When the serving girl looked at her again, her gaze was filled with pity and derision.
“Come along, Lily,” he said, taking her arm in a bruising grip, “we should be on our way.” Turning her, he marched her toward the front door.
But she refused to fall in line, digging in her heels as she tried to break free of his grasp. “He’s lying!” she called to the girl. “Please, you must believe me.” Ignoring the pain in her arm as Chaulk hauled her forward, she called out again. “Contact the Marquis of Vessey in Mayfair, London! Tell him Lily Smythe needs him. He can find me near Penzan—”
“Enough,” Chaulk hissed in her ear as he forced her outside into the coaching yard. “Lily Smythe indeed. Has your lover any idea who you really are? No matter, since he isn’t going to come to your aid. From what I hear, he has already washed his hands of you in favor of an earl’s daughter.”
Ethan would help me, she assured herself, if he knew I needed him. Whatever their recent difficulties, he wasn’t the sort of man to stand idle while an injustice was done—and forcing her to return home and marry against her will was most definitely an injustice. Still, what would he think if he knew that she had lied about her identity? How angry would he be? Angry enough to turn his back on her? Then again, she would probably never know, since Chaulk had thwarted her attempt to contact him.
Her stepfather forced her onward. “Considering what a trollop you’ve become since your ‘death,’ you ought to be grateful Faylor is still willing to marry you. Frankly, I’d give you to him without a wedding ceremony, but then he would be under no obligation to cut me in for half of his mining interests, and I want those mines. Luckily, he doesn’t mind enjoying soiled goods.” He gave her a shake. “Do you know what a great deal of trouble and expense you have put me to, searching for you? If Edgar hadn’t seen you at that fair, parading around on your protector’s arm, you might well have left us in ignorance of your deception. Think you’re clever, do you? Well, we’ll see how clever you are now. Here is the coach; get in.”
Shifting her weight, she tried to break free, though where she hoped to run, she had no idea. She cried out, pain jabbing like a knife through her arm as Chaulk’s hand tightened so fiercely she was surprised the bone didn’t snap. Unshed tears burned her eyes.
“You’d best behave.” He glared down at her. “Any more tricks from you, and you may well find yourself traveling in the luggage boot.”
Lily trembled, knowing his threats were never idle ones. She ceased her struggles.
“Good choice,” Chaulk murmured. Turning his head, he nodded as Faylor approached. “If you are ready, Edgar, shall we depart?”
“Yes, let us be on our way. I am most anxious to reach home.” Climbing inside, he settled his solid frame, then leaned over and patted the seat beside him. “Miss Lily can sit by me,” he invited with a lecherous grin.
Chaulk gave her a small shove. “You heard your fiancé. Step in and keep him company. We have a long ride ahead.”
She steeled herself for the ordeal to come, then climbed inside. A shudder raked her frame when Faylor reached over and clasped her hand.
Acting on instinct, she yanked her palm free. “Don’t touch me!” She prepared herself to suffer a blow—another slap, or worse. Instead, Faylor tossed back his big head and released a booming laugh. “Play your little games for now, missy,” he said, waving Chaulk into his seat opposite. “There’ll be plenty of time for touching once we’re wed in a few days’ time.” He gave her a wink.
Bile rose into her throat, and in that moment, she vowed that she would never marry this man. Somehow I will find a way out, she thought. She couldn’t afford to consider the alternative.
Chapter Twenty-two
TRAVEL-WORN AND WEARY, with cold, wet mud caking his boots and the hem of his many-caped greatcoat, Ethan strode into a small tavern on the outskirts of Penzance. After five days of hard riding he was in need of rest, but he couldn’t allow himself to pause for more than a few minutes, just long enough to inquire about Bainbridge Manor and be on his way again. Finding Lily was imperative, even more so after the disturbing report he’d heard at one of the coaching stops along the way.
He’d been asking the innkeeper if he’d seen a young woman matching Lily’s description when a serving girl interrupted.
“I seen her,” she volunteered. “She were with two men. A handsome bloke, who said he was her father, and another one, a stocky, thick-necked sort.”
Ethan turned toward her. “Yes? Go on.”
The girl cast a quick glance at her employer, who gave her a nod to proceed. Tucking her hands in her apron, she continued. “The lady, she wanted me to send a note fer her. Gave me the coin and everythin’, but then her father stopped her. Told me she were knocked queer in the head and to nevermind what she says. But since then I’ve wondered…”
“Wondered what?” Ethan encouraged.
“If she might have been telling the truth after all. Said she were in trouble and needed to contact a man. Some marquis in London.”
“Vessey. Was the man’s name Vessey?”
Her eyes grew round. “Aye, that’s it exactly. How did ye know?”
“Because I am Vessey. Now, start again at the beginning and do not leave out a detail.”
Since then, he’d been riding as fast as he could, stopping only to change horses, eat a quick meal, and catch an occasional couple of hours’ sleep. But even though he made up time, Lily’s coach stayed ahead, her stepfather maintaining an equally grueling pace, as if aware he was being pursued.
Now, having journeyed to the very end of England, Ethan was nearly at his destination. Walking up to the tavern’s long, wooden bar, he took a seat.
“What’ll ye have?” asked a grizzled old man with a missing pair of front teeth.
“Whatever is hot and strong and fast.”
“One mulled wine, it’ll be.” The man turned and approached a kettle on the nearby grate, returning a moment later with a steaming mug.
Ethan slid a coin across the bar—more than was needed to pay for the drink. He took a sip, finding the brew surprisingly tasty. “I’m looking for Bainbridge Manor. I was wondering if you could provide me with directions.”
The man frowned. “Got business with Chaulk, have ye?” he said, practically spitting out the words.
“No, I have come to see a young woman. Lily Smythe.”
“Don’t know no Lily Smythe. You must mean Lily Bainbridge.” The barkeeper’s eyes turned sad. “Terrible thing that, but then you must not know.”
“Know what?”
“About poor Miss Lily. Last spring she were drowned at sea. Her stepfather put out word that she’d gone swimming and met with an accident. But Lily Bainbridge was the nearest thing to a mermaid these shores have ever had. Her father taught her to swim when she were just a wee tyke. No, her death weren’t no accident, even if there was a bad storm that day.”
“What do you mean?” he ventured.
“I mean she swam out in a gale and let the sea take her rather than marry that brute Faylor. Everybody knows he had the eye for her and she’d turned him down. Heard rumors her stepfather wouldn’t take no for an answer, and ordered her to wed the man. She drowned mysterious-like a few days after.”
Lily swam out to sea in a storm? How had she survived? “Was a body found?” Ethan asked in a thick voice, already knowing the answer.
“Never. But then many go straight down to the bottom, and never turn up again.”
“You say she died rather than wed this man, Faylor. Was she married before?”
“Miss Lily? No. She lived at home her whole life. Took care of her mum until Mrs. Bainbridge—I mean Mrs. Chaulk—died last winter. Mayhap that’s why the girl did herself in, too much grief for so short a life.”
Ethan drank more wine, beginning to believe he understood. Once he had Lily back, she could explain the rest. “My thanks,” he said, “but I am still in need of those directions.”
Morni
ng sunlight streamed through the windows of Lily’s bedroom—or rather her prison now, since Chaulk had forced her upstairs and inside the room last night after their arrival at Bainbridge Manor. Until Lily married Faylor, he’d told her, she was to remain captive.
Exhausted from long days spent in the coach, she had stripped off her travel-stained clothes and had taken a sponge bath with the warm water one of the maids brought up to her. The servant—a new girl with whom she was not familiar—had also brought her a meal. Dressed in her shift and a woolen robe, Lily had drunk a cup of hot tea and eaten a couple of bites of roast chicken and mashed potatoes. On the verge of falling asleep, she had soon given up on her meal, choosing instead to stretch out beneath the sheets, her once familiar bed feeling strange beneath her body. Soon enough, however, she had been fast asleep, too tired even for dreams.
Awakening now, she found herself momentarily disoriented. But a quick glimpse of her old blue-and-white-striped wallpaper reminded her precisely where she was—and what day this was supposed to be.
Her wedding day to Squire Faylor.
A shudder raked her frame, followed by a sudden burst of determination. Tossing back the covers, she pulled on her robe and shoes, then crossed to the door to give it another try. Locked, just as she had assumed, the metal knob rattling in a fixed position. Whirling around, she moved to the window in search of another means of escape. Admittedly, climbing out the window would be a risky choice given the lengthy drop from her second-story bedroom to the chilly ground below. But if that was the only way to be free, then she would take the chance. Yet when she tried to push open the window, it refused to budge. Straining harder, she tried again, only then taking the time to study the wooden sill.
Nailed shut!
Heaving out a breath, she stopped. Why, that villain! she thought, silently cursing her stepfather. Before he’d even left for London, he must have ordered her windows sealed. She’d eluded his control once before, and obviously, he was determined she would not be successful at doing so again.
Scanning the room, she spied the utensils from last night’s dinner. Scooping them up in her hand, she set to work. Twenty minutes later, the cutlery was bent into a trio of scarred, badly distorted shapes. As for the nails, they had not budged by so much as a fraction of an inch. Next, she tried the fireplace poker, but found the tool too thick to be anything but useless. The bases of two different candlesticks worked no better.
She had just snapped off the tip of her silver letter opener when she heard the sound of a key scraping in the lock. Her muscles stiffened as she prepared herself for a possible confrontation with her stepfather.
Tension flowed out of her when she saw the visitor was only the maid, fresh towels draped over her arm, a pitcher of wash water in her hand. A little gasp escaped the girl’s lips as she surveyed the damage Lily had wrought. “Oh my!”
Aware of the door standing open at the servant’s back, Lily abruptly knew she could not lose this chance. Ignoring the fact that she was dressed in nothing more than her shift and a robe, she dashed forward.
Brushing past the girl, she wrenched the door wide and raced out into the passageway that led to the main staircase. With any luck the servants would be busy elsewhere, as would her stepfather, who usually spent his mornings inside his study. Her feet flew down the stairs, her heart beating like a set of primal drums. With no footmen in the front foyer, her hope grew stronger, potential freedom only footsteps away. But just as she reached out her hand to open the front door, the knob turned, and there in the doorway stood Faylor and Chaulk.
Dashing sideways, she sprinted toward the rear hallway, hoping somehow she could outrun them both long enough to still get away. But like a fox being hunted by a pack of merciless hounds, she soon found herself cornered. A scream echoed from her throat when Chaulk’s hard arms curved around her waist and brought her to a halt.
Spinning her toward him, his hand came up and cuffed her across the face—hard. Pain exploded in her head, her ears ringing like church bells. “What did I say about disobeying me?” he bellowed.
Despite her misery, she refused to cringe before him. Let him do his worst, she thought. Let him beat me to death, since I would prefer it to the abuse I will suffer at Faylor’s vile hands.
But her hopes were dashed yet again when Chaulk lowered his hand to his side. “I knew you’d try something. But it didn’t work, did it? Back upstairs with you until the ceremony. After all, you know what they say about it being bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding.” He displayed his teeth in a feral grin.
Faylor smiled as well, lustful anticipation gleaming in his dark gaze. He raked his eyes over her body in a way that left her feeling violated.
Caught in her stepfather’s steely grip, she was marched back up to her room. She thought he would shove her inside and lock the door, but to her further horror, he dismissed the serving girl and had a pair of his most trusted footmen come in to scour the room for anything she might use as a weapon, or as a further means of escape. When the room had been stripped bare, including the sheets and blankets on the bed, they left, imprisoning her inside.
Sinking onto the naked mattress, she hugged her arms around herself and wondered how she was possibly going to survive the ordeal to come.
An hour later, Ethan rode his horse up the lane toward the entrance of Bainbridge Manor. A large house, the dwelling was constructed of solid Cornish stone, rising heavy and gray against the rugged, rocky landscape and wide, blue sky. Cold and strong, the wind whipped his hair and exposed skin, the scent of brine filling his nostrils—an indication of just how close he was to the sea.
So this is where Lily was raised, he mused, knowing suddenly how much the wild, uncompromising territory suited her. An environment such as this demanded strength, and his beautiful Lily had that and so much more.
Now he was here to save her, and claim her as his own at the same time. Swinging down from his mount, he ignored the stares of a pair of servants as he mounted the front steps. Lifting the knocker, he gave a powerful rap.
The broad wooden door creaked faintly as it swung open, a somewhat grizzled middle-aged man pinning him with an inquisitive gaze. “Aye? Who’s calling?”
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “The Marquis of Vessey. I am here to see Miss Lily.”
The man’s eyes rounded like those of an owl, his mouth taking on a similar hooting shape. “M-Miss Lily ain’t here. Everybody knows that. She drowned last spring.”
“I believe she just unexpectedly returned from the dead, did she not?” he stated in an unequivocal tone, watching an awareness of the truth flash in the older man’s gaze. “Now, let me inside.”
The servant—obviously under orders to keep out strangers—tried to block Ethan’s entrance. Larger, stronger, and far more fit, Ethan had no difficulty forcing open the door and stepping into the entry hall.
“You aren’t welcome here,” the butler complained. “The master isn’t going to like this.”
Ethan ignored the warning. “Inform Mrs…. Miss Bainbridge, that she has a caller.”
“Who the devil are you?” demanded a new voice, one that was silky yet full of menace.
Turning, Ethan glanced across the hall as a handsome, dark-haired man strode out of a nearby room. Ah, this must be the stepfather, he mused. “As I already informed your man, I am the Marquis of Vessey and I have come for Lily.”
Chaulk blinked, shifting easily into a lie. “You have me at a loss, since my stepdaughter is not here.”
“Of course she is here. You came to London and forced her out of her townhouse, coercing her with some threat, I’m sure. I’ve been tracking you for days, hearing some very interesting reports along the way about two men and the redheaded young woman accompanying them. I also know she attempted to contact me and you prevented her from sending the note. Now tell me where she is.”
A sneer turned up the edges of Chaulk’s mouth. “Her present location is none of your concern, my lord. A
pparently you want her back in your bed, but she has made other plans. My stepdaughter is to be married this very afternoon to the local squire to whom she was promised many months ago. Last spring, she had a few reservations and ran away. She has since had a change of heart, has she not, Faylor?”
Just then, another man—the squire, he presumed—stepped out of a nearby room. Brawny, with rough-hewn features, he reminded Ethan of one of the oxen his tenants sometimes used to plow the fields—though to give Faylor some credit, he did not appear to be quite as lacking in intelligence as the animals. Folding his arms over his heavy chest, Faylor glared, hostility radiating from his stance and gaze. “Be gone,” he spat.
Ethan stood his ground. He’d dealt with bullies before and knew the type. Despite being outweighed by several stone, his fighting skills were well up to the challenge should matters come to that. “Oh, I shall leave and gladly, as soon as I have Lily with me.”
Striding quickly forward, he headed for the staircase. But Faylor moved just as fast and blocked his way. “You are not going anywhere.”
“I would advise you to stand aside, if you do not wish to suffer an injury.”
Faylor shared an amused glance with Chaulk. “An injury, is it? I’d like to see you try. Otherwise, slink away and leave my woman to me.”
“She is not your woman. Lily is, and always will be, mine,” Ethan replied in a deadly quiet tone that would have been warning enough for most.
Instead the squire smirked. “Is that right? Well, we’ll see who she ends up spreading her legs for tonight.” Sharing another jovial look with Chaulk, Faylor threw back his head and laughed.
He hadn’t quite finished the guffaw when Ethan ended it for him by driving his fist hard into the big ox’s belly. The squire wheezed out a harsh, gasping breath, bending double in pain. Rather than give him so much as a second to recover, Ethan shifted angles and threw his strength behind a powerful uppercut to the jaw, then another blow in the opposite direction.
The Accidental Mistress Page 29