The Devil and the Heiress

by Harper St. George

  “You’re not sleeping, Miss Crenshaw.”

  She grinned and opened her eyes to see him smiling at her from across the carriage. “No. It is impossible to sleep in this steel conveyance of torture.”

  He laughed, his eyes shining. “It is not quite dark yet, but I thought we should stop at the town ahead. The rain is heavier now, and Peterson tells me that the roads are becoming treacherous. We have made good time despite the weather.”

  “That sounds wonderful. Now if only they have a proper bath and hot water, it would be heavenly.”

  His eyes deepened. There was no other way to describe them. They darkened somehow and became more intent and serious. He had given her that same look several times now on the trip, and it never failed to make her breasts feel heavier and an ache begin deep within her.

  “I will make certain of it,” he said.

  A naughty image of him joining her in the bath flitted across her mind. Did people do that, or was she being depraved? It hardly mattered; she could close her eyes and dream of whatever she wished with no one being the wiser.

  “Come and sit with me.” He shifted a bit to make room. “Allow my shoulder to be your pillow.”

  “I couldn’t.” But she was already moving. The seat was warm from his body heat. An inviting cloud of his scent enveloped her. Spicy with an undertone of woodsy. She wanted to bury her nose in his neck. She managed to only rest her cheek against his shoulder, and he slouched down a bit to help her get more comfortable. Their hips touched. She shifted slightly to ensure that her thigh pressed against his as much as it was able.

  With a sigh of longing, she closed her eyes. Sleep wouldn’t come, not with her stomach swirling in delight and her blood thrumming through her veins, but she would enjoy this moment as long as it lasted.

  Chapter 12

  Lord Lucifer had plotted well. Even if he wanted to change course now, the scheme drew breath all on its own.

  V. Lennox, An American and the London Season

  Christian knew that he had made the wrong decision. That morning’s conversation with Peterson mocked him. They had been securing the horses while waiting for Violet to emerge from the inn. The dark clouds in the sky had promised another day of damnable rain.

  “The turn off for the road to go north to Scotland is up ahead. Do we take it, milord?”

  Christian had glanced toward the inn’s door to make certain he wouldn’t be overheard. “Yes. We go to Scotland.”

  Even then, his hesitation had been minute. Violet was infatuated with him. It was obvious in how she looked at him, and how she flirted even though she probably didn’t realize she was doing it. He had kept his hands to himself as much as he was able, but she still sought him out. Her fingers would brush his as they walked, or her hand would rest on his arm at the table. Her eyes were dilated with a simmering desire. She wanted him.

  He would ask her tonight to become his wife. He should have done it sooner, especially after their talk about the secret chamber at Montague. His only excuse for waiting was the guilt. It had been clawing at him with sharp daggers of accusation. His bold plan for coercion and seduction had been wrecked by his growing affection for the woman.

  Now it had come to this. He would be forced into another half-truth. If they took the road north without her agreement, then one could argue it would be akin to kidnapping. However, he hadn’t left himself much of a choice. The only solution was to take her north now.

  Christian’s hand fisted on his thigh as he resisted the urge to reach up and touch her where she lay so trustingly against his arm. This mad dash away from London had come to represent more to him than a means to an end. He was now seeing a glimmer of the sort of life he could have with her. There would be no more nights alone, no more of the interminable silence that chased him from Amberley Park. She could be with him.

  But not if he ruined this. He was afraid. Afraid that he would ask and she would say no, perhaps not quite ready to commit herself to him because her feelings were new. Or that she might say yes, but want to wait to get married. He could argue the need for haste all he wanted, but he could not force her hand. The problem was that he very much needed her to say yes and be willing to marry in Scotland.

  Her breath came in soft sighs. He closed his eyes as he listened, her scent rising up around him. He would propose to her tonight. If he could gain her agreement, then there would be no need to explain to her his minor indiscretion in taking her on the Scotland road. He would simply press upon her the need for haste in their marriage. He had to believe that she would understand that.

  And if she did not . . . He could not even consider the alternative.

  Before he could think better of it, his hand moved from his thigh to where hers rested in her lap. He wrapped his fingers around hers, his heart pounding against his rib cage when she responded simply by squeezing his hand. They sat there in the silence of the carriage, neither of them daring to move as their palms touched and their fingers laced together. For a man who had bedded countless women in his life, it was a moment of such profound intimacy that he hardly dared to breathe for fear of ruining it. This sweet creature would be his.

  An odd and terrible splintering rent through the evening air, invading their cocoon. Peterson yelled, but it wasn’t a warning. It was a high-pitched sound of sheer terror. Christian sat up and pushed the curtains back in time to see the dark green and black of a large oak unnaturally filling the distance between the carriage and the bluff he knew was beyond. A branch shattered the glass, sending it spraying across the carriage. He shifted to shield Violet from the shards as much as he could, but the weight of the giant tree sent the vehicle sliding sideways. The road was so waterlogged from recent rains that it had become a mud slick, which had caused them to slide a few times already. This, however, sent them into a full-fledged skate across the road.

  “Hold on!” He shifted, grabbing onto the leather strap above the broken window so that Violet could take his place, safely away from the jagged glass protruding from the sill.

  Her cry of fear rang in his ears as she grabbed for her own strap, holding on to it so tightly that her fingers were striped with white. “What has happened?” she yelled.

  “A tree fell, perhaps uprooted by the rains.” A solid thump as the carriage slammed into a bank of trees knocked the breath out of him. Horses cried out in fear, but damned if he could tell what was happening or where they would end up when this was over. He reached out and wrapped an arm around her waist to keep her from being tossed around the carriage as it whirled. She still held tight to the leather strap, her eyes closed.

  Without warning, the carriage tilted, nearly careening onto its side before righting itself again. They were near a river, having crossed a bridge about a mile back. God willing, they were well away from it and it hadn’t curled back around. But the carriage tilted again, this time downward, and he knew they were about to fall down an incline.

  “Violet, grab onto me!” he yelled, a split second before the carriage gave an unholy screech as metal and glass snapped and twisted. The vehicle fell in a terrible roll that pitched them around inside like marbles in a child’s toy. He braced himself against the corner to keep his weight from knocking into Violet. God, he would crush her.

  A pain, bright and acute, had him seeing a flash of light as it tore through him on the carriage’s second rotation. He fell onto his back, his breath forced out of him in a huff so harsh that his lungs seized. For a moment, he lay there, struggling to draw air as his vision became gray and mottled with flecks of black. When the gray cleared, the sky was filled with the dusky orange light of sundown.

  Somehow he had been thrown free of the wildly careening carriage. Despite the pain that lanced through him, he rolled over onto his belly. Behind him the sky was bruised, angry, and black with storm clouds rolling in. Dimly, he became aware of the sound of a terrible grinding, and then all went si
lent.

  Deathly silent.

  “Violet.” Still struggling to catch his breath, he pushed to his knees, his gaze scanning the ground to find her. There were only the angry marks, deep gouges in the earth, that the carriage had left behind as it rolled down the hill. “Violet!” Coming to his feet, he ignored the terrible pain in his leg and looked for her frantically. If he had been thrown free, then she must have been thrown as well.

  Please, God, let her be alive.

  She wasn’t here. He turned in a desperate circle, hoping to see the blue of her traveling costume against the mud and brush of the hillside, but she simply was not there. “Violet!”

  There was no reply. In a panic, he stared down at the path the carriage had left. She could not still be inside. He would not accept that as a possibility, yet he started running down the hill. His boots slid over the mud so that he half ran, half tumbled down the incline. By the time he reached the bottom, the carriage lay on its side in a river that had swollen to likely two or three times its normal depth. The vehicle bobbed, not entirely swallowed by the brackish depths, but the rushing water pushed it with a force that was frightening. The strong currents in the middle of the river were about twenty meters beyond the carriage’s current location, and it was moving toward rushing water. If the carriage reached the depths of the open river, it would be swept away in the power of the runoff that swelled the river.

  “No! Violet!” Shrugging out of his coat, he ran through the water as fast as he could, heedless of the pain shooting through his ankle. When the water reached his thighs, he dove in and swam. Moments later he pulled himself up onto the side of carriage, fighting with the door to get it open. The windows were all broken, so the water had rushed in to fill up the carriage. He hoped that she was conscious and able to keep her head above the water, but that hope was dashed as soon as he pulled the door open. She lay still and silent, facedown in the water.

  “Violet!” He didn’t recognize the cry that tore from his lips. Gripping her with both hands, he pulled her up and turned her to face him. She moved like a rag doll, and her face was slack and tranquil. “Wake up!” Her eyelashes did not so much as flicker. Blood from a deep gash at her temple mingled with the water trailing down her face.

  She should have been thrown free. Not him. If anyone deserved death, it was him.

  Tilting her head back, he gathered her against him and covered her mouth with his own, attempting to breathe air into her. She didn’t move. It did not seem to be working. A glance confirmed that the vehicle was being pushed ever closer to the river. He had to get them to the bank. If they were carried into the middle of the river, they were both dead.

  Please, God, please.

  Positioning her carefully across the side of the carriage, he slid down into the frigid water and gently brought her down into his arms. It was tricky, but he managed to keep her head above the water as he swam the few strokes needed to reach solid footing. Once he could touch bottom, he gathered her into his arms and continued his attempts at breathing air into her. He had no idea if it would work, because he had no clue as to what he was doing. His only guide was a newspaper article he vaguely remembered about the topic.

  Settling her onto the bank, he struggled to make out her features in the rapidly fading light. “Violet . . . please.” His voice broke as he turned her onto her side and struck her back with his palm.

  A horrible gurgling sound came from deep within her chest just before water came pouring out of her. Her body twitched almost violently as it sought more air. He held her until the trembling eased and she seemed to breath normally. She had yet to open her eyes, however, and he feared that had more to do with the gash on her head than the water.

  Thank God she was breathing. He took a moment to press a kiss to the back of her head. Thank God.

  He gently lowered her onto her back, only to realize that she lay there awkwardly. Her right shoulder was raised rather than lying flat. A soft moan fell from her lips when he put his hand beneath her shoulder blade. As he suspected, her shoulder had been dislocated. Working quickly, he tore her dress open down the front, wrenching it down and off her shoulders as gently as he was able. He could work slower now that he was assured she lived, but he was still racing the light, which faded by the second.

  Reaching a hand into her chemise, his fingers encountered the smooth skin of her back and roved downward until he reached where her shoulder blade should be. The tendons were pulled tight, and the bone was not resting in the joint as it should. Her shoulder had indeed pulled loose. He did a quick check of the rest of her body. His hands moved down her ribs, her arms, and then underneath her skirt to rove up and down her legs. No bones seemed broken, but he could not be certain. Moving back up her body, he slipped his hand down the back of her chemise again and pressed his palm to her shoulder blade. Then he pulled her arm out and rotated it.

  Nothing. Bloody hell! He would have to use more force. Because of his years fighting, he had been responsible for dislocating more than one shoulder, but he had never set one himself. He had seen it done numerous times and had assisted when needed, but always on men, and never on someone as delicate as her. Everything in him rose up in revolt at the force he knew he would have to use.

  Gritting his teeth at the pain he knew he was about to cause her, he rotated her arm again, this time with considerable force until he heard a sickening pop and crunch as the tendons gave way. Another moan tore from her lips, and he offered a silent apology.

  Gently laying her down, he shrugged out of his waistcoat and tore off his shirtsleeves. He wrapped the shirt around her and tied it to help keep her shoulder stabilized. Then he made a poorly fashioned sling of his waistcoat to keep her arm supported. By the time he tied it off, the sun had completely disappeared and freezing drops of rain pelted his back. He had never seen so much rain in his life as they’d had the past few weeks.

  Finally able to raise his head, he searched for some sign of the horses and the driver, but all was silent, save for the steady hum of rain. Had they passed through a town when they had crossed that bridge a mile back? He could not say for certain. His thoughts had been too focused on the girl lying near death before him.

  There was no way to deny it. Because of him, she had almost lost her life. A sob born of fury, frustration, and self-loathing tore out of him. Had he instructed Peterson to take them on toward Windermere, they would be safe now. But no. His culpability went further back than that. Had he simply taken her to King’s Cross, she would have reached that damned boardinghouse days ago. She would be there now, snug and dry before a fire writing on her manuscript. His own selfishness had intervened to keep her from her fate. His own selfishness had made him put his own desires before hers.

  He prayed again. “Let me get her to safety, and I will make things right. I will take her to Windermere and never see her again. Please, if you only help me save her.”

  Rising with her in his arms, he moved gingerly up the hillside, afraid that one wrong move would jar her and force her shoulder to pop again. No matter how deliberately he trod, he couldn’t control the mud and rain that had him sliding down for every few steps he took. He landed on his knees, gasping at the pain that shot through his ankle. His bloody walking stick had been lost in the wreckage. He could not have held it anyway while he carried her. There was no question of leaving her behind to go for help. He refused to leave her alone. At the top of the incline, he adjusted her in his arms and started the walk back toward where he hoped a village would be.

  Chapter 13

  Rose had become completely fascinated by the aura of the man such that he did not have to lay a finger on her to make his seduction of her complete. Though it helped that he did.

  V. Lennox, An American and the London Season

  Violet heard him before she even opened her eyes. His voice was soft but deep as he spoke in a soothing rhythm, almost as if he were chanting. What
ever he was doing, she found it very comforting. She floated in the space between waking and sleeping, listening to him, surrounded by warmth and comfort.

  Christian. She had never allowed herself to call him by his name. It had seemed too intimate, and indeed, it was. She could not call him by that name with anyone around, but perhaps she would try it today in the carriage. A flicker of anticipation sparked in her belly. He would be surprised, but then his lips would quirk and that dimple she was coming to love would appear. He was always so careful to keep his thoughts and feelings hidden, but she had managed to crack him lately. He liked her. She held no illusions that he cared for her . . . not yet. But soon.

  That pleasant spark slowly expanded, becoming a mildly uncomfortable burning. What could she say to him before they parted to hint at her interest? She shifted in her bed, trying to recapture the comfort that was quickly slipping away. She could kiss him. A soft, tender kiss like the one at the ball. Yes, she had done it once, and he had admitted he liked it. She could do it again. The pain had moved up to her ribs, only to center in her right shoulder as if there was an open flame inside her trying to burn through her flesh.

  The clarity of the pain rampaging through her body brought forth another realization. This one as startling as the pain. Christian was not talking at all. He was reading aloud.

  “I explained to her that I had no parents. She inquired how long they had been dead; then how old I was, what was my name, whether I could read, write, and sew a little; then she touched my cheek gently with her forefinger, and saying ‘She hoped I should be a good child,’ dismissed me along with Miss Miller.”

  He was reading Jane Eyre to her!

  She tried her best to open her eyes. It wasn’t easy. It felt as if a feather-stuffed cushion had been placed over her eyes, and she had to move out from under it to open them. Her eyelids flickered, and a seam of light penetrated. It hurt so badly that she closed them tight again. The next time she tried, she saw the hazy outline of his form sitting beside the bed. Her pain receded, and the darkness promised it wouldn’t return, enticing her to settle beneath its promised warmth and the comfort of his voice. But she wanted to see him. To talk to him. To ask him why he was reading to her, although she half feared it would make him stop.