The Viscount's Vow

by Collette Cameron

  No lie there. She was in fact alone in the carriage.

  He laughed then, a malevolent, alarming rumble that sent a frisson of fear creeping across her skin.

  His cold eyes narrowed. “Ye be a clacky wench. Mighty pleasin’ to me eyes too.”

  Scots. Vangie swallowed against the alarm clawing at her chest. She edged her hand under her skirt.

  “I bet ye’d be a wild lassie to bed.” A lewd gleam entered his eyes. He licked his thin lips before his black eyes dipped to her bosom. “Och, tanight won’t be a total loss . . .”

  Her gaze locked on his leering face. She crept her fingers closer to her dagger. His gun pointed at Vangie, the gentleman robber moved forward, obviously intent on stepping into the carriage.

  Where was Ian?

  Why hadn’t he stopped this lecher? Oh God, he wasn’t hurt or. . .

  A deafening blast shook the carriage. The thief lurched to an abrupt halt. His eyes widened in astonished disbelief before he toppled, face first, onto the coach floor. Dead. His lower body dangled awkwardly in the opening, a bloodied hole in his back.

  His clothing dirty and torn and his lip bleeding, Ian stood there holding a smoking pistol.

  Vangie slapped a hand across her open mouth to smother her terrified screech and to keep from being ill. Dear God—

  Her gaze riveted on the dead man, she gulped against a wave of nausea, then gulped again.

  Dead. He’s really dead.

  She’d never seen anyone killed before. Injured, yes—gruesomely at times in the Romani encampment—but not dead.

  As silently and as lethal as the panther Vangie likened him to, Ian had disposed of his prey.

  “You’ll never know, you filth,” Ian snarled, rage sparking in his baleful glare.

  Vangie swallowed again, a chill washing over her.

  He looked like the devil himself.

  “Vangie, are you—?”

  Ian watched, incredulous, as Vangie raised her dagger from the folds of her shabby skirt. She’d the strangest expression on her face—a curious blend of resolution and dread.

  Like a loadstone, his heart dropped to his boots.

  He’d die by his wife’s hand this day. She could blame his death on the robbers. How she must hate him. He deserved it, he supposed. Still, it took him by surprise.

  His gaze dipped to her trembling lips. He’d never kiss her again. Her mouth moved but no sound emerged. It was the subtle shifting of her gaze over his left shoulder that alerted him.

  Fiend seize it!

  That was twice now he’d been caught unawares because his thoughts had been consumed with her.

  He ducked and spun around simultaneously, just in time to catch a glint of steel from the corner of his eye. He jerked his head to the side, seizing the thief’s wrist. Ian slowed the plunging blade, but could not stop the descent entirely. Its finely honed tip scraped the length of his neck, leaving a stinging trail. Caught unawares, even with both hands gripping his opponent’s wrist, he was at a disadvantage.

  His adversary suddenly stiffened and issued a guttural grunt. Ian’s gaze flew to fixate on Vangie’s horror-stricken face. She was ashen, and she looked as if she were going to swoon or be sick, or both. Her shocked gaze never strayed from the man he was grappling with.

  Straightening to his full height, Ian let loose of the highwayman, and retreated a step. The robber swayed from side to side. His eyes glassed over before rolling back in his head. He slowly tipped over, bouncing against the edge of the carriage opening before landing on the soggy ground with a loud, heavy thud.

  Flabbergasted, his jaw hanging open, Ian gaped. Vangie’s jeweled dagger, impaled to the hilt, protruded from the robber’s back.

  “God, forgive me. Oh, God, forgive me.”

  Vangie’s hoarse whisper jolted Ian from his stupefied trance. Grasping the coat of the other dead robber, he yanked him from the carriage entrance, then dumped the man in an undignified heap on the ground beside his comrade.

  Ian bounded into the carriage, drawing his quaking wife into his arms.

  She buried her face in his shoulder, shaking and mumbling incoherently against his coat. “I had to, Ian. I had to.”

  He patted her back. “Shh, sweeting.”

  She sucked in a shaky breath. “He’d have killed you.”

  Raw regret laced her voice. She angled her head, her haunted eyes seeking his. “I couldn’t let him. I had to kill him, don’t you see?”

  She pleaded with him to understand, her trembling fingers clasping at his coat. Her tears flowing freely, she gulped, “I didn’t want to, but I’d no choice. I wouldn’t let him take you from me.”

  Closing her eyes, she pressed her face against him weeping softly, saturating his coat with her tears.

  Ian sat dazed. Vangie’s confession was far more staggering than the knife tip pressed to his neck mere moments before. Take him from her? Did she possess some minuscule degree of affection for him after all? Hugging her to his chest, he soothed her.

  “Shh, it’s over now.” He ran a calming hand down her quaking spine. “The drivers and I kept the first four from the carriage, but the other two must have been hiding.”

  Six highwaymen.

  Truly they were lucky to have all survived. He wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for Vangie. How could he have thought she’d hurt him? She was everything good and decent. And, she killed tonight—killed to protect him.

  He kissed the crown of her head, despite his stinging lip, and tightened his arms around her. Something sprang free in his chest. Its newness was initially painful, but the feeling resolutely exploded forth with a life and vigor of its own. Something marvelous, implausible, and consuming.

  This time, he didn’t call it rot and rubbish.

  Malcolm appeared in the carriage doorway, disheveled and holding his right arm. “My lord, my lady,” he said, “are ye unharmed?”

  “Shaken, but unharmed,” Ian said.

  Malcolm’s gaze meshed with his. “They was waiting fer us.”

  Chapter 16

  Vangie opened tear-blurred eyes to see the humble coachman, injured though he was, inquiring after her well-being. Gifford, the junior coachman, his face battered and bloody, hovered from behind. Lurching to an upright position, she began issuing orders while tearing at the hem of her petticoat.

  “Ian, have we any water? Mr. Gifford, I need light please, and my small box tied with the purple ribbon. Mr. Malcolm, do get in the carriage, so I can attend to your wound.”

  She shifted, then edged Ian’s cravat away from his neck. “It’s little more than a shallow cut, thank God. Best to clean it though.”

  She removed her gloves, then reached for the torn petticoat. The three men remained motionless, gawking at her open-mouthed. In the act of ripping her petticoat into strips, she paused, quirking a brow at the dumbstruck trio.

  “Faith, gentlemen. Don’t dawdle. Let’s be about it then!”

  Gifford and Ian obediently scrambled to do her bidding. In moments, she was hunkered over the bashful Malcolm, dabbing at his injured arm. Though she’d blanched at the blood when cutting away his shirt, she made quick work of dressing the wound.

  “Vangie, might I use a strip of your petticoat?”

  She glanced behind her at Ian. He was a sight. His left eye was swollen and starting to bruise. His lower lip was twice its normal size, and his neckcloth was stained scarlet. Her gaze dipped to her spencer. It was a wonder she wasn’t smeared with blood too.

  The coach reeked of blood, sweat, mud—she eyed the smears on the Malcolm’s boots—and manure.

  He pointed at his neck. “I’ll wash away the worst while you look after Malcolm.”

  “Of course. Here’s one for Gifford too.”

  She handed him two strips. “Wash your lip first, Ian.”

  From the corner of her eye she saw him divest himself of his coat, then his bloodstained neckcloth, which he tossed through the open door. Using a portion of the water, he cleansed t
he blood from his lip and neck.

  Vangie kept up a constant diatribe as she worked. Chatting calmed her nerves. “My puri daj, that’s grandmother in Romanese, taught me how to tend wounds.”

  She shifted, fully facing Malcolm, to take advantage of the lamp’s light. “I’m not as accomplished as she is, but your injury is not terribly serious, though I’m sure it hurts a great deal, Mr. Malcolm.”

  She swabbed at the injury with a damp cloth.

  “Just Malcolm will do, my lady.”

  She angled away to look at him. His features were a mask of confusion. He was staring over her shoulder at Ian. She twisted to glance at him too. A wide grin split his face. What was he so jovial about? There were six dead men outside. She darted a glance to the open door, then forced her attention back inside. She shook herself mentally.

  Never mind. Best to return to the task at hand.

  “Oh, very well then, Malcolm. The ball passed clear through, nice and clean. It’s fortunate I always carry my medicines and dagger with me. Puri Daj taught me the art of healing with plants and herbs. She taught me to use a dagger too.”

  “Too?” Ian threw the stained piece of petticoat he’d washed his neck with onto the ground outside.

  “Your grandmother taught you to use a dagger?” Astonishment tinged his voice.

  Vangie stopped her ministrations to stare blindly at the carriage upholstery. Wistfully, as if alone, she spoke, “The Romani should be arriving any day now.”

  She dipped her gaze to Malcolm for a moment and attempted a smile. “It will be the first time in my memory I’ll not stay with the travelers for a time.”

  She fidgeted with the cloth in her hands. “They are an honorable people but suffer much persecution because their ways are different.”

  The cramping in her bent legs drew her attention to the present. She stood halfway, then slid onto the seat beside Malcolm. Much better. Returning her focus to his wound, Vangie declared defiantly, “If I’d the means, I’d help them. They deserve to be treated with dignity.”

  She wrapped a length of petticoat several times around his arm. “Were you aware I’m part Roma—that gypsy ratti runs in my veins?”

  The question was for Ian. She lifted her gaze to him, regarding him guardedly, daring him to object to her heritage. How would he react to her startling revelation? How would she react if he rejected her . . . again?

  He leaned over and kissed her soundly on the mouth, despite the flabbergasted coachman’s twitching nose but inches from their meshed lips.

  An embarrassed, “Ahem,” caused Vangie to shift away. Ian stared at her as if besotted. Another discreet cough brought a flurry of heat to her face and another fool’s grin to Ian’s.

  Was he daft, kissing her mere inches from the coachman? Flustered, Vangie bent to her task once more, efficiently tying off the last bandage.

  “There you are, Malcolm.”

  She rested against the plush seat, clenching her hands in her skirt. “You’ll need to see a physician of course—to be sure it has been treated properly.”

  Now the crisis was past, she was self-conscious, unsure of her skills. “I’ve not dressed a firearm wound before, only knife gashes.”

  “Knife gashes?” Ian posed the question.

  She nodded. “Sometimes the brethren are involved in fights with each other, but more commonly, with gadjo, non-Roma. Knives are the Roma’s weapon of choice.”

  Ian reached over, tugged her knotted hands loose, then raised one to his lips. “You were marvelous.”

  He kissed the back of her hand, before turning it over, to place a hot, lingering kiss on her palm. His thumb caressed the inside of her wrist causing her pulse to frolic alarmingly. Or mayhap it was the smoldering look in his eyes that sent her heart cavorting.

  Oh dear.

  “Uh hum.”

  Malcolm noisily cleared his throat once more.

  “Yes, milady. I ain’t ne’r seen a lady o’ quality willin’ to dirty ‘er hands.”

  Gifford offered this compliment from the open door, nodding his head all the while. He gingerly placed her dagger on the seat. The blood had been cleansed from the blade, erasing any indication of its recent resting place.

  “Me either, yer ladyship. Thank ye. It’s grateful I be.” Malcolm made this pronouncement while gingerly exiting the coach.

  Vangie beamed, delighted with their approval, and more importantly, their acceptance of her Romani heritage. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

  Suddenly, concern gripped her. “Malcolm, you don’t mean to drive?”

  “Nay. I jus’ needs be next to this goosecap. He’d be lost inside five minutes.”

  “Wouldna,” objected Gifford indignantly.

  “Aye, lad, ye would.”

  Still arguing, the two climbed aboard the outer seat, and with a yell and the crack of a whip, the coach lurched forward and continued on its way.

  “Ian, what about—” Vangie sliced a glance at the shadows outside and shuddered, gooseflesh prickling her neck and shoulders.

  “Gifford pulled their bodies to the side of the road. I’ll send for a magistrate when we stop for the night a few miles farther along.”

  She gave a reluctant nod. “I suppose that will have to do.”

  “Sweeting—” Ian hesitated, looking like a confused schoolboy. “Did your grandmother truly teach you to use a knife?”

  She curved her lips at the corners. She’d wager her pin money, if she had any, he’d been burning to ask the question since she’d disposed of the robber. Guilt and remorse washed over her once more stealing her smile with it.

  Ian had taken the seat beside her when they resumed their journey. He declared the opposite seat would need to be cleansed of blood before it was usable again. He wore only his waistcoat and shirt. A dark claret-colored stain marred the collar. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow and the shirt’s top buttons were unfastened.

  Thoroughly unnerved by his close proximity, and his state of undress, Vangie was unable to concentrate on anything but the muscular leg pressing intimately against her thigh. Or the hand and forearm smattered with fine dark hair, which rested inches from her leg.

  She raised her eyes to his. He regarded her expectantly. “Hmm? Did you say something?”

  “Grandmother? Knife?”

  Vangie smiled, nodding. “I’m quite skilled with blades. Puri Daj was adamant I be, so she and Yoska taught me the art.”

  “Yoska?”

  “The bandolier, the leader, of our clan.”

  She picked up the dagger, then laid it in the medicine basket. “It isn’t unusual to have unfriendly or unwelcome visitors at the encampment. Assault is not common, but it does happen. Roma women do what we must to protect ourselves.”

  Vangie scrutinized his face. Her disclosure didn’t appear to have disturbed him. This might though. She grinned. “Uncle Gideon insisted Yvette and I be trained in weaponry. Whenever I visited, he’d give me lessons. I’m proficient with firearms too.”

  Ian’s brows climbed to his hairline.

  An unwelcome thought snaked its way into her mind, where it lay coiled menacingly. The robber knew she didn’t travel alone.

  “Ian, why did the highwayman ask where you were? How did he know there was a gentleman traveling with me?”

  The same thought troubled Ian, though he was loathe to reveal it. If he counted the vagrant who’d attempted to waylay him on his journey to London, this was the third time in as many weeks he’d been set upon by ruffians. And there had also been the carriage wheel incident—

  He settled on the most plausible explanation. “It would be most unusual for a female to travel alone,” he reassured her. “Naturally, he assumed you’d a male companion since there was no female present in the carriage.”

  Ian didn’t believe it himself. A persistent notion niggled in the recesses of his mind. He was missing something. He frowned, but only for a moment. He’d not worry on it. The answer would come to him. It always did. His mind
had a way of sifting and sorting information subconsciously, forming a logical explanation from a conglomeration of facts, nuances, and details. It was extraordinary really.

  Not as extraordinary as his new bride, however.

  Blades and pistols.

  He wasn’t sure whether to be reassured or concerned with this newly acquired knowledge about Vangie. Damn. She was turning out to be a deucedly fascinating catch after all. His face split with what he was sure was an imbecile’s grin. He chuckled inwardly. He liked the idea of having taken a gypsy to wife. Life would never be dull. He was certain of it.

  Spanning the few inches separating their hands, he closed his hand round hers. She’d not donned her gloves after tending to Malcolm. His finger rubbed against her ring.

  “It was my mother’s.”

  Vangie’s gaze found his, an unspoken question in them. He smiled an answer, chagrined to see a hopeful light flicker in his wife’s gorgeous eyes. She so wanted his acceptance, his approval. She deserved it after proving her loyalty to him—no—deserved it before then, when she’d gone willingly to his bed, an untried maid, trusting him, her-stranger-of-a-husband.

  He’d let her down, betrayed her, though unintentionally. A spark of anger flared. He’d not be as forgiving with his stepmother and sister as his bride had been with him. They’d caused incalculable harm to Vangie, though his conscience whispered, he was to blame for listening to their gossip and reacting with anger instead of reason and logic.

  Ian’s gaze hovered on Vangie’s lips. Slowly, giving her plenty of opportunity to turn away, he lowered his head. When his mouth met hers, a wistful sigh escaped her plump lips.

  Gently, reverently, he kissed her, not a kiss of passion or lust, but a tender kiss of apology. He explored the mystery of her, seeking, knowing he’d find what he desperately sought within the honeyed cavern of her sweet mouth, forgiveness, though unwarranted.

  With one final press of his lips against her beautiful mouth, he leaned away, a contented smile on his face. She hadn’t rebuffed him. He knew now what he must do to win over his wife.