Wickedly Yours (The Wickeds Book 4)

by Kathleen Ayers

  I’ll never catch them. Not at this rate.

  Anxiously his eyes searched the taproom of the coaching inn situated in Lancashire and found nothing out of the ordinary. His stomach grumbled. When was the last time he’d eaten? Not since the morning or possibly even yesterday. It seemed ages since Lady Cupps-Foster had burst into Dunbar House and begged him to go after Arabella. Almost two days in the saddle with little sleep, only stopping to change horses. The only thing that gave him hope was that the rain would have been much more detrimental to Corbett in his coach than a man on horseback.

  A young, harried barmaid brushed past, took a good look at him and turned to face him. “Greetings milord. You’re welcome to sit.” She jerked her head toward the crowded taproom. “What can I bring you?”

  “Ale and a platter of those.” He pointed at the small savory pastries. “And a fresh horse.”

  The barmaid nodded and walked away, yelling until a young boy appeared. Rowan tossed him a coin and the young lad ran outside to see to Rowan’s horse.

  He’d damn near been to every coaching inn on the main road to Scotland. At each inn he’d asked after a shabby coach, describing Arabella and Corbett. He inquired cautiously, mindful of the need for discretion. So far, his efforts had been in vain. No one had seen a woman resembling Arabella.

  Rowan settled down at an empty table close to the main entrance so he could watch the door. Just in case. Maybe he would get lucky. This particular coaching inn sat at a crossroads of the main road to Scotland but branched out into several less traveled routes. He suspected Corbett deliberately kept to the back roads, but the strategy would also slow his coach. Some of the roads would become impassable because of the rain. Even as he watched, hurried travelers struggled to finish their meals as two drivers entered the taproom to announce it was time to depart, least they all become trapped as the weather worsened.

  A large, bulky man stomped through the front door, shaking the rain from his hair like some oversized dog; as he moved into the taproom his cloak flapped open wide and Rowan caught a flash of blue and silver. The colors of the Duke of Dunbar. The man glanced about the room, his dark eyes flat and emotionless, the coarseness of his features reflecting a brutal nature. He sat down at a table next to Rowan, scattering the previous occupants.

  “Your employer informed me you won’t need fresh horses until the morrow.” The innkeeper passed by the man, handing him a mug of ale. “I believe he means to stay the night. I’ve room for you in the stables.”

  The man took a large draught of the ale and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Fine by me. We barely stopped since we left Wales and it’s a bloody long way away. And hellishly wet.”

  The innkeeper grunted. “Well, it’ll be hellishly wet here as well.”

  Rowan chewed his meat pie, the savory mix of beef and vegetables turning to dust in his mouth. Wales? It had to be a coincidence. Or Rowan’s luck had changed.

  “He’s told me his wife needs to rest. Poor lass. Given to fits, he’s told me. That’s a pity.”

  “Wife?” The man’s brow wrinkled in confusion for a moment. “Ah yes,” a snort of amusement sounded as he drained his ale. “Aye, his wife.”

  Rowan’s dinner companion could be no other than one of the ‘poorly turned out footmen’ Lady Cupps-Foster had referred to earlier. Which meant Corbett and Arabella were upstairs.

  * * *

  Corbett toyed with the buttons at the back of her gown. A popping sound met her ears along with the feel of her dress loosening as the button fell free, rolling beneath the table to land on the toe of Arabella’s boot.

  “None of my previous lovers found cause for complaint. You may find you enjoy my cock in you.”

  Wincing at the vulgar language, she shot back. “If your skill is so great, I wonder Jemma fled you at the first opportunity. How odd.”

  Hissing with anger, Corbett’s hands pulled at the pins holding her hair, savagely undoing the tight bun at the base of her neck. The heavy mass twisted and writhed to fall over her shoulders.

  “You’ve lovely hair, Arabella.” Twisting the strands around his fingers he pulled her head back and Arabella barely had time to struggle before a wet, drunken kiss was pressed to her mouth.

  Her teeth tore into his lip until she tasted blood.

  “Bitch!” Corbett released her hair to grab a napkin from the table to blot his lip. “I was going to be gentle.” The hand circling her neck tightened. “But now I see there’s no need. You are the type of woman who requires a firm hand. I will enjoy bringing you to heel.”

  Arabella wheezed, struggling to breathe as she lost her grip on the fork. Her arms swung in an arc across the table, searching for her weapon. Finally, she felt the stab of the tines against her fingers. Grasping the fork in one hand, she clawed against Corbett with the other. She swung the fork up and brought it down with as much force as possible against his neck, praying she’d hit an artery. Or possibly an eye. The fork jarred in her hand, sinking into his skin, just as he ripped the back of her gown away.

  He shrieked in pain. “God damn you, Arabella!”

  8

  Rowan ran down the corridor. The man’s voice could only be Corbett’s which meant Arabella was here, somewhere. He stood still, his senses alert as he waited for Corbett to give away their location.

  A thud, then a woman’s muffled cry came from behind a door to his left.

  Without another thought, Rowan slammed his shoulder against the warped wood. The door creaked but didn’t open. Raising his foot, he kicked hard, the rusty lock falling free and the door opened.

  As he stormed the room, Rowan silently thanked Lord Kilmaire for impressing on him the importance of being armed to the teeth, gentleman or not. Rowan was already a crack shot and didn’t embarrass himself with a sword. But under Kilmaire’s direction, Rowan had learned how to properly throw a knife. A large blade was even now tucked securely in his right boot just in case. He pulled his pistol from his coat. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than shooting Corbett between the eyes.

  “Jesus,” the word left his lips as he viewed the scene in the room.

  Arabella flailed like a wild animal against Corbett, her dark hair spinning in a tangled mass over her shoulders. Her dress was ripped down the back, the material opening to reveal the startling bright red of her chemise.

  Corbett was holding her by the arm, viciously shaking her. She spun, twisting and contorting in an effort to free herself. Her face turned towards the open door. Arabella ceased her struggle, shock stamped on her features. Blood dribbled from her split lip and the red marks of Corbett’s fingers stood out against the pale skin of her neck.

  “Lord Malden?” Her sable brows knit together in confusion.

  “Get your hands off of her.” The sight of Corbett’s hands on Arabella incensed Rowan. He’d never wanted to kill a man so badly.

  Corbett caught sight of Rowan before tossing Arabella to the floor. A fork protruded from his neck, a trickle of blood spilling from the wound.

  Good girl.

  “Arabella,” Rowan didn’t take his eyes off of Corbett. The man was practically frothing at the mouth like a lunatic. “Get behind me.”

  Arabella stared at him, blinking like a confused owl.

  “Move, Arabella.” His hands clutched the pistol as she finally heeded him, scuttling like a crab across the floor.

  The fork in Corbett’s neck bobbed as he twisted to look at Rowan.

  “Who the bloody hell are you?”

  * * *

  A coppery taste filled her mouth as she swiped at the blood from her split lip. The entire side of her face throbbed from Corbett’s harsh treatment. But had she hit her head? She must be hallucinating because Lord Malden, her sister-in-law Jemma’s cousin and member of the same traitorous family stood before her, in the middle of the room, a pistol pointed at Corbett. Lord Malden and she were not friends. He rarely spoke to her unless it was to say something annoying. A well-known rake, he was handsome an
d amusing, the perfect heir to the Earl of Marsh, Jemma’s uncle. And he didn’t like Arabella. Not one bit.

  What was he doing here?

  He stood like a shield between she and Corbett, his large body tensed in a protective stance. Malden was travel stained, his once fine clothes rumpled and his expensive boots covered with muck. Dark brown hair curled around his ears and collar from the rain. And he smelled distinctly of horse.

  It was at this most inappropriate of moments, as she took in Malden, that something very dark and wicked stirred in Arabella. The feeling, given the current situation, was completely unwarranted.

  “Get out.” Corbett’s words slurred. “She’s my heiress. You’ll have to find your own. This is none of your bloody affair, whoever you are. My wife is prone to fits. I’ll likely have her committed.” He shot Arabella an evil leer.

  “She’s not your wife.” Malden spat out.

  “Are you deaf? Get out.” Corbett reached up and pulled the fork out of his neck with a groan. He glared at Arabella and tossed the fork towards her place on the floor. “You’re going to pay for that, Arabella.”

  Rowan stalked towards Corbett with intent, his face hard and determined. He flipped the pistol around and cracked the butt against Corbett’s nose. “That was for my cousin.”

  A horrible crunch sounded before a streak of crimson burst from his nose. Corbett shrieked, grabbing his nose with both hands as blood spurted between his fingers.

  “Cousin? You’re Jemma’s cousin?” He backed up a pace and grabbed a napkin off the table, his eyes narrowed. “How is the traitorous little tart?”

  “I should shoot you where you stand.” Malden sounded nonchalant as if he were just considering what to order for dinner. “She’s not your wife.” He repeated.

  “She will be shortly. We’re on our way to Gretna Green to make things legal. I didn’t kidnap her. She came of her own free will. She’s agreed to marry me.”

  “Is that why her dress is torn? Because she’s agreed?” Malden barely looked at Arabella as he spoke, but she could sense the tiny bit of doubt that bled into his words.

  “He’s insane.” Her voice trembled, knowing if he didn’t believe her Malden may well leave her to the mercy of Corbett. “He took me from the Dunbar coach and threatened my aunt. Kept me prisoner in that coach. Locked the door to this room. Attacked me over dinner. Does that sound like I’m here of my own free will?” She shivered and the torn arm of her dress fell over her shoulder.

  Malden’s eyes shot back to her with startling intensity.

  “She’s lying.” Corbett spat.

  “I am so willing I stabbed him with the only weapon I had at my disposal,” She hissed. “A fork.” Arabella looked up at Malden.

  Please believe me. Please.

  A cry of rage escaped Corbett’s mouth at her words. He flung the bloody handkerchief at Malden’s face before he put his head down like an enraged bull and charged, taking Malden by surprise. The pistol fell to the floor and Malden managed to kick the weapon away. Corbett bellowed in frustration as he flung himself at Malden and attempted to grab the pistol.

  A flash of silver fell out of Malden’s boot, spinning in an arc until it landed near Arabella.

  A knife. She reached out, her fingers wrapping around the hilt before concealing the blade in her skirts.

  A cry of triumph escaped Corbett. He stood, clutching the pistol in his hand.

  Malden was on his knees before Corbett, his body taut. “Run, Arabella.” His voice was soft and low. “Run.”

  Corbett shook his head and cocked the pistol. “If you leave, dearest, I promise to shoot your friend here.”

  Arabella grabbed the knife tighter and shook her head. “No. You will not.”

  “On second thought, I believe I’ll shoot him anyway. How delightful it will be to celebrate our marriage while Jemma is in mourning, her eyes red-rimmed with grief.” He looked down at Malden. “You really shouldn’t have come after Arabella. She’s not worth it, you know.” Corbett shot her a look of dislike.

  “Do you really believe you can shoot me and walk out of here unscathed?” Malden sounded matter-of-fact. “The entire taproom saw me. I’m a lord. A baron who is heir to an earldom. I’m related by marriage to the Duke of Dunbar.” He shrugged. “You are the son of a traitorous and little remembered former Governor of Bermuda. How is your father, by the way? I’ve heard he’s reduced to sitting in a chair with drool coming off his chin.”

  “Shut. Up.” Corbett’s voice shook and his right eye twitched.

  “I met your brother-in-law, Jennings. He doesn’t care for you. I doubt you’ll see another penny from him. Also, there is the problem of her brother.” Malden jerked his head in Arabella’s direction. “He may not want you dead for her sake, but he will for Jemma. Particularly if you shoot me.”

  The pistol lowered a fraction. Beads of perspiration formed on Corbett’s upper lip.

  Malden tensed, ready to spring.

  Suddenly a grin split Corbett’s face. “A shame the pistol went off accidentally. Yes, that’s it.” He nodded his head slowly. “I thought you were an intruder. Or perhaps you were trying to kidnap my betrothed. In either case, my wife will not be able to give testimony against me as I plan on having her committed shortly after the wedding. She has fits. It’s all very neat.”

  Arabella didn’t think, allowing her anger and fear to guide her. She gripped the knife and flew at Corbett, aiming for the small marks left in his neck from the fork. The knife sank into his flesh much more smoothly than the fork, spraying Arabella with a fine mist of blood. She stumbled back as Corbett reached for her.

  “You bitch.” He reached up, his free hand struggling to grab the hilt of the knife. As he did so, the pistol fired. The shot of the pistol went wide and swung Corbett’s body back against the edge of the table, spraying the room with mutton, blood and crashing dishes. His foot slipped on one plate of greasy mutton and his arms began to flail as he fell backwards against the window. The sound of shattering glass met her ears, then Corbett disappeared from sight.

  “Arabella!”

  A dull thud, the sound of cracking bones, came from the ground below.

  Arabella shook uncontrollably, rooted to the spot, wiping furiously at the drops of blood that lay scattered on her skin. She put her hands to her ears to stop the awful screaming that filled the room.

  The screams were coming from her.

  9

  “The fall broke his neck, though to be truthful, your blade hit his artery. He would have bled to death had he not fallen.” The constable scratched away at a pad and glanced at the crumpled form of Augustus Corbett.

  “I had no choice.” Rowan shot a glance at Arabella who sat against the wall, her arms wrapped around her knees. He’d decided the moment Corbett fell from the window he would take the blame for the man’s death. There was no reason for Arabella to ever know Corbett’s death was assured the moment she stabbed him. At least she’d stopped screaming.

  “I’m sure you didn’t, Lord Malden.” The constable, MacLauren, had arrived shortly after Corbett fell from the window at the summons from the inn’s proprietor who’d heard the sounds of struggle.

  “Mr. Corbett said his wife was mad and given to fits.” The innkeeper said in a concerned voice as he stepped carefully around the damaged table to the broken window. He looked down at Corbett and gave a gasp. “He never said his wife was violent.”

  “She is not his wife.” Rowan snapped. “Nor his betrothed.”

  MacLauren gave him a studied look. “Lord Malden, you’ve not explained your relationship to the lady, only that you came to her aid. Conveniently. Are you her brother? Cousin? Or something else? I don’t even have her name.”

  The constable was suspicious. He couldn’t blame MacLauren. The inn as well as the small village several miles to the east from whence the constable came were situated on the way to Gretna Green. The constable had likely witnessed many such incidents, though probably none as dramatic
. Rowan could easily be the jealous lover trying to wrest an heiress away before another man claimed her.

  “Her name is Lady Arabella Tremaine, sister of the Duke of Dunbar.” His words laced with a sharp patrician accent left no doubt as to Rowan’s station should MacLauren have any doubts. “She was kidnapped and taken from the Dunbar coach as it traveled to London. I am here at the behest of her brother whom I am related to by marriage. You can verify the truth with His Grace if you wish, though I would ask for your discretion regarding the events that have transpired out of respect for the lady’s reputation.”

  The innkeeper’s eyes grew as large as saucers. “She’s the Devil of Dunbar’s sister? Oh, saints alive.”

  “Ah.” MacLauren stroked his mustache as he studied Rowan. “I believe I’ll send word to His Grace. And I’ll need a sworn statement from you, milord.”

  “Of course.” Rowan gave the constable the address of the Dunbar home as well as that of his own lodgings.

  MacLauren raised a brow. “You said he had an accomplice, but I can find no sign of the man you described. The coach looks to be abandoned except for a small valise and a trunk, though one of the horses is missing. He’s long gone, whoever he is, though I will send word to my counterparts in the area.”

  Rowan spared a glance at Arabella, who sat huddled into a small ball in the far corner of the room. The heavy mass of her hair streamed down her shoulders in disarray, hiding her features from view. He’d seen only a blur of skirts as Arabella leapt in front of him, the silver of the knife flashing in her hand, not an ounce of fear on her face. He was wise not to tell MacLauren the truth. Though Rowan had asked for discretion, the inn and taproom had been crowded. The proprietor of this fine establishment didn’t look especially trustworthy, but the man seemed fearful of the Duke of Dunbar. Perhaps that fear, along with several gold coins would buy his silence.