Raven's Ransom (20 page)

“Shall I shoot it, to put it out of its pain?” Aldershot winced. He believed in Lily’s beauty, not in her sense and certainly not in her ability to handle a weapon. Still, he would rather she shot a horse than him. And
then
he would teach her . . . God’s truth, how
could
he have left the thing lying about for her? But then, as he told himself, any decently bred maiden would not think to touch such a thing.

“No, ma’am, the ’orse can be spared. Save yer bullet for them wot needs it.”

A decided dimple now appeared in Lily’s creamy, heavenlike cheeks.

“Be silent, you fool!” Sir Rory could have stamped with rage. In the event, he remained still, for the dastardly pistol was now directed most pointedly at his nose, if not his heart.

“Stupid widgeon!” He choked on the words and shifted his weight to his other foot.

Lily just smiled.

 

 

It did not take Barrymore a fraction of a moment to realize something was amiss. Though the burgundy lived up to its promise, it paled on the palette when Lily did not reappear smartly.

“You there!” Barrymore snapped his fingers peremptorily, for he did not like the smirk on my lady innkeeper’s face or the shifty manner in which she hurried past him.

“Aye?”

He noticed the defiant lack of “my lord” as she addressed him, and grew alarmed. “Where is my wife?”

“Your
wife,
me lor’?”

Too late she applied the necessary title. Barrymore was too incensed to notice.

“I believe that is what I said.”

The woman tittered unnecessarily. “She is off, me lord! Saved from a night of carnal sin, she is.”

For the first time in his debonair, happy-go-lucky, devil-may-care life, Denver, Lord Barrymore, wished to commit cold-blooded murder. This he very nearly did with his own two hands were it not for the fact that he was interrupted from his goal by the innkeeper himself.

“My lord, I believe I can explain . . .”

“Get this woman out of my sight and explain as I saddle a horse.”

The innkeeper bowed and gestured to his wife, whose bluster suddenly dissipated in the face of her spouse’s very tangible wrath.

“He would have despoiled an innocent virgin . . .”

“Stop blabbering, woman! They were married this day. And much good that is going to do us with your interfering, meddlesome ways . . .”

My lord did not favor them with the courtesy of listening. He strode out and was just selecting, from the medley of horses available, a suitable mare, when a grubby hand pulled at his impeccable ruby red morning coat. This was a feat in itself, for the superfine clung to Lord Barrymore’s form as closely as a second skin. It did not yield easily, but the grubby hand was tenacious and it was little less than a second before the viscount turned to see the cause.

“Yes?” His tone was uncompromising and the boy thought to cut his losses and run. Still, he was an enterprising lad and not inclined to scrub basement floors at the expense of a gentleman’s penny.

“Lose ’is shoe, ’e will.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Bloody great ’orse will lose ’is shoe. I knowed it at once.”

Barrymore looked at him closely. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and sniffed.

“Who
will lose his shoe?”

“Didn’t I tell yer? That gentry mort’s ’orse it will. Made off wiv the lady, mind, but they won’t go no how wiv a shoe like that.”

Denver’s heart leapt for a moment. The boy began to make a certain sense.

“How do you know?”

“I walked them, like. The left ’orse seemed a little lame and I looked.”

“Why did you not tell the gentleman?”

“No time for no changes. Said so ’imself.”

“Did you tell him about the shoe?” The boy grew sullen with all the questioning. He sniffed again.

“He didn’t ask, like.”

“Good,
good
lad!” Denver felt the strangest impulse to kiss the varmint. He was not so far deranged as that, however, but he
did
draw from his pocket a coin far too unsuitable for a youth of his size and criminal predilection. It was the last coin left to him as he had trudged somberly to settle his debt with Raven. The child gasped at the sight of it, but Barrymore’s mind had already turned to weightier matters. He selected the mare, apprised his men about the circumstance—Standish blanched to the roots of his hair—and set off at a canter after Sir Rory Aldershot and the only thing that meant more to him than Lord Raven’s Ransom, the raven herself. Lily, Viscountess Barrymore, his raven-haired wife.

Sir Rory Aldershot had been careless. Now he was stuck, in a unique position, between a tittle waif of a thing and the barrel of his own, most excellent, gun. In the circumstances, he chose to remain stoically still, but hard lights glinted in his granite eyes. Though they were as blue as the sky, yet they were as cold as my Lord Raven’s icehouse. He ground his teeth together as Miss Chartley—how was
he
to know that she was already the Viscountess Barrymore?—took aim for the tip of his rather splendid nose.

“Do me a favor,” Lily addressed the coachman without looking at him.

“What, me, ma’am?”

“Yes, you. You look to me a nice strong creature. Tie him up, will you?”

The coachman thought a moment, for his processes were sluggish, then grinned. “Aye, that I will gladly, but I have no rope.”

“Use strips off a traveling rug.”

“There
is
none.”

Sir Rory’s eyes bulged at this conversation.

“You double-crossing dog! I shall have your hide for this!”

Lily ignored him. So, too, she was pleased to note, did the coachman.

“Any suggestions?”

“Your ... petticoats, ma’am?”

“My . . .” Lily blushed.

“No, I think not. Much as I would not hesitate to use my undergarments for such a worthy cause as this, I believe it would be foolish. I would need both hands.”

“I will tear them off meself, ma’am.”

“Ha, I
warrant
you would!” Sir Rory smoldered at the man’s insolence, but was still wary of the gun. Lily was a confoundedly unpredictable sort of female. She would need schooling, when this nonsense was concluded with. It was only a matter of time before she made a mistake. Unfortunately, time was something he could ill afford. He bit his lip angrily.

“Now, now, Sir Rory, don’t be impertinent!” The light of laughter touched naughty Lily’s eyes now. She addressed the coachman, but her gloved hands remained as steady as rock.

“I believe I shall pass on your offer, sir. Even
I
balk at the impropriety of having you reach for my undergarments.”

Sir Rory gasped at this unmaidenly comment. Lily continued, with an impish smile hovering about her full, delectably inviting lips. “Besides,” she said, “I am conscious of the fact that my pistol might wobble. Steady, steady, you know.” Sad to say, the sweet viscountess was beginning to enjoy the high drama. It was amazing how collected one could be on the correct side of a primed pistol.

The coachman grinned his alternate appreciation and rampant regret. Still gazing at Aldershot, she addressed the menial once more.

“Make yourself useful, if you will, with that ax.”

He looked a query, which she noticed from the corner of vivid, emerald green eyes. She did not turn her head in reply, for her gaze was still fixed firmly upon the tip of Sir Rory’s aquiline nose. The nostrils twitched.

“Go on, then, fetch it. It is a passing fine ax.”

The man obliged, but looked puzzled. So, too, did Aldershot, who had thought he had Lily’s measure. Now he was at a loss. He shifted to his right foot, then shuffled again to his left. He wanted to consult his fob, but the stupid widgeon might set the pistol off by mistake. So, he waited.

“Got it?” Lily’s voice was almost merry. Sir Rory eyed her suspiciously as the man nodded.

“Good. Then start chopping.”

“Chopping?” The coachman looked at the fire logs in bewilderment.

“Not those, sir!
Those!”
Lily indicated the carriage wheels with a quick flick of her hand. Aldershot moved forward, but the gun was trained on him again in an instant.

“Not so fast, Sir Rory! I might shoot your foot by mistake!”

Aldershot decided not to take the risk. His eyes nearly popped out of his forehead, however, when the coachman understood what she was about and began to chop the great round wheels with masculine zeal.

“What in the blazes are you doing?”

“I should have thought it obvious, sir. I am rendering any further journeying useless.”

The coachman snickered a little, so Sir Rory kicked him roundly with the point of his civilized top boots.

“You are fired, man!”

The coachman stared a moment, then wreaked silent revenge by his continued devastation of the carriage wheels. It was a singularly enjoyable task, for Sir Rory was a petty man and he was being regarded with satisfaction by the prettiest little nymph he had seen in years.

“Did you hear me? You shall be turned off without a character. I shall be
damned
if anyone will employ a hapless nobody with no references!”

“Oh, you are so wrong, Sir Rory!”

Lily smiled sweetly.

“Be quiet, you vixen! You know nothing of such matters!”

“Oh, but I do.”

The carriage gave a great groan and sank to the ground, back wheels helplessly aloft. Lily addressed the coachman calmly.

“That will be fine, sir. You may start on the back two. I want this wood to be good for nothing but sticks. Won’t the crofter be surprised to see how industrious we have been? He shall have enough firewood to last all the winter. A fitting repayment, I believe, for the use of his ax.”

Sir Rory took a cautious pace forward. Lily seemed too amused to notice, so he took another.

“Uh, uh, uh! Naughty, naughty.”

The pistol was leveled, again, at his nose. What an appalling child!

“Did you say you have turned off your coachman?”

“You heard me.”

“Very good, he may consider himself hired once more.”

“Over my dead body!”

Lily looked at him consideringly. Then, in a rather haughty tone that quite suited her magnificent features, she addressed him.

“If you like, though that will not be necessary. Lord Barrymore requires only that he can handle a team and obey my commands.”

“Lord Barrymore? You flatter yourself.”

“I think not.” Lily’s voice was deceptively gentle.

Sir Rory raised his brows fleetingly. He would not argue with the silly wench. Now she was opening her berry red lips.

“We were married, you see, only this morning.”

There was a moment’s stillness. Then the unwelcome information finally filtered through to her abductor. When he hissed vituperously and clenched his fingers into a taut, uncomfortable fist, Lily thought he understood.

“So you see,” she continued lightly, “the viscount will be seeking me shortly. I shouldn’t much like to be in your shoes when he finds me, should you?” Her voice danced as lightly as clouds.

“Climb under the wreckage.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Climb under the wreckage. Since I cannot bind either of you, I must hope that the weight of half a barouche will keep you occupied awhile. Yes, you, too, Master Coachman, one can never be too careless of one’s trust these days. But this I promise you: if you engage not to permit this worthless piece of flesh to escape, you shall very soon be wearing Barrymore livery. My word on it.”

At which the burly man grinned a toothless smile—or in truth, there was evidence of some back molars, but these were of little account—and pushed Barrymore under with him.

Lily waited until she was perfectly certain both would have a fair time struggling to lift the remains of the interior. Just to be certain, she packed some of the chopped wheels about in places, so that splinters alone would offer sufficient enough hazard. Then, with a careful click to decommission the pistol, she lifted her skirts and ran as if her life depended on it.

 

 

Lord Valmont cantered across the plains with a merry twinkle in his dark, rather rakish eyes. Without his cloak and bandanna he looked rather regal upon his steed, but he trusted this would not weigh too greatly in his disfavor. After all, a gentleman born could not
help
having prize Arabian mares or his coats tailored with impeccable precision by Scott.

He was wearing a riding coat of dashing blue velvet, trimmed in the military style with gold buttons and epaulettes of fine West Sussex braid. His finger flashed, briefly, with the light of a cabochon sapphire, and his neckerchief was tied, rather carelessly, in a cheval knot. Daisy could not have dreamed up a more dashing hero for herself, though his pockets were not filled with daggers or poisons, but rather with sugarplums hastily plundered from his mother’s living room dish.

The sun was dropping steadily from the sky, though it was still cheerfully light and the clouds were drifting away in lazy streams. Still, there was a way to traverse before the welcome lamps of London were lit and he was able to keep his assignation at Lord Raven’s residence. When he crossed the familiar Westenbury plains, he reined in a little, for the inn was busy with ostlers at this hour and he had no wish to be embroiled in carriage accidents, or to have to negotiate his way past any lumbering stagecoaches.

His eyes narrowed slightly as he caught sight of a wreck on the northbound road. Dash it, he would have to stop to help. It would be unthinkable to pass such a thing and not offer assistance of some sort. He glanced down at his elegantly wrought fob and suppressed a small sigh. At this rate, Daisy dream Daisy would have to watch the sun ushering in one more velvety night without him. He cursed.

“Ahoy, there! May I help?”

“God, you stupid dolt, of course you can! Get this thing off me!”

My lord rode a little closer and gasped a little. The wheels of the ill-sprung chaise were chopped to ribbons. No accident, this.

“ ’Ere! We don’t want no rescuin’, sir! You ride right on, hark yer!”

“Silence, you clod-hopping son of a street whore!”

“Oy! Forgivin’ yer ’oner, but I shall knock the teeth out of yer for that!”

My lord watched with interest as the carriage seemed to shake and quiver on its hinges. He could not see much beside a tangle of legs, but what he
did
see was sufficient to cause a wide grin to cross his remarkable features.

“How remarkably edifying! That you, in there, Sir Rory?”

He heard nought for answer but an outraged splutter, so he deemed it a suitable moment to carry on his way. After all, he was not partial to being called a “stupid dolt” when offering assistance. Further, he had never liked Sir Rory Aldershot, Esquire and possibly never would.

He assumed a jaunty whistle as he kicked in his heels and urged his wonderful Arabian steed on to something between a canter and a cautious trot. Only a horseman as skilled as Lord Valmont could achieve such a paradox, but indeed, Armand thought nothing of the feat, just as he thought nothing of the outraged bellows issuing from the shell of the chaise. A night outdoors would doubtless do Sir Rory the world of good. He was the most unconscionable fribble Lord Valmont had ever been duty-bound to greet. Too bad Quimby was but a stone’s throw from the Westenbury estates. Valmont grimaced, then found his eyes widening in surprise. The trot turned into a full-out canter as he skirted the road—to avoid any traffic from the inn—and cut across the verdant meadows that bordered the pathway.

A lady was running—faster than he’d ever had the felicity of seeing a female do, her skirts held fast in her hand, and her raven locks streaming down her back—flying, he thought, briefly—before being tangled in a branch of a chestnut tree. He had only time to hear a varied and rather colorful oath before coming up to her from behind.

“May I be of assistance?”

Her eyes widened in panic, then relaxed almost instantly. Lord Valmont noted they were a splendid green and were accompanied by a delightful dimple when she smiled.

“You! ”

“I might say the same! We appear to meet in rather odd circumstances.” Lord Valmont did an exaggerated bow from the saddle of his horse. Lily’s gaze wandered past him.

“Did you see . . .” Her eyes clouded.

Valmont scowled. “Sir Rory Aldershot and company?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t look so stricken. They were in the most delightful pickle. Sir Rory looks likely to lose his teeth, for he was
not,
sadly, endearing himself to the other rapscallion in the chaise.”

Lily grinned, jerked her head upward, then winced.

“Ouch!”

“Hold on.” Lord Valmont’s foot hardly touched the stirrups as he leapt to the ground and began untangling the silky, dark strands from the prickly twigs. His horse remained perfectly still, save for a few nibbles of the long grass.

“Be quick!”

“I shall be as quick as I can, but your hair is so soft, it tangles.”

“Cut it, then.”

“What?” Armand gazed at her in astonishment.

“They shall catch up.”

“Then they shall have me to reckon with.” Valmont’s jaw hardened.

“You really mean that!”

“But of course I do!”

“The beastly wretch will turn you over to the authorities.”

“What?” Valmont looked puzzled until he remembered his fearsome role of cutpurse.

“Oh!” He smiled. “The boot shall be on the other foot, Miss Chartley. I am sorry to disappoint you, but I fear I may have misled you a little. I am the Honorable Henry, Mortimer, James Armand Garcia, eighth Viscount Valmont. At your service. Naturally.”

Lily gasped. “The Earl of Westenbury’s son?”

“You read your
Debrett’s,
I see. The very same.”

“Then Daisy . . .”

“Yes, it is very sad, but she will learn to live with it, I hope. Being a viscountess is no bad thing. One becomes accustomed.”

Lily giggled. “It is not Daisy I worry about but Grandfather. He will be furious!”

“Ah, the family feud. Still, indigestion was always a good thing for Raven. Too much harmony and he may wallow in a decline. You are running away, I take it?”

Lily nodded. “In a manner of speaking . . .”