this erotic siren? Never.

And if he was going to pretend to have a bride, it was definitely better not to give his title.

The man's sunken eyes took them in, lingering on Serena in intense disapproval, but then he lowered his weapon and stood aside. "Come you in, then."

The kitchen was filled with people and the smell of cooking. It was also full of the smell of stale, sweaty bodies, but Francis was past being particular. In fact, he thought, anything that masked Serena's disturbing perfume would be for the best. He took in a vague impression of about ten people of all ages as he steered his companion toward the fire. Above the hearth was a sampler declaring,
"The eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good."

"Shem, Ham," growled Mr. Post. "Go see to Mr. Haile's horses."

Two brawny young men sitting on an oak settle near the fire rose reluctantly to their feet and clumped out.

"There, sir," said Mr. Post. "Sit yourself and your wife down."

Francis turned to assist his companion out of her cloak, noting its quality with some surprise. It was made of heavy camlet lined with sable and must have cost some man a pretty penny. Its removal, however, revealed a russet gown that would surely give Mr. Post palpitations, so low was it in the magnificent bosom. Francis had to drag his eyes away.

Serena Allbright did not seem aware of the effect of her appearance and was intent on stripping off her leather gloves.

Francis's attention was caught again. She was wearing a handsome wedding band and a large emerald.

She was
married?
Some man owned this magnificent creature and let her wander around loose?

"Sarah," snapped Mr. Post to the huddle of women near a table. "Give Mrs. Haile your shawl. She'll be chilled."

A thin girl scurried forward to give up her black knitted shawl. Francis could swear that he saw Serena's lips twitch as she arranged it. She smiled sweetly at their host. "Thank you, Mr. Post. How kind you are."

Jeremy Post glared at her, jaws clenched on his long clay pipe. Francis knew he was wishing this whore of Babylon had never entered his domain. Francis was feeling a bit that way himself.

They took their seats and Francis said, "I thank you, too, for your hospitality, Mr. Post. It's fierce out there." The wind was howling, windows were rattling, and occasional crashes told of further damage.

"God's hand upon the sinners in the land," the man muttered. "Where be ye from, then?"

"I have property near Andover." This was entirely true. Thorpe Priory was situated there.

"Handsome properly, I have no doubt," sneered their host. "'
Labor not to be rich: cease from thine own wisdom.'"

Francis raised his brows. "Sounds like an instruction to idleness, sir. '
Strong men retain riches'?"
he offered as a counter proposal.

Mr. Post glared in confusion, but Francis heard a smothered sound. He didn't look, but he suspected that his "wife" was trying not to laugh. She was going to set him off; if they weren't both careful, they'd be out on their ears.

But he couldn't abide religious extremists of this type.

"'A naughty person, a wicked man, walketh with a forward mouth,'"
avowed the patriarch. "We don't hold with ungodliness in this house, Mr. Haile."

"I don't hold with ungodliness anywhere," said Francis amiably, though it was an effort to be pleasant.

He was seriously considering his options. The briefest thought assured him that they had little choice but to maintain their deception and stay the night in this most unpleasant household.

He looked around.

There was a degree of prosperity about the place—in the quality of the plain furniture and pots, and the hams and other supplies hanging from the beams. There was also an air of austerity. The clothes were drab, and the only decorations in the room—if such they could be called—were the biblical quotations.