Raven's Ransom (18 page)

Then his attention was arrested by the glint of copper. There was something of the shade that pleased him, for it reminded him of that
other
copper-curled person, for whom nothing but the sanctity of wedlock would wholly satisfy his desires. Even the slender wrists and the high bones of the cheek were like, but of course, other subtle differences were too innumerable to mention.

My lord sighed at his fanciful nature and stared out the window. He thought he heard a similar sigh from the other seat and smiled. Mayhap the lad was glad he had other matters to occupy his attention. He would teach him that he was a hard master, not easily disobeyed, then turn him over to the stable hands. Doubtless he could earn his keep in some way. There were always hay bales to be fetched and carried and stables that needed sweeping. Better that, surely, than a life of crime that would doubtless be his lot if he was set down on the streets again.

Primrose eyed him cautiously, then dropped her hands demurely in her lap. Not the stance of a youth but then she was not practiced at subterfuge. My lord eyed her, puzzled. The lad had slender wrists, lily white as though they had not seen the seedier side of the docks or the coal mines or the slums. He seized one, caught by a sudden strange fancy. The shock in the lad’s eyes were mirrored only by his own, for in that touch there was something indefinable, something between them that was more than man or master.

The youth flushed a little and jerked his hand away. My lord ignored the gesture, for he was most perturbed, caught up in some fanciful delusion that he would doubtless chuckle about on the morrow. “By the saints,” he thought, “I am likelier drunker than I thought.” The marquis, having partaken only of a few light brews, was harsh on himself.

The child drew his beaver down over the curls, but shivered, all the same. Rochester threw him a blanket, which was received with a grateful smile, but again no words. The smile was enough, however, to send the gentleman’s pulses racing quite extraordinarily. It was direct and echoed in the eyes, albeit fleetingly. My lord could not mistake the whisper of a smile through dark, copper-toned lashes. They curled long and luxuriously across the lids and even under the beaver’s brim they were too exquisite to carelessly ignore. He drew in his breath.

By God, if he knew no better he would think . . . but no! The lad had none of the delectable curves that had been such a sore temptation to him in the lamplit chaise at Almack’s. Even now, he could recall Primrose’s dark velvet gown, cut low enough to tantalize, yet more modest, he had to regret, than some of the
other
confections that were being worn that year. No, he’d had just chance enough to glimpse soft rounded curves cupped by velvet and laced in by slivers of organdy. Smooth, and soft to the touch he would guess, though even
he
had not dared presume that far. The child was hugging the blanket to him so he could not compare, but really, such comparisons were absurd; he would have noticed from the outset. Or
would
he have?

Doubt suddenly overcame Gareth. The urchin was wearing a jerkin, after all. Perhaps, even now, beneath the thick green wool those heavenly curves were struggling against the cramped shirt he had so ruthlessly tugged at. My lord felt a tightening about his elegant satin breeches that was really quite perverse, but the thought intruded upon his consciousness too forcibly to be ignored.

He regarded Primrose intently from beneath hooded lashes. What could she be playing at, he wondered. If it was Primrose facing him with impunity from under the brim of that far-fetched beaver, she would have much to reckon with, for the fright she had given him. God, the thought that she even now could be wed or bedded with Barrymore made his fists clench quite wretchedly.

If she had put him through that shocking misery, then still had the unmitigated gall to masquerade as a street urchin and place her life—not to mention reputation—in the veriest danger, she would have a lot to answer for. They were ten miles, still, he judged, from the inn.

Time enough to have the horses turned round if this was all a prank. Time enough, if it was not, to discover the truth at all events. God knew, he needed his mind to be occupied whilst there was this moment of forced inaction. Though the carriage was moving onward quite steadily, Gareth felt hamstrung by the enforced wait. He might as well occupy himself to some purpose.

He leaned forward, suddenly, ostensibly to check the catches on the carriage doors. As he did so, he was assailed by a scent memorably sweet and shockingly provocative to his senses. Musk and jasmine . . . he had his answer.

“You shall not get away with this!” Lily sobbed in impotent anger.

Sir Rory smiled gently, but his blue eyes were slits and granite hard. “Oh, but I shall, my little passion flower.”

Lily did not answer, so he continued. “It is true that the
last
time I attempted this, I was ill-prepared. Fortunately, I am not so puffed up in my own conceit that I do not learn from my mistakes. See, I have not brought, this time, some lame, low-stepping nag. I have a chaise and pair, now, a very different thing, I am certain you will agree.”

He eyed her scowl complacently and patted her leg. Lily felt her skin crawl beneath the gay, brightly rosetted morning gown, but she chose not to squirm. She may have been young and foolish, but she had learned a little, at least, of dignity and bearing. It would be unbecoming to squirm, besides being pleasing, no doubt, to her captor.

It was at the tip of her tongue to tell him triumphantly that all was in vain, for she was wed already. The thought made her mouth curve, a little, in secret triumph. She fingered the gold band but newly placed upon her finger and frowned. If her tormentor were to notice, it might not go well with her, for she would lose the advantage of surprise. Also, if he knew she were wed and the ransom lost to him one way, he might choose the other, more despicable way. He may ransom her body to Raven and despoil it himself. The thought made her shudder. Surely he could not be so vile! But yes, she thought he could.

All his innuendoes about her being good and becoming his wife started to make horrible sense. With great courage and infinite regret, she pried the ring from her finger whilst he stared at the dust clouds and let it drop, silently, behind the squabs. She could have wept, then, for it was like tearing herself asunder from Barrymore. Without the warm weight of comfort on her finger, she was subtly more vulnerable. She turned her head and looked silently out of the other window. She could not see a thing, for the horses were cantering so swiftly upon the country road that the dust was prodigious. She only hoped they were ditched.

 

 

In a different chaise altogether, two horses had slowed, at Lord Rochester’s command, to a mere trot. Primrose looked up in surprise. “Why are we slowing, sir? Your mission is urgent.” In truth, if he was uncertain before, he was certain now! The baggage had forgotten to be silent and so her feminine, delightful, and quite impeccable tones were revealed to him in all their glory. My lord had never been so thankful or so genuinely angry at one and the same time.

“Come here.” His tones were soft, but his eyes were uncompromising and Primrose felt a sudden clutch of fear in her heart Had he recognized her? Had he taken her in sudden disgust? She peeped at him, desperate to divine his intentions. My lord gave nothing away but merely beckoned to her. She went rigid and as silent as the grave. If he had
not
recognized her, she must take very good care not to let such a stupid slip occur again. In deep Cockney tones that made my lord smile despite his very real anger, she begged him to continue on his way.

My lord regarded her, for a moment, then called to the horses to stop. They allowed a country gig to pass, then instantly slowed at a clearing.

“What am I to do with you, lad?”

His voice was quiet, but Primrose felt a wealth of hidden meaning behind the tones that she could not begin to untangle. She caught at his last word, then, and breathed a sigh of relief. Lad! So he had
not
pierced her flimsy disguise, then. She shrugged her shoulders inquiringly and bit her lip. It would not do to imperiously command my lord to return to his mission. Nothing could possibly be more hazardous to her masquerade. She must wait, servilely, for him to say his piece and hope that he made up speed thereafter.

“I am in great haste, lad, there is a gentleman, you see, that I must kill.”

Primrose looked at him in shock. Kill Barrymore? Had she directed him to be so precipitant? She thought not. She swallowed a protest in her throat and regarded the luxurious finish of the beechwood floor.

“He has abducted the woman I love and I intend to have vengeance.”

Primrose looked up, then, for her heart smote her badly Love Lily? She did not know my lord
knew
Lily, let alone loved her! She flushed, for in her fluster she could not remember all that had passed between them in the chaise and she wondered if she had revealed herself—or her love—to him. If she had, she must take care to hide it from him in the future.

My lord, regarding her in silence, for a moment, despaired of any response but the rising color to her temples. Now was the time, if ever, for her to admit her trick, yet like some wanton, she did not! And still he loved her, those copper lights peeking out from that appalling headgear....

“I love my lady dearly, and I shall avenge her myself, but if ever I catch her entangled in a web of deceit, I shall punish her as I shall punish you now.”

Still, there was no response, but for a strangled choke my lord found hard to interpret.

“Come here, lad, for it is time that you felt the sad effect of your carelessness this day.” Primrose was not so naive as to misunderstand his meaning. She almost choked, even as she felt her heart beat miserably faster.

“Not now, sir! After!”

“What, afraid to take your punishment like a man? Be thankful I have not called the coachman to drag you outside and whip you with the cold lash of his carriage crop.
That,
and likely worse, would have been your fate had I not rescued you this morning.”

Primrose nodded, for she was not too green to know that in this, at least, Lord Rochester spoke the truth. She felt a strange trembling, though, as he continued on ruthlessly.

“I promised Josiah Hadley that you would be punished, and punished you shall be, though your rear end smarts two days from the enterprise.”

Primrose colored. Though Grandfather had certainly schooled Lily and Daisy upon occasion, that fate had never, thankfully, come upon herself. It had always been a blessing, moreover, that no matter how wrathful Grandfather’s birch had been, the sisters had always been singularly well cushioned by a plethora of hoops and useful linen petticoats. Though Raven had grumbled about this feminine advantage, he had never been so fierce as to order them removed. Primrose’s garments suddenly seemed absurdly scant, the boy’s breeches hugging her curves in a manner she had hardly paid attention to when hastily dressing. Now, she was aware of my lord’s eyes upon the thin, lightweight cloth. His hands, encased in excellent doeskin gloves, seemed large and uncomfortably forbidding.

The man’s eyes were upon her, his chin firm and uncompromising. She bit her lip. If Gareth truly loved Lily, then revealing herself to him in these rags would be mortifying. He would take her instantly in disgust, be forced to have her for sister-in-law. Primrose tried not to think of all that had passed between them. To do so would be to weep. Her face must have revealed something of her turmoil, for Rochester’s eyes softened.

“Hush, child.” The tone was gender, but when Primrose hesitated, the frown reappeared. He had stopped his carriage that she might confess. And still, despite all threats, she did not. The silence seemed endless. His lordship, at a loss, summoned up his anger like a mantle of protection against this woman who had wreaked havoc in his life without so much as a by-your-leave. Now, of course, she was willfully deceiving him. He stubbornly ignored his impulse to kiss her into oblivion.

“Come here.” Again, the steel in his normally pleasant accents. His intention seemed appallingly clear.

Primrose quaked. “Can you not school me after?”

“After
what,
if I might be permitted to inquire?” The tone was suitably scathing.

“After you have killed that gentleman?”

“After I have killed the gentleman I shall doubtless be caught up in embracing the lady.” No, he would not spare her blushes. If she would have him believe her a boy, then he would talk to her as one.

The honorable Miss Chartleys barely refrained from squirming, whether from the vision he conjured up, or from the threat to her person, it is not possible to accurately conclude. Suffice it to say that her color was high when he finally touched her. It was a clasp quite different from that which she had previously encountered. Her eyes were impossibly bright as she struggled for the words that would secure her instant release.

My lord continued. “And you, you varmint, will have made your escape. No, I do not drive one mile more until I have fulfilled my promise to Josiah Hadley. You will find, to your discomfort, that I am a man who keeps my promises.”

He tapped on the chaise and gestured to the coachman. “Have a break, Simon. There is a stream but a few steps from here. Take up your lunch and wait for my call.”

The coachman tapped his cap at Rochester, grinned curiously at the urchin within, and needed no second bidding. They waited in silence until the man was gone. Now Primrose could
certainly
not tell him the truth, for they were miles from anywhere and entirely unchaperoned. Rochester waited, hoping that Primrose would quail under his glare and yield first. He had no taste for this type of bullying, but his anger was still high, and she persisted in this charade, allowing him to think hellish thoughts of what might be becoming of her at the hands of the good Viscount Barrymore.

“Tell me your thoughts.”

Primrose’s eyes widened and her throat ached. How could she tell him? Tell him that she loved him, that she was miserable, mortified, maddened with hopelessness? Impossible. So, she said nothing. He called her to him quietly. Misunderstanding his intention, she rebelled.

“No!”

“No?” The marquis stared at her hard, so Primrose remembered his earlier threat about the coachman and his lash. Heart beating faster than ever she could dream, she questioned him unsteadily. “After . . .”

“Yes?”

“After you have done this thing, you will continue your chase?”

“Of a certainty.”

“Then I shall do as you say.”

Rochester sighed. And still, she did not trust him. Then there was the veriest touch of warm pink skin brushing against his shirt as she moved toward him. It was outrageous, this teasing of his. He would have to yield defeat and release her, for she was now, in truth, trembling. He was being grossly unfair—a cad, he supposed, but oh, how he
wished
she would trust him! Still, confidences could not be forced; they were precious gifts to be given freely or not at all. Sighing, he shook his head, dark curls lingering over his temples. Then he pressed her back into the velvet cushions. He was disappointed, but disappointment could not overshadow his admiration. She was both brave and true, not to mention very, very, very lovely. He had been unwise to send Simon away. She offered a terrible temptation.

Primrose regarded him steadily, her huge eyes asking more than she knew. They were wet with unshed tears, yet she held herself calmly. She was admirable. Oh, admirable! He would be blind not to see it. The marquis relented. It was time enough for the charade to end. No matter how she teased and troubled him, yet she was indomitable in spirit. Suddenly, all of the anger was gone. His lips twitched.

“You may stop trembling, my dear, for, though I am loath to admit it, I swear that I shall never lay hands on you so long as I live.”

Primrose stared at him. His words were simple, yet so sincere that she forgot his previous rather dire threats to the contrary and regarded him closely. Her heart soared at his altered tone, though she was still abundantly confused.

“I do not understand, my lord.”

“Oh, but I think you
do,
my little urchin. Come here, while I remove that despicable headgear of yours. A pearl-trimmed bonnet from a decent French milliner will become you more. I shall see to it just as soon as the banns have been posted.”

Primrose, for once, was speechless. Could he be mistaking her for Lily? But surely not, when Lily was so strikingly featured and unmentionably beautiful. Was he run mad, then? She had little time to ponder this possibility, for she found herself on his side of the chaise, again. This time, in a singularly fast but entirely maidenly fashion she had no objections to at all.

“My lord!”

“I thought we had agreed on Gareth.”

His voice was soft and mischievous as he removed the offending hat and cast it on a vacant seat.

Primrose gasped, for he was certainly not mistaking her for Lily, now. She had just time enough for air before he was kissing her ruthlessly and his hand, once more, was on her spine.

“Stop!”

“Good God, Primrose, you are a strange creature! When I threatened to spank your pretty little derriere, you say nary a word, but when I kiss you, you yell stop!”

“In truth, my lord, if my wits are wandering you have only yourself to blame! And when I think what you have put me through, this day . . .”

“Yes?”

Her eyes sparkled. “I believe I shall marry you after all. It will be fit punishment for you to be leg-shackled to an ill-tempered termagant.”

He released her, then, and laughed. “But why the charade, Primrose? I received the most urgent note from one of your sisters, saying Barrymore had ridden off with you. I was beside myself with rage and worry. Then I find you masquerading as a street varmint and nearly causing yourself grief of the first order . . .”

“I had no notion you would respond so quickly. And the letter, my lord, was from me.”

Light dawned. “From you? But why so cold, my little love? You signed it a curt ‘Miss Chartley,’ for all the world as though we were strangers.”

Primrose blushed.

“We were.”

“After what passed between us at Almack’s we were
strangers?”
His voice was incredulous and so harsh Primrose began to think, again, about the nagging ache to her rear.