Within seconds, they were quartering the area, quickly, efficiently, calling her name, threshing through undergrowth. Harry headed towards the river, Dawlish beside him. His throat was already hoarse. His imagination was a handicap—he could conjure visions far too well. He had to find her—he simply had to.
LEFT IN THE PEACE of the meadow, Lucinda smiled to herself, then settled to convert the cornflowers growing in abundance around the base of the rock into a blue garland. Beneath her calm, she was impatient enough, yet quite confident Harry would shortly be back.
Her smile deepened. She reached for a bright dandelion to lend contrast to her string.
“Mrs Babbacombe! Er—Aunt Lucinda?”
Blinking, Lucinda turned. She searched the shadows beneath the trees and saw a slight, shortish gentleman waving and beckoning.
“Good lord! Whatever does he want?” Laying aside her garland, she crossed to the trees. “Mortimer?” She ducked under a branch and stepped into the cool shade. “What are you doing here?”
“A-waiting for you, bitch,” came in a growling grating voice.
Lucinda jumped; a huge paw wrapped about her arm. Her eyes widened in incredulous amazement as she took in its owner. “Scrugthorpe! What the devil do you think you’re doing?”
“Grabbing you.” Scrugthorpe leered, then started to drag her deeper into the trees. “Come on—the carriage’s waiting.”
“What carriage? Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Lucinda was about to struggle in earnest when Mortimer took her other elbow.
“This is all most distressing—but if you’ll only listen—it’s really nothing to do with you, you know—simply a matter of righting a wrong—fixing a slight—that sort of thing.” He wasn’t so much helping to drag her along as clinging to her arm; his eyes, a weak washy blue, implored her understanding.
Lucinda frowned. “What on earth is all this about?”
Mortimer told her—in disjointed phrases, bits and pieces, dribs and drabs. Totally engrossed in trying to follow his tale, Lucinda largely ignored Scrugthorpe and his dogged march forward, absent-mindedly letting him pull her along, shifting her attention only enough to lift her skirts over a log.
“Damned hoity female!” Scrugthorpe kicked at her skirts. “When I get you alone, I’m going to—”
“And then, you see, there was the money owed to Joliffe—must pay, y’know—play and pay—honour and all that—”
“And after that, I’ll tie you up good—”
“So it turned out to be rather a lot—not impossible but—had to find it, you see—thought I’d be right after Uncle Charles died—but then it wasn’t there—the money, I mean—but I’d already spent it—owed it—had to raise the wind somehow—”
“Oh, I’ll make you pay for your sharp tongue, I will. After I’ve done, you’ll—”
Lucinda shut her ears to Scrugthrope’s ravings and concentrated on Mortimer’s babblings. Her jaw dropped when he revealed their ultimate goal; their plan to reach it was even more astonishing. Mortimer finally concluded with, “So, you see—all simple enough. If you’ll just make the guardianship over to me, it’ll all be right and tight—you do see that, don’t you?”
They had reached the edge of the river; a narrow footbridge lay ahead. Abruptly, Lucinda hauled back against Scrugthorpe’s tow and stood her ground. Her gaze, positively scathing, fixed on Mortimer.
“You ass!” Her tone said it all. “Do you really believe that, just because you’re so weak and stupid as to get…?” Words momentarily failed her; she wrenched her elbow from Mortimer’s grasp and gestured wildly. “Gulled by a sharp.” Eyes flashing, she transfixed Mortimer; he stood rooted to the spot, his mouth silently opening and shutting, his expression that of a terrified rabbit facing the ultimate fury. “That I will meekly hand over to you my stepdaughter’s fortune so you can line the pockets of some cunning, immoral, inconsiderate, rapacious, fly-by-night excuse for a man?” Her voice had risen, gaining in commanding volume. “You’ve got rocks in your head, sir!”
“Now see here.” Scrugthorpe, somewhat dazed by her vehemence, shook her arm. “That’s enough of that.”
Mortimer was exceedingly pale. “But Uncle Charles owed me—”
“Nonsense! Charles owed you nothing! Indeed, you got more than you deserved. What you have to do, Mortimer,” Lucinda jabbed him in the chest, “is get back to Yorkshire and get your affairs in order. Talk to Mr Wilson in Scarborough—he’ll know how to help. Stand on your own feet, Mortimer—believe me, it’s the only way.” Struck by a thought, Lucinda asked, “Incidentally, how is Mrs Finnigan, the cook? When we left she had ulcers, poor thing—is she better?”
Mortimer simply stared at her.
“Enough, woman!” Scrugthorpe, his face mottling, swung Lucinda about. Opting for action rather than words, he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to him. Lucinda uttered a small shriek and ducked her head—just in time to avoid Scrugthorpe’s fleshy lips. He grunted; she felt his fingers grip her shoulders tightly, bruising her soft flesh. She struggled, rocking to keep him off balance. Her gaze directed downwards, she saw his feet, clad in soft leather shoes, shuffling to gain greater stability. Lucinda lifted her knee, inadvertently striking Scrugthorpe in the groin. She heard his sharp intake of breath—and brought her boot heel down with all the force she could muster, directly onto his left instep.
“Ow! You bitch!” His voice was crazed with pain.
Lucinda jerked her head up—her crown connected with Scrugthorpe’s chin with a most satisfying crack. Scrugthorpe yowled. He put one hand to his foot and the other to his chin—Lucinda was free. She whisked herself away—and Mortimer grabbed her.
Furious, she beat at his hands, his face; he was no Scrugthorpe—she broke free easily enough, pushing Mortimer into a bush in the process. Gasping, dragging much needed air into her lungs, Lucinda picked up her skirts and fled onto the bridge. Behind her, Scrugthorpe, swearing foully, hobbled in pursuit.
Lucinda cast a quick glance behind—and ran faster.
She looked ahead and saw a gentleman striding onto the other end of the bridge. He was dressed neatly in riding breeches and top coat and wore Hessians. Lucinda thanked her stars and waved. “Sir!” Here, surely, was one who would aid her.
To her surprise, he stopped, standing with his feet apart, blocking the exit to the bridge. Lucinda blinked, and slowed. She halted in the centre of the bridge.
The man had a pistol in his hand.
It was, Lucinda thought, as she slowly watched it rise, one of those long-barrelled affairs gentlemen were said to use when duelling. The sun struck its silver mountings, making them gleam. Beneath her, the river gurgled onwards to the sea; in the wide sky above, the larks swooped and trilled. Distantly, she heard her name called but the cries were too weak to break the web that held her.
A chill spread over her skin.
Slowly, the pistol rose, until the barrel was level with her chest.
Her mouth dry, her heart pounding in her ears, Lucinda looked into the man’s face. It was blank, expressionless. She saw his fingers shift and heard a telltale click.
A hundred yards downstream, Harry broke through the woods and gained the river path. Panting, he looked around—then glanced up at the bridge. He froze.
Two heartbeats passed as he watched his future, his life, his love—all he had ever wanted—face certain death. Salter and some of his men were on the opposite bank, closing fast, but they would never reach Joliffe in time. Still others were rushing for this end of the bridge. Harry saw the pistol level—saw the slight upward adjustment necessary to bring the aim to true.
“Lucinda!”
The cry was wrenched from him, filled with despair and rage—and something more powerful than both. It sliced through the mesmeric daze that held Lucinda.
She turned, her hand on the wooden rail—and saw Harry on the nearby shore. Lucinda blinked. Safety lay with Harry. The rail was a simple one, a single wooden top-rail supported by intermittent
posts. Before her, the area below the rail was empty, open. She put both hands on the rail and let herself drop through.
She plummeted to the river as the shot rang out.
Harry watched her fall. He had no idea whether she’d been hit or not. She entered the river with a splash; when it cleared, there was no sign of her.
Cursing, Harry raced forward, scanning the river. Could she swim? He reached the bank just short of the bridge and sat down. He was tugging off one boot when Lucinda surfaced. Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she looked about and saw him. She waved, then, as if she went swimming in rivers every day, calmly stroked for shore.
Harry stared. Then, his expression hardening, he slammed his foot back in his boot. He rose and strode to the river’s edge. His emotions clashing wildly, swinging from elation to rage with sufficient intensity to make him dizzy, he stood on the bank and waited for her to reach him.
He had lost Dawlish somewhere in the woods; those of Salter’s people who had been near, seeing him waiting, wisely left him to it. He was distantly aware of the commotions engulfing both ends of the bridge but he didn’t even spare them a glance. Later, they learned that Mr Mabberly had distinguished himself by laying Mortimer Babbacombe low while Dawlish had taken great pleasure in scientifically darkening the daylights of the iniquitous Scrugthorpe.
Gaining the shallows, Lucinda stood and glanced back at the bridge. Satisfied that her attackers were being dealt with as they deserved, she reached behind her and caught hold of her dripping hat. Tugging the wet ribbons from about her neck, she stared in dismay at the limp creation. “It’s ruined!” she wailed.
Then she looked down. “And my dress!”
Harry couldn’t take anymore. The damned woman had nearly got killed and all she was concerned with was the fate of her hat. He strode into the shallow water to stand towering by her side.
Still mourning her headgear, Lucinda gestured at it. “It’s beyond resurrection.” She looked up at him—in time to see his eyes flare.
Harry slapped her wet bottom—hard enough to leave his palm stinging.
Lucinda jumped and yelped. “Ow!” She stared at him in stunned surprise.
“The next time I tell you to stay where I leave you and not to move you will do precisely that—do I make myself clear?” Harry glared down at her, into eyes that, even now, held a hint of mutinous determination. Then his gaze fell to her breasts. He blinked. “Good lord! Your dress!” Immediately, he shrugged off his coat.
Lucinda sniffed. “Precisely what I said.” With injured dignity, she accepted the coat he placed about her shoulders—she even allowed him to do up the buttons, closing it loosely about her.
“Come—I’m taking you home immediately.” Harry took her elbow and helped her onto the bank. “You’re soaked—the last thing I need is for you to take a chill.”
Lucinda tried to look back at the bridge. “That was Mortimer back there, you know.”
“Yes, I know.” Harry drew her into the woods.
“You do?” Lucinda blinked. “He had some strange idea that Charles had done him out of his rightful inheritance, you know, that—”
Harry let her fill his ears with an account of Mortimer’s justification of his deeds as he steered her through the woods. It was infinitely reassuring to hear her voice. His fear that she might suffer from delayed shock receded, lulled by her calm and logical recital, her unflustered observations. She was, he had to grudgingly, somewhat astonishingly concede, totally unaffected by her ordeal. He was a nervous wreck. He led her directly to the carriages.
Lucinda blinked when they appeared before them. “But what about the others?”
Harry hauled open the door of her carriage as Joshua and Dawlish hurried up. “We can leave a message for Em and Heather—Mabberly can explain.”
“Mr Mabberly?” Lucinda was astonished. “Is he here?”
Harry cursed his loose tongue. “Yes. Now get in.” He didn’t wait for her to do so—he picked her up and put her in. Joshua was already climbing to the box; Harry turned to Dawlish. “Go back and explain everything to Em and Miss Babbacombe—assure them Mrs Babbacombe’s taken no hurt other than a soaking.”
From inside the carriage came a definite sniff. Harry’s palm tingled. He put a foot on the carriage step. “I’m taking her back to Hallows House—we’ll wait for them there.”
Dawlish nodded. “All the rest’s taken care of.”
Harry nodded. He turned back to the carriage, remembering to grab his greatcoat, left on the rack atop, before he ducked through the door. Dawlish shut it behind him and slapped the coach’s side. It lurched into motion; heaving a heavy sigh, Harry subsided onto the seat and shut his eyes.
He remained thus for a full minute; Lucinda watched him somewhat warily. Then he opened his eyes, tossed his greatcoat onto the opposite seat, and reached out and systematically let down all the blinds. The sun still penetrated the thin leather, suffusing the interior with a golden glow.
“Ah…” Before Lucinda could decide what to say, Harry sat back, reached for her and hauled her onto his lap.
Lucinda opened her lips on a token protest—he captured them in a long, searing kiss, his lips hard on hers, demanding, commanding, ravishing her senses until her thoughts melted away and took her wits with them. She kissed him back with equal fervour, perfectly willing to take all he offered.
When he finally consented to raise his head, she lay against his chest, dazedly blinking up at him, with not two thoughts to her name.
The sight filled Harry with a certain satisfaction. With an approving grunt, he closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the squabs. “If you ever do anything like that again, you’d better be prepared to eat standing up for the following week. At least.”
Lucinda threw him a darkling glance and reached a hand to her abused posterior. “It still hurts.”
Harry’s lips lifted. He raised his lids enough to look down at her. “Perhaps I should kiss it better?”
Her eyes flew wide—then she looked intrigued.
Harry caught his breath. “Perhaps we’d better leave that until later.”
Lucinda raised a brow. She held his gaze, then shrugged and snuggled closer. “I didn’t plan to be set upon, you know. And who were all those people?”
“Never mind.” Harry juggled her around so she was sitting on his knees facing him. “There’s something I want to say—and I’m only going to say it once.” His eyes met hers. “Are you listening?”
Lucinda drew in a breath—and couldn’t let it out. Her heart in her mouth, she nodded.
“I love you.”
Lucinda’s face lit up. She leaned towards him, her lips parting—Harry held up a restraining hand.
“No—wait. I haven’t finished.” He held her with his eyes. Then his lips twisted. “Such words from a man such as I can hardly be convincing. You know I’ve said them before—in reams. And they weren’t true—not then.” His hand found hers where it rested on his chest; he raised her fingers to his lips. “Before you came along, I didn’t know what the words meant—now I do. But I couldn’t expect you to find the words convincing, when I wouldn’t myself. So I’ve given you all the proof that I can—I’ve taken you to visit with my father, shown you my ancestral home.” Lucinda blinked—Harry continued with his list. “You’ve seen the stud and I’ve shown you the house that I hope we’ll make our home.” He paused, eyes glinting, lips lifting at the ends as he met Lucinda’s gaze. “And I was joking about the six children—four will do nicely.”
Breathless, dazed, giddy with happiness, Lucinda opened her eyes wide. “Only four?” She let her lids fall. “You disappoint me, sir.”
Harry shifted. “Perhaps we can settle on four to begin with? I wouldn’t, after all, wish to disappoint you.”
Lucinda’s rare dimple appeared in her cheek.
Harry frowned. “Now where was I? Ah, yes—the proofs of my devotion. I accompanied you back to London and drove you in the Park, I danced at
tendance on you in every conceivable way—I even braved the dangers of Almack’s.” His eyes held hers. “All for you.”
“Is that why you did it—to convince me you loved me?” Lucinda felt as if her heart would burst. She had only to look into his eyes to know the truth.
Harry’s lips twisted in a self-deprecatory grin. “Why else?” He gestured expansively. “What else could move me to prostrate myself at your feet?” He glanced at them—and frowned. “Which, incidentally, are very wet.” He reached down and eased off her sodden boots. That done, he pushed up her wet skirts and started on her garters.
Lucinda smiled. “And you danced three waltzes with me—remember?”
“How could I forget?” Harry returned, busy rolling down her stockings. “A more public declaration I cannot imagine.”
Lucinda giggled and wriggled her chilled toes.
Harry straightened and met her eyes. “So, Mrs Lucinda Babbacombe—after all my sterling efforts—do you believe me when I say I love you?”
Lucinda’s smile lit her eyes. She reached up both hands to frame his face. “Silly man—you had only to say.” Gently, she touched her lips to his.
When she drew back, Harry snorted disbelievingly. “And you’d have believed me? Even after my faux pas that afternoon you seduced me?”
Lucinda’s smile was soft. “Oh, yes.” Her dimple came back. “Even then.”
Harry decided to leave it at that. “So you agree to marry me without further fuss?”
Lucinda nodded once, decisively.
“Thank heaven for that.” Harry closed his arms about her. “We’re getting married in two days at Lester Hall—it’s all arranged. I’ve got the licence in my pocket.” He glanced down and saw the damp patches on his coat, close about her. He frowned and lifted her back so she was once more sitting upright on his knee. “I hope you haven’t got it wet enough for the ink to run.” He undid the coat buttons and lifted the garment from her.
Lucinda laughed, so delirious with happiness she couldn’t contain it. She reached out and drew his head to hers and kissed him longingly. The kiss deepened, then Harry disengaged.
An Unwilling Conquest Page 27