But the most disturbing part had been just how sharp the ceremonial knife he’d freed her with had been. He’d never gone back, and for the longest time, Beau wondered if rape had been where Sommers had intended to stop that night or if he’d had far more sinister plans for the poor girl.
Chapter 4
Philippa woke in a daze with a throbbing pain in her head. She marveled at the contrast of her pain with the comforting feel of something downy beneath her. She opened her eyes and realized she was lying in a bed. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim room. A fireplace on the opposing wall held a warm, healthy blaze; its heat reached her from across the room.
This was not a room at Lord Lennox’s townhouse. Nothing looked familiar, not the large ornate bed made of mahogany with its massive four posts, nor the white marble fireplace, nor the ornate dresser and washstand. She reached up to touch the cap on her head, but she found only loose coiling hair. She winced. Her mouth hurt like the very devil. She shifted toward the edge of the bed, wrinkling the dark red velvet coverlet. She nearly fell off as she set her feet down on the floor. There was a small mirror on the dresser, and she crossed the room to reach it.
A gasp escaped her at the sight of herself in the looking glass. A bruise was forming on her jaw and the mark stood out in stark relief against her pale skin. She touched the sore spot, her head still feeling as though wool had been crammed inside it. Pieces of a memory came back, painfully flashing behind her eyes. A man had struck her. She’d been taken from the coach outside Berkeley’s club. But the man who attacked her was not the Earl of Monmouth.
The bedchamber door opened, and she turned to face her intruder. Fear and rage roiled deep within her as she recognized the darkly handsome face of the man who’d hit her. The hairs on the back of her neck rose in warning.
“My God. He wasn’t lying.” The man’s lips parted in awe. “You are exquisite. Even in that awful servant’s dress, you look stunning.” He stepped into the bedchamber. A filmy white peignoir was draped over one of his arms and he set it down on the bed.
Philippa stayed frozen near the dresser, her eyes darting between the bed and the man. He wore expensive looking trousers and a fine red silk waistcoat. He had to be a gentleman, at least in name, but there was an edge to him, an invisible shadow that seemed to surround him and made her body tense. Whoever he was, he was dangerous.
“Forgive me, I’ve been remiss.” His voice was smooth, but not in a charming way. It was the kind of voice that warned a woman she was about to suffer if she stepped out of line. “I was too awestruck by your beauty. I am Alastair Sommers. You may call me Alistair, if you wish.” He stared at her expectantly.
Philippa was rooted in place, but the man’s strangely calm demeanor turned her fear into a deeper fury. She kept herself collected despite that the fact that she wanted nothing more than to grab the porcelain washbasin next to her and hurl it at the man’s head. That was not going to help her. She had to stay calm, play the part he wanted until she understood his intentions or found a means of escape. Her resolution gave her the strength to answer him, though her voice wavered more than she wished.
“I… I am Philippa Wilson.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Wilson. Please, change into this gown. You will join me tonight as my dinner guest.”
“Thank you,” she replied, barely above a whisper as she bowed her head. Alistair flashed a triumphant grin. He assumed he had cowed her into obedience, but he had another thing coming if he dared to think he would bed her tonight.
He gave her a long and overly familiar look before he stepped outside and closed the bedchamber door. Philippa waited until she heard his steps fade down the hall before she crept to the windows and tried to open them. The windowsill didn’t budge and she growled in frustration. It was too dark to see much, but she learned she was at least one floor above the ground.
She checked all the walls next, hoping to find a hidden door or something that might provide an opportunity to escape. When she didn’t find one, she looked to the bed where the expensive silk peignoir lay. She had no choice now, it seemed, but to change and go down to dinner with him.
With a heavy heart, she unbuttoned her gown and changed into the peignoir. She kept her stays on beneath the gown, but she still felt terribly exposed wearing such an intimate piece of clothing. She tried to think of how to escape, and whether she might be able to elude him if she had a better sense of where she was. She straightened her shoulders and brushed her hair back from her face. When she exited the room, Alastair was waiting for her at the far end of the corridor.
“Ahh,” he said as he spotted her. “I was coming to fetch you.”
Philippa combed her fingers through the tangled waves of her hair as he met her in the corridor. He stopped in front of her, his eyes wide and gleaming with open appreciation.
“You look…” He struggled for words, but she’d heard them all before: exquisite, stunning, remarkable, beautiful. Nothing he could say would sway her to like him.
“You mentioned dinner?” she prompted. Alistair’s unwanted attention made her feel ill, and she had little appetite, but she needed to buy time, and she needed to see more of the house for an opportunity to escape.
“Of course, this way.” He offered her his arm and she took it, though the last thing she wanted to do was touch a man who had struck her. A grand set of stained glass windows faced the ornate stairs they descended. There was a haunting beauty to this place, yet it was still a prison, all the same.
“Are you going to tell me why you struck me, Alistair?” she asked the question, caressing his name in a way she hoped he would find flattering.
“I am sorry about that,” he replied, but she heard not one note of sincerity in his voice. “I was hired to fetch you away from Lord Lennox. You’re far too lovely to be working as a mere maid for him. Knowing him, he pays no attention to you at all, does he?” Alistair cooed at her like she was a child who’d been ignored. He couldn’t have been more wrong about her character.
“Lord Lennox is happily married and the father of two children.”
Alastair snorted. “Brides and babes, is there no worse fate?”
His question didn’t seem to require an answer, so she didn’t respond.
He paused at the entrance to a large fancy wood paneled dining room. “Here we are.”
“And where is here, exactly, Alistair?”
“Castleton Abbey. One of my many properties,” Alastair said proudly. “A bit Gothic, I suppose, but that’s what makes it so amusing.”
“Amusing?” She sat down at the place he offered her and pushed her chair in. Then his fingers brushed down the fall of her dark hair and she heard him draw in a deep breath, as though his self-control was being tested. Philippa held her own breath deep within her chest until it burned her lungs.
“What do you know of Lord Monmouth?” Alastair asked quietly.
“Lord Monmouth?” So that was it. He and Monmouth were somehow connected.
“Yes. You see, he was the one who hired me to remove you from Lennox’s care.” Alastair waved one of the footmen over. The man poured two glasses of a dark red wine and held them out. She accepted her glass and waited until Alistair took a drink of his own. Only then did she take a small sip.
The weight of his silent focus made her stomach tighten. Her throat was still sore, but the bruises on her skin had started to yellow. She couldn’t imagine how she appeared to this man, beaten and bruised as she was. Now she had a fresh bruise on her jaw. She touched the spot and did her best to look pitiful when she met his hawk-like stare.
“If you would have come quietly, I wouldn’t have had to do that,” he admonished as though what had happened was her fault.
Philippa kept a tight grip on her self-control. Shifting the blame onto her told her all she needed to know of the man’s character. Do as you are told. Don’t resist. Don’t speak up. Obey. Be quiet. For as long as she could remember, Philippa had resisted the meek
ness that society forced upon her. Life within a cage, life for the convenience of someone else’s pleasure… It was fundamentally wrong. Reprehensible. But she would not waste her breath explaining that to this man.
A second footman brought in a pair of shallow bowls full of leek soup. Philippa ate silently, her eyes slowly scanning over the room. The footmen stood in the corners. One had a long scar down his face. He had been one of the other men who abducted her from the carriage. When he saw her looking his way, he shot her a cold smile that made her skin crawl.
She tried to assess her current situation. She was at Castleton Abbey, which meant she was not in the city of London. Any escape would have to be clever and well timed. If she was able to get away only to find herself miles from food and shelter she could still face trouble. Until she had a better sense of where she was, she could not risk a break for freedom.
“So you are not acquainted with Lord Monmouth?” Alastair asked.
“No, I’m not.” She finished her soup and a plate of quail with potatoes was placed in front of her. She took care to eat well now, lest he decide to deprive her of food later.
“Well, he seems to know you. He thinks you are a threat to his estate and his son’s inheritance. Have you met his son, Roderick Selkirk?”
Again, Philippa shook her head. She’d never heard of Roderick before tonight.
“Interesting. All that he would tell me about you is that you looked like his late wife, who was rumored to be the most beautiful woman in England. That was twenty years ago. I admit, I found that claim to be dubious, though I never met her. I was a mere boy when she died, and portraits are always made to be flattering.” Alastair didn’t touch his food; he was too preoccupied with trying to puzzle out the intrigue of her connection to Monmouth.
“Who are your parents?”
“Mason and Beth Wilson.”
“Their occupation?” Alistair asked.
“My father was a miller when he was younger but after I was born, they moved to London and opened a textile shop.”
“You’re their natural born child?”
“What? Of course, I am.” She stared at him, What was the man getting at? “I’ve even met the midwife who delivered me.”
“Did you now? How interesting. I wonder then why you would look like Lord Monmouth’s wife?”
“Why would I look like Lord Monmouth’s wife?” That made no sense. She had no connection to the earl or his deceased wife.
“That’s what I don’t know.” Alastair twisted his wineglass by the stem, focusing on her—a brooding, fascinated tint to his expression that made her stomach tight with nerves. Being the focus of this man’s attention was not a good thing.
“He wishes for me to kill you. When I’m satisfied with our time together, that is.” He delivered this statement as though they were in the midst of delightful garden party.
Dread filled Philippa like heavy sand. It pressed on her lungs until she was dizzy. She steadied her hands on the table, lest she faint. He was supposed to finish what Lord Monmouth had started. But why? Because she resembled his late wife? What crime was there in that?
“But perhaps I’ll let you live. You would prefer that, wouldn’t you?”
She nodded faintly. The dinner she’d eaten rumbled ominously in her belly. The last thing she wanted was to toss her accounts in front of this man. It would make her seem even more vulnerable than she already was.
“Please Alastair, I have done nothing to Lord Monmouth. Or you. Please let me go. I won’t tell a soul what happened—”
Alastair tisked. “It’s far too late for that. Now that I’ve seen you, I believe the rumors about the Earl’s late wife. I’m sorry my dear, but I must have you.” He pushed his chair and stood.
That was it. She had no more ways to delay him. As he came around the table, she stood from her chair and dropped her napkin over her knife. Her fingers slid around the handle when she leaned against the table.
“My lord, you do not need to do this. I’m sure every lady in London would desire a man as handsome as you.”
“Most do, but I want to you, no one else.” His handsome aristocratic features would have broken hearts all over England, yet they were tainted with a mean hunger that promised pain.
Philippa waited until he was just within reach before she struck. She lashed out with the knife, cutting his face across his cheek. Alastair bellowed in rage, snatching the knife from her but she didn’t wait for his retaliation. She turned and fled toward the open doors that lead to the great hall. It was her only hope for freedom, and she was so close to—
One of the footmen tripped her as she passed. Her body hit the cold stone floor with a thud.
“Well done, Sampson.” Alastair praised.
Philippa rolled over and scrambling back as Alastair headed for her with a handkerchief clutched against his cheek. Blood stained his white expensive neck cloth.
“Luckily for you, I like my women spirited,” he growled.
Boom! The sound of a door crashing in front of them made her and Alastair turn. Silhouetted against the moonlight at the front door not twenty feet away was a man. His body heaved as if he had been running or ready for a fight. Alastair raised the knife he’d taken from Philippa.
“Is that any way to greet an old friend, Sommers?” The man’s deep voice echoed in the dining hall.
“Who are you? Step into the light!” Alastair demanded.
The man moved inside where the gold lamps illuminated him. Philippa’s heart stopped. The most handsome man she’d ever seen stood before her with whiskey-colored eyes and dark hair the color of chocolate. He was taller than Alastair and had the hard muscled body of a man in his prime, rather than the lithe body of Alastair who was still in his twenties. Philippa was transfixed by this stranger in a way she’d never been before in her life.
The man smiled, his arrogant expression strangely charming. “Been a long time, Sommers.”
“Boudreaux? What the devil are you doing here?”
The man called Boudreaux came deeper into the entryway. “We don’t have a meeting of the Devil’s Own tonight?”
“You were banished from the order, if you don’t recall.” Alastair held the sharpened dinner knife threateningly. “Leave now.”
“Now now, don’t be like that. I don’t wish to miss whatever entertainment you have procured for the evening.” Boudreaux shook his head, a wry smile upon his lips.
Philippa stared at him, her hope for rescue fading away. If he was here to watch…
“You stole the last girl from me for your own amusement. You won’t do that again.”
Philippa swallowed hard. This man had stolen a woman from Alastair? Was he even more cruel?
“And I’m afraid I will again.” Boudreaux slowly twisted the silver knob of his cane and pulled, revealing a slender but deadly blade.
“Miss Wilson, please stand if you can manage it and come to me.” He waved an inviting hand. Philippa stared at him. How did he know her name? When she didn’t move, Boudreaux gave a gentle smile.
“Your friend Roger sent me. Mr. Lauder is all right, but they are both worried about you.”
“Roger sent you?” She started to stand, but one of the footmen behind her stepped forward in her direction.
“Steady on, my good man.” Boudreaux warned the servant. “One more step and I shall reach for my pistol. I assure you, you will not like the outcome if I do.”
The footman froze.
“Now, Miss Wilson, if you please.” Again, Boudreaux waved a hand toward her. This time she rushed away from Alastair to duck behind Boudreaux. His muscled body felt like an impenetrable shield. She’d never thought of a man making her feel safe before, yet here she was, wanting very much to have this mysterious rescuer carry her away to safety.
“I wish I could say it has been a pleasure, Sommers, but I’m afraid that would be a lie. The lady and I will be leaving now.”
The two of them began a careful retreat toward the
door. Boudreaux kept his focus trained on Alastair and his two footmen.
“Can you ride a horse, Miss Wilson?” he asked her under his breath.
“Yes,” she said only loud enough for him to hear. She’d only ridden once or twice in her life, but she would damned well figure out how to do so again if it meant escaping this nightmare.
“I have a horse waiting for us down the steps. When I say run, go to it and mount up. I’ll be right behind you. Do you understand?”
Philippa was trembling, her nerves ragged as they passed the threshold of the old Abbey doorway. “Yes.”
“Go!” Boudreaux hissed.
Philippa ran on trembling legs toward an imperious black horse. She grasped the reins and pulled herself up into the saddle. The beast danced uneasily at the unfamiliar rider. Philippa stroked his neck as she soothed it, glancing back to the doorway. Boudreaux now sprinted toward her with his cane tucked under one arm. He threw his foot into the stirrup and swung up behind her. His large body caged hers as he jerked the reins from her hands and kicked at the horse’s sides.
“Heya!” he shouted, and the horse leapt into a gallop. Philippa closed her eyes, hearing shouts of pursuit behind them.
Crack! She swallowed a scream as a pistol fired. She looked back and saw Alastair standing in the road behind them, a spent pistol still aimed at them.
“He’s shooting at us!” she shouted over the horse’s thunderous hooves.
“Yes, he is.” Boudreaux growled. His deep voice held a resounding note of fury that frightened her.
Boudreaux kept the horse at a wild gallop for at least two miles before he slowed to a canter. His hold on her waist eased and she could feel the tension in his body slowly give way.
“We should be close to an inn. There’s one not too far down the road,” he said.
“But why would we stop? We need to get back to London.”
Boudreaux’s Lady Page 5