Too Wicked to Wed (11 page)

Chapter Ten

W
here am I?”

“In a carriage, Lord Killingworth,” replied an oddly familiar female voice.

“I am aware of that fact,” he growled. The wheels hit a rut. “Painfully so.”

Hell, his ribs felt as if a thousand red-hot pitchforks were jabbing against sinew and bone.

“More precisely, why am I in a carriage?” He dimly recalled the darkened alley, the flash of sparks and the searing bite of red-hot lead. But from there, it was all just bits and fragments in his head.
Stumbling steps. A jarring ride at breakneck speed. A helping hand from Cameron. The muffled voice of Lady Alexa…

LADY ALEXA?

He struggled to sit up. “And confound it all, why are
you
in it with me?”

“You are in a carriage because you did not appear to be in any condition to walk the distance to Devonshire,” she answered. “Which also explains my presence. In your current state, we could hardly have sent you rattling off on your own.”

Far from providing a satisfactory answer to either question, her words only raised a sense of dire foreboding.

Connor raised a hand to massage at his temple, only to find that the movement sent another stab of pain knifing through his left side. “Why the devil am I going to Devonshire?” he demanded.

“Do try to stop thrashing about, sir.” Alexa paused to tuck a corner of the loosened blanket back into place. “Otherwise you will open the bullet wound.”

So, he had been shot?
No wonder he felt like an Egyptian mummy, wrapped tight in layers of linen strips.

“Bloody hell.”

“Quite,” she agreed. “A most unpleasant sight, even at a distance.”

“It doesn’t improve on closer acquaintance,” he said through gritted teeth. “How bad is it?”

“The bullet nicked a rib, but other than that, the surgeon said it was a clean wound. He doesn’t expect there to be any lasting damage.”

“Hmmph.”

“Would you care for another sip of laudanum? It will take the edge off the pain until we reach our destination.” She didn’t wait for an answer but brought the vial to his lips.

He hadn’t the strength to resist.

Lying back, Connor could catch only a glimpse of scudding gray clouds and swaying treetops through the sliver of window. The slender branches, their leaves still furled in tiny buds, had a certain delicate grace as they bent one way, then another, buffeted by the whims of the gusting wind.

Why was he suddenly reminded of his mother’s hands?
They, too, were slim and graceful.
And distant.
Always in motion, always grasping at naught but air. He couldn’t recall ever being held in her arms.

The flickers of green brought back other haunting images as well. She had worn a large emerald ring on her right hand. As a child he had been fascinated by its angled facets and how the luminous color changed constantly with the shifting light. Later, it had disappeared, along with rest of her valuables, feeding his father’s insatiable appetite for gaming.

Connor tried to shake off the memories.
Strange, he hadn’t thought of his mother in years.
She had been a beautiful woman, but like the windbent twigs, she had found herself at the mercy of a force she had no control over. She, too, had been resilient at first, then slowly hope had withered away to a dry brittleness.

The fights between his parents had become more tempestuous, until something had snapped. She became even more distant. Detached. Six months later, she died in a carriage accident. With a man other than his father.

Closing his eyes, Connor swore a silent oath. It must be the disorienting drug, or the loss of blood that had him in such an oddly maudlin mood. Or perhaps it was the sharp scent of wet loam and sea salt now wafting through the carriage, bringing with it the unbidden, unsettling recollections of childhood.

Another jolt drew a groan from the creaking wheels. Was it just another figment of his feverish imagination, or was the coach lumbering into a twisting ascent?

Still muzzy from the laudanum, Connor tried to sit up and reach for the curtain.

“Steady, sir.” Alexa scooted forward and caught him by the shoulders to keep him from rolling onto the floorboards. “We are nearly there.”

Though he had a sinking suspicion that he knew the answer to the question, he asked it anyway. “Where?”

“Linsley Close.”

No.

“Absolutely not.” He meant to muster his most intimidating snarl, but to his chagrin, it came out sounding more like a rather pitiful whimper.

Not paying him the slightest heed, Alexa went back to reading the book in her lap.

“Do you hear me? I refuse to set foot in the cursed place.”

“You won’t have to,” she replied. “The coachman will carry you up to a bedchamber.”

“If I have to crawl away on my hands and knees, I am
not
staying here.”

She didn’t look up. “Why? Is there a reason you are so adamantly opposed to a visit?”

“I don’t have to explain myself,” growled Connor. “Not to you or to anyone.”

The pages snapped shut. “For a grown man you are sounding remarkably childish, sir.”

The truth of her words only goaded him to greater ire. “Be damned with what you think of me. I demand that you turn this cursed carriage around!”

“Impossible.” Her voice remained maddeningly calm. “Even if I were inclined to accede to such an idiotic request, the road is much too narrow for such a dangerous maneuver.” As if to confirm the observation, she craned her neck for a glimpse of the passing landscape. “Frankly, I have had enough excitement for one night. Having escaped flying bullets, slashing knives, and the clutches of a hulking brute, I do not fancy a drop of a hundred feet onto jagged rocks and pounding surf.”

Connor clamped his jaw shut.
The devil take it.
It suddenly occurred to him that there was only one way that he could have escaped his attacker.

Alexa Hendrie hadn’t panicked.
Instead, she had somehow found a way to bring him to Cameron’s house.

A sidelong glance showed that her curls had come loose from their pins, and one scraggled twist now hung over a smudged cheek. Its shadow deepened the hollows under her eyes, accentuating a look of utter exhaustion. Her clothing—the mud of Southwark still clinging to her skirts—was rumpled from the hours spent cramped in the carriage.

Yet she had not voiced a peep of protest.

It was, he admitted, churlish in the extreme to make her a target of his anger. What she deserved was a medal. Maybe two. Most chits would have swooned at the first crack of trouble. She, on the other hand, had shown amazing pluck and resourcefulness in getting them both to safety.

But grudging admiration quickly gave way to harried exasperation. That was the trouble—she was too brave and too clever for her own good. She should never have come this far in the first place. And with every turn of the wheel, she was moving farther along a path that might lead to her ruin.

Or worse.

His brow, though hot as Hades, felt a momentary touch of ice. Sebastian would not forgive him if it came to that. Nor, for that matter, would he forgive himself. Whatever tentative bond of camaraderie had formed between them last night, it must be quickly and unequivocally severed.

The task should not be a difficult one. Scaring people off had become second nature to him.

What his voice lacked in volume, it made up for in sarcasm. “In retrospect, you have only yourself to blame, Lady Alexa. You wouldn’t be in this mess if you had behaved like a normal young lady and not strayed from the cozy confines of Mayfair.”

“Hindsight always appears clearer than ordinary vision.”

“I wouldn’t know,” shot back the earl. “I make it a point of never looking back.”

Her response, when it came, took him by surprise. “Do you never have regrets?” she asked softly.

“Never.”

The harshness of his tone brought a slight quiver to her lips. Brushing aside a twinge of guilt, Connor drew himself to a sitting position. The uneven crunch of gravel indicated that the coach had turned off the rutted road. All too familiar with the drive, he waited in surly silence until the last of the twisting turn had been negotiated before announcing, “Now, seeing as we are about to enter a courtyard of ample dimensions, there is little danger in executing a reversal of direction. As soon as we come to a halt, I will descend and give the order.”

“Sir, that is not a wise move. You are likely to faint if—”

“Men don’t faint, Lady Alexa,” he replied with a mocking smile. His stockinged feet hit the floor—followed promptly by his knees as his legs gave way.

*  *  *

“No, men don’t faint, they simply pass out cold,” muttered Alexa, somehow managing to keep the earl’s chin from smacking against the facing seat.

She had not really expected him to fall at her feet in gratitude upon regaining consciousness, but a word or two of thanks might have been nice, rather than the angry, deliberately abrasive attitude he had adopted since opening his eyes.

Lord, he must dislike me something fierce.
There was no other explanation for why her presence provoked such ill-tempered snaps and snarls. Clearly he found her as irritating and unwelcome as the hole in his side. A small lump formed in her throat. She had thought some sort of understanding had formed between them during the meeting at The Wolf’s Lair. Not precisely a friendship, but at least a wary tolerance based on mutual respect.

Evidently she was much mistaken.

Which, she thought with a tiny sigh, was hardly surprising, since most of her recent decisions had revealed a sorry lack of judgment.

The earl, steadied between her arms and the edge of the seat, was now no longer in imminent danger of collapse, but a ghost of a groan drew her thoughts away from her own inward hurt. Seeing an unhealthy flush had burned away his previous pallor, she felt a frisson of alarm.

“Jenkins!” She called to the coachman.

An answering “Arrumph” sounded from outside.

That was as close to a coherent word as she had heard out of the man hired by Cameron to handle the ribbons. Thick as a barrel, with hunched shoulders, massive arms, and a lumbering gait, he brought to mind the performing bear she had once seen tethered to a Gypsy caravan. His long beard took up where his shaggy hair left off, which only reinforced the unfortunate resemblance.

Yet despite all appearances, he had proved a godsend throughout the arduous journey, enduring the lashing rains and frightful roads without a word of complaint. During the hurried stopovers to change the horses, he had somehow always contrived to have steaming tea and a warming meat pie delivered to her, along with hot bricks.

The door pulled open and he climbed in, shaking a spatter of raindrops from his wide brimmed hat.

“Please wait here with His Lordship,” asked Alexa. “While I look for someone to inform of our arrival.”

“Arrumph.” The earl, though not by any means a small man, looked rather dwarfed by the spread of Jenkins’s caped shoulders.

Stumbling down the narrow rungs, Alexa felt her knees buckle as her half boots hit the rough gravel. She had managed a few hours of fitful sleep during the journey, but it wasn’t until now that she realized how utterly spent she was.

The immediate surroundings did little to lift her spirits. Dark clouds had rolled in to obscure the waning sun, casting an oppressive half-light over the unclipped hedges and unpruned gardens. Beyond them, the landscape rolled off in an unremitting tumble of craggy rocks and wild grasses, their color leached to a dull palette of grays and ochres. As if things were not bad enough, a drizzle started up again, giving the air a despondent chill.

The manor house itself looked even more forbidding. An air of neglect hung over the weathered stone. Not a wisp of smoke curled up from the chimney pots, and the heavy oak door, black with age, looked as if its massive hinges might well be rusted shut.

Repressing a shiver, Alexa found herself wondering whether Mr. Daggett had been wrong in his information. The place certainly looked desolate, deserted.

What if no one was there?
She wasn’t sure she had the strength to continue on. Besides, where on earth would they go?

Anxiety added an extra measure of urgency to the rap of the iron knocker.

Its echo clanged in her ears, then died away to a dreary silence.

She knocked again.

Just when she was beginning to look up at the mullioned window and calculate the length of cudgel that Jenkins would need to break the glass, she heard a faint scuffling from within. It was followed by a jangling of keys and the labored rasp of metal on metal.

Slowly the door opened a crack

“If you be lost, you had best turn back for the inn at Wyke.” The voice was female—that much Alexa could tell. “It’s trouble enough scraping together enough for our own meager hearth and table, let alone harboring any unexpected guests.”

Squinting, Alexa could just make out the fringe of a mobcap in the gloom. A peek of silvery hair, pulled back in a tight bun, seemed to indicate its wearer was well advanced in years, but other than that, she could make out no other features.

“I do apologize for the lack of notice—” began Alexa.

Stepping forward, the housekeeper made a shooing gesture with her keyring. She then looked up, and though crinkled with age, her pale eyes appeared sharp and observant. “I don’t want your apologies…milady.” The pause between words made obvious her skepticism over whether the disheveled stranger on the steps deserved such a distinction. “They are naught but a waste of breath if you are thinking they may garner an invitation to stay for the night.”

Acutely aware of the sorry state of her appearance, Alexa couldn’t say that she blamed the woman. Still, she stood her ground.

Another rattle of brass and iron emphasized the curt dismissal. “You can’t stay, I tell you.”

“Unexpected—and unwelcome—as our arrival may be, I am afraid you cannot simply turn away the master of the house.”