To Rescue or Ravish? (2 page)

“Are you mad?” she cried.

“Aye, mad for you, Arabella. Such a pretty filly you are, and spirited, too. Just what I want in my bed.”

She shuddered. “How much does it take to convince you? I will not marry you!”

“After tonight, you will have no choice,” he said.

* * *

Matt urged the nags forward. The woman was putting up a good fight, but she would never break free on her own. He swept the hack to a halt in front of the other coach to block it, leapt off the box and jumped the bastard from behind. Even if the woman was a whore, she didn’t want this particular fellow. The damned nobs thought they could get away with anything. The man yelped, released the woman and landed on his bum. The woman stumbled, pitching forward, and Matt caught her in one arm.

He set her on her feet, his arm still about her—and froze at a memory so subtle and yet so powerful that his cock stirred in response. That scent… She faced away from him, utterly still in his embrace. He moved to turn her—he had to
know
—when the assailant let out a stream of curses and lunged. Matt let go of the woman to block the man’s rush with a punch to the gut and a follow-up to the chin. The fellow plunged to the paving stones again with a satisfying thud.

Chest heaving, the woman gathered her cloak about herself and pulled the hood over her pale curls before Matt could catch a glimpse of her face.

It couldn’t be. His memory was playing tricks on him. No surprise, considering, but wealthy, privileged Arabella Wilbanks wouldn’t be out alone at night.

The coach driver watched Matt warily but didn’t move. Wise fellow, but in case he got ideas, Matt pulled the pistol from his belt.

“Tell your master there’s plenty of doxies about who’ll pretend to enjoy his nasty little games.” He’d half expected the woman to run. Judging by Matt’s appearance and his accent—the one that suited this particular job—he wasn’t worth even a sixpence to her, and no one in a cloak like that was a sixpenny whore. Did she think she’d have to pay for her rescue in bed?

He opened the door of the hackney and let down the steps. “Hop in, love. I’ll take you home, shall I? No charge.”

“Number Seventeen, Bunbury Place,” the woman said. “Thank you kindly for saving me from that horrid man, but of course I shall pay the fare.” Without a glance at him, she climbed into the coach.

Damn. It
was
Arabella
.
He would know that perfectly modulated, immeasurably proud voice anywhere. She hadn’t recognised him, of course. Even if he dressed in his best and put on airs, she wouldn’t know him from Adam. Two years ago their eyes had met across a street, and her gaze had slid past his in utter indifference.

Or it might have been the cut direct. He didn’t know which was worse—being forgotten or purposely ignored. He shouldn’t have been surprised; she’d gained a reputation as a cold-hearted shrew who toyed with her suitors and then spurned them. At first he hadn’t believed the tales, but that encounter in the street, followed by more gossip—this time about her cruelty to servants—had made it damnably difficult not to.

And yet he’d found himself seeking excuses for her, wishing the gossip was merely malicious tales, and that Arabella was still the lively, adorable girl he’d known long ago. He’d just decided how to settle the issue once and for all when that notice in the papers had knocked him flat.

An old, bitter misery roiled up inside him. Immediately, he set it aside. He’d learned to smother useless longings after his father had turfed him out to fend for himself, when he’d needed all his wits merely to survive. Now he could afford to drink himself into oblivion with the finest brandy, but gin seemed more appropriate tonight.

Arabella Wilbanks deserved to marry a pompous old prig like Sir Reginald Rotherton. Good luck to them both.

And yet…what the devil was she doing out here after dark, and who was at Bunbury Place? She lived a hop and a skip from here. Less, even. For the most part, Matt avoided this part of town. It reminded him of what she stood for and he didn’t. But even in this well-off neighbourhood, she shouldn’t be out at night alone.

He got the tired nags moving again. Behind him, the coachman climbed down from his box and helped his master to his feet. An altercation followed, but Matt was too far away to catch the words. The man got into his coach, staggering in a way that made Matt grin, but instead of following—which would have been the devil of a nuisance—they headed up Cavendish Street.

Good riddance. Now…why Bunbury Place?

* * *

That couldn’t possibly be Matthew Worcester.

Oh, who was she trying to fool? She hadn’t seen him in ages, and yet she would know him anywhere. Thank God he hadn’t recognised her. What a struggle she’d had to regain her wits with his arm around her, so strong and yet gentle, and his beloved voice sending quivers through her blood. Memories blossomed inside her of a night almost seven years ago.

She stomped on them and squished them to a pulp.

How typical of him to dash to the rescue and then call the damsel in distress a whore. He’d never cared for people’s sensibilities. Shivering with cold and reaction, she fumbled in her reticule for hackney fare and a reasonable tip for a jarvey who had saved one’s virtue. Supposed virtue; if Matthew recognized her, he would realize he had wasted his time.

No, that was unfair. He wasn’t the sort to permit a rape even of a fallen woman or a prostitute. Still, if he recognized her… Her face grew hot at the thought. She thought she might die of shame, which made no sense, as she had done nothing wrong. She peered out the window, clutching a guinea. It was too dark to see well, but they must be nearing Bunbury Place.

A dreadful thought occurred. Sir Reginald’s coachman must have heard her give Mr. Brownley’s address. They might go to warn her uncle. Worse, they might follow, might get to Bunbury Place ahead of her, might even abduct her successfully this time. She mustn’t approach the house unless she knew it was safe.

She rapped hard on the roof of the coach. It lurched around a corner into darkness broken only by the glimmer of the hack’s carriage lamps and stopped.

She put down the window. “How far are we from Bunbury Place?”

The jarvey got down from the box and slouched against the coach, a nonchalant shape with an impertinent voice. “Not far, love. Changed your mind, have you?”

“I have not changed my mind. I am merely asking for information.” She put her hand through the window, proffering the guinea. “I trust this suffices. Kindly open the door and point me in the right direction. I shall walk the rest of the way.”

He didn’t take the coin. After a brief, horrid silence during which she concentrated on thinking of him as the jarvey and not her once-and-never-again lover, he said, “Can’t do that.”

“I beg your pardon?” She pushed on the door, but he had moved forward to block it.

“It’s not safe for a lady alone at night. This, er, Number Seventeen, Bunbury Place—it’s where you live, is it?”

How dare he? “Where I live is none of your business.” She shrank away from the door and kept her hood well over her face.

“So it’s not where you live. Who does live there, then?”

Why couldn’t she have just told him that yes, she lived there? Must every man in the entire country try to order her about? “Let me out at once.”

“Sorry, love. When I rescue a lady from deathly peril, I see her home safe and sound.”

Some shred of common sense deep inside her told her this was extraordinarily kind of him, but it made her want to slap his craggy, insolent face. Home wasn’t safe for her anymore. Nowhere was safe, and meanwhile Matthew Worcester was playing stupid games.

“Cat got your tongue?”

She exploded. “Damn you, Matthew! Stop playing at being a jarvey. It makes me positively ill.”

There was another ghastly silence. It stretched and stretched. Good God, what if he actually
was
a jarvey? Surely he hadn’t come down that far in the world. A different shame—a valid one—swelled inside her.

“You recognised me,” he said at last. “What a surprise.”

* * *

“Of course I recognised you. How could I not?”

“You might have said something to that effect.” He mimicked her proud voice. “‘Good evening, Matthew. How do you do?’ Friendly-like,” he added, lapsing into the role of jarvey.

“After I’d almost been abducted and then called a whore?” Her voice shook.

In spite of himself he took pity. “Sorry, but that was before I realized who you were. Respectable women don’t wander about by themselves at night.”

She opened her mouth as if to say something cutting, but shut it again, flapping a hand as if he were irrelevant. Which he was, in the ordinary course of Arabella’s exalted life, but she was stuck with him for the moment. He’d been contemplating whether to stop and question her when she’d banged on the coach roof. “Who lives in Bunbury Place? Your…” He got his mouth around the word. “Fiancé?”

“No, my trustee lives there. My supposed fiancé is the man who tried to abduct me.”

“What the deuce?” He opened the door and was about to climb inside—perishing cold out tonight—when he caught the sound of hooves. “Hold on a jiff. Stay there.” He slipped behind the hack and ducked back to the street. Sure enough, that same coach—her fiancé’s coach?moved quickly past.

Supposed fiancé, she’d said. So she wasn’t really engaged? Absurdly, relief bourgeoned inside him. He returned, bumping into her as she rounded the hackney, and grasped her arm to steady her. A big mistake, for even in the chilly air her unique aroma reached out to him, lured him to the edge of lunacy. “Didn’t I tell you to stay put?”

She put her nose in the air. “Where did you go?” Peremptory as ever, and yet no woman had ever fired his blood as she did.

“Looks like your, er, supposed fiancé hasn’t given up,” he said. “That was his coach, headed for Bunbury Place.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath, felt her fear. “I was afraid of that,” she muttered. “That’s why I had you stop. I daren’t go home. Oh, God, what am I to do?”

It was madness to spend another minute with her, but what choice did he have? “Obvious, isn’t it? You’ll have to come with me.”

* * *

Go with him? How she wished she could go with him, away from here forever. She shut that impossible dream into the coffin in her mind where she kept her memories of Matthew Worcester. There were so many; they’d been friends throughout childhood in their village in Surrey. Such good friends, but then they’d grown up, and the last memory overwhelmed all the rest, turned pleasure into pain, so she’d shut them all away. She’d never learned how to nail the coffin tight, but it stayed closed most of the time.

It wouldn’t after tonight. She envisioned months of repeating soliloquies from Shakespeare’s tragedies and passages from the Bible—but not the Song of Solomon—over and over every time she thought of him. Replacing those thoughts with words and more words; banishing those memories, the old and now the new.

“You needn’t look so appalled,” he said. “I’ll take you to stay with my mother.”

“You can’t possibly see the expression on my face in this pitchy darkness,” she retorted. “Does your mother live nearby?” Arabella hadn’t seen Mrs. Worcester for a number of years—not since her husband had died and she’d left Surrey to live with a relative.

“Not too terribly far. It’s not a tonnish address, but entirely respectable. Your reputation will be safe.”

She should be relieved, but on the contrary, she had to bite her lip hard to avoid bursting into tears. She’d assumed that someday she would have to meet Matt and speak to him again. A few years earlier, she’d seen him on a London street, but she’d been so unprepared that she’d cravenly ignored him. After that, she’d pictured how they might eventually encounter one another, thought out what she would say, planned how calm and composed she would be. After all, he was a thing of the past.

She hadn’t expected to find that the pain and anguish of seven years ago was nowhere near dead and buried, but had merely been biding its time.

As for the lingering desire, what was wrong with her? He’d abandoned her without a word. How
dare
the coals of that long-ago fire still smoulder inside her?

“Get back in the coach,” he said. “The horses are beat, but after I’ve stabled them I’ll take you to my mother.”

Arabella didn’t want to get into the coach. It was dark and lonely in there. “Let me sit with you on the box.”

He stared as if she’d gone mad, and chagrin swept over her. “No, forget it. It was a stupid notion.” He didn’t care for her anymore, didn’t even like her a bit. He was merely doing what he thought right. She stomped toward the coach.

“Not stupid at all, just surprising.” He paused. “It’s cold up there, you know.”

“It’ll be worse all alone in the dark.”

“Very well, then.” He boosted her onto the box and climbed up beside her. She shivered, as much from the memory of his touch as from the cold. They were in a little lane between two streets. He shook the reins, and the horses moved slowly forward, then more quickly after he guided them onto a street heading east, away from Bunbury Place. “They know I’m taking them home.”

“Is this—are these your horses? And hackney?” She shouldn’t have blurted that. They weren’t children anymore, saying whatever they wished to one another. Embarrassment swept over her at such a prying question. Such a demeaning one.

“No, I’m doing a favour for a friend who’s ill.” How could he sound so comfortable? Did he not mind being taken for a jarvey?

“That’s kind of you,” she said.

His shoulder moved against hers as he shrugged, and again his touch sent quivers of memory through her. “Makes a nice change.”

From what?
she wanted to ask, but it was none of her business, or maybe she just didn’t want to know. He hadn’t been born to such low work. He’d been the vicar’s son but beneath her notice, or so her father would have said, had he known how much she’d wanted Matthew, always and forever, right from the very start. She’d believed Matt felt the same, until she’d found out the contrary.