by Zoë Archer
She found herself amazed at Will’s tenacity at something that wasn’t purely physical. Just like herself, Huntworth, and the other men who ran the office at Greywell’s, he poured over telegrams and directories with a single-minded resolve that had her thinking he might have the makings of a businessman.
After Mr. Huntworth had brought in luncheon and then a cold supper, Olivia finally looked up from her work and announced, “I found someone.”
Everyone gathered around as she paraphrased her telegram. “There’s a farmer in Kent who has a full harvest of Fuggles, and he’s willing to sell if I come down tomorrow with a bank draft. His family has an old grudge against the Earl of Hessay, so he wouldn’t sell to Pryce.” Even the staid clerks broke out into cheers, while Will gave a cowboy whoop. Olivia, too, couldn’t hide her immense relief: another crisis averted.
But as she and Will rode back in the carriage, he said suddenly, “I don’t like it.”
Olivia blinked. She didn’t know what he was referring to.
“How come all the farmers we wired had nothin’,” Will continued, “but this one man has exactly what we need?” He frowned. “Seems mighty shady.”
“What choice do I have?” she asked. “I need those hops.”
“Then I’m comin’ with you.”
“Very well,” she agreed, and she saw with a flicker of amusement that he had been preparing for a fight.
“Okay, then,” he said, still argumentative. He folded his arms across his broad chest.
“About this morning…” she began. He eyed her guardedly. She was responsible for making him so wary, and it saddened her. Though he was smart and alert, he lived his life openly, and she hated that she’d made him circumspect.
“I could say that I knew you had come in late, and I didn’t want to wake you,” she continued. “And I could say that there wasn’t much for you to do at the brewery, since it was business-related, but none of that would be true.”
Rather than look at the hard, unforgiving lines of his handsome face, she stared out the window at the passing streets. “The truth is, Will, that I’m confused by what’s going on between us, and I don’t know what to do. So if I stumble along my way, I hope you’ll be patient with me.”
“Liv,” his deep voice said from across the carriage, “I ain’t going to hurt you.”
“I know,” she said immediately, believing it. She continued to look out the window for a long time, at London rolling by, as though she could find some solution in the shop fronts and townhouses that lined the streets.
A faint snore brought her head around. He had fallen asleep. Light from the streetlamps flickered across his face, and she saw, despite the relative defenselessness of his position, a continued wariness. He was younger than her, it was true, but he’d grown up much faster than she had, in a world where every day brought untold dangers. What must that be like, knowing that at any moment, even the smallest threat could be your undoing? There was so much more to him than the silly novels she read could ever tell her.
“I wonder if I will hurt myself,” she murmured, but silenced herself as he shifted in his seat. She wanted to reach out and brush a lock of sandy hair from his face, but she kept her hands balled in her lap. They were both exhausted, both their defenses down. Who knew where contact would lead. But tomorrow, they would travel to Kent, and tomorrow they would finally face the beguilement between them, which they had barely touched tonight, and lay it to rest.
“Where are the mountains?” Will asked. He looked out the window of the hansom cab at the flat, cultivated land of Kent. With the driver riding behind them, Olivia and Will were afforded an uninterrupted view of the country. “I didn’t see any on the train ride, and there sure ain’t any here.”
“In Wales and Scotland,” she answered. “England is too genteel for mountains. Very undignified.”
He smiled, but the smile faded quickly as he gazed around. They were riding from the train station to the hops farmer, and surrounding them was what some referred to as the garden of England—rich, fertile, thoroughly domestic.
“I’ve been wonderin’ what England looked liked outside the city,” Will said with a frown, “and it’s all walled-up farmland. I’ve ridden fences longer than London, no company except the grassland and the clouds. Isn’t there anything wild in this country?”
“Aside from you, no.”
He shot her a dry look, and she smiled sweetly, then sobered. “Perhaps that is what your father and mother were searching for, why they left England,” she suggested. “A place that wasn’t enclosed. Where they could live without boundaries.”
“Sure are too many of those in England.” He gazed out the open front of the cab, and she understood they weren’t talking about farmland any more.
“Will—”
“I wish I’d met you in Denver, Liv,” he said fiercely, turning to her. The cab’s interior was rather small, and he filled it more with his presence than his size. She felt the warmth of his body in the confined space and the heat of his eyes. “I could’ve courted you properly. I could’ve had half a chance to win you. Back home, if I wanted somethin’, I took it, and nobody told me otherwise. If they had, I’d have sent ’em off runnin’ for the hills. But nobody was fool enough to tell me no.”
“Will—” she said again, her heart contracting.
“But here, I have to slink around like a whipped mule.” He shook his head. “It ain’t right. If a man wants a woman, he should be able to act, and let me tell you, Liv,” he continued, his look so ferociously hot she felt it burn through all the layers of her wool coat and traveling dress to mark her flesh, “I want you. Like I never wanted anybody before. It scares me a little, how much I’m wantin’ you.”
They were riding together in a hansom cab down the lane of a small Kentish town, and yet there seemed to be only this, her and Will. “No one has ever said anything like that to me before,” she managed, her chest tight, breasts heavy.
Cupping the side of her face with his leather-gloved hand, his mouth twisted slightly, bitterly. “I’m tryin’ to do the right thing by you, Liv. Even if it rips me apart to do it.”
She pressed her cheek into his glove, which had taken on the heat of his skin, and held his wrist. “I know,” she said, throat aching. “Me, too. I just wish the right thing didn’t make me feel so awful.”
He pulled his hand away, and she looked confusedly at him. “I can’t touch you and not want more,” he said.
He tried to press his large body into the farther corner of the cab, a near impossible task. “Those things look like dunce caps for Paul Bunyon,” he said, abruptly changing the subject.
She followed his pointed finger to several conical roofs pointing up through the treetops. “They’re called bells,” she explained. It was almost intolerable to pull herself away from him, force their conversation back into exchanges of pleasantries and information, but he was right. They couldn’t continue as they had without disaster following. “They’re special roofs used in oast houses, where hops are dried. When you dry hops, the moisture escapes through the bells. You see them all over Kent.”
He nodded, but she could see that he wasn’t taking in any of what she was saying. She barely heard herself. All she was aware of was a powerful longing, deep in her belly, that could not be appeased. She’d never felt this way before, not for any of the young men who’d courted her during her season, and not even for David. At best, she and her late husband had possessed a comfortable affection for one another—nothing like the devastating need that tore through her whenever she was near Will or thought about him.
It was an agonizing relief when the cab pulled up outside the hops farm. She gave the driver a handful of coins to have him wait until the meeting was over so he could take them back to the train station. Will helped her down as the farmer rushed out to meet them. Giving a polite bow to Olivia and a more cautious, curious handshake with Will, the man led them inside to examine his harvest.
Tho
ugh she had brought a bank draft for the specified amount, the process of negotiating took much longer than she had anticipated. Apparently, the farmer hadn’t quite made up his mind, and they spent a goodly amount of time haggling over the price. Will grew impatient with the whole process, so she suggested that he examine some of the farmer’s horses, which were corralled nearby.
Some time later, she wandered outside to find him, arms braced on the fence, watching a few sorrel mares grazing. His look was almost wistful, seeing the lovely arched necks of the horses bent towards the ground, the sheen of their glossy hides and their fine, strong legs promising freedom to whomever rode them.
“His wife is fixing luncheon for us,” she explained at his questioning glance. “This may take a while longer.”
Will chewed on a blade of grass and shook his head. “I don’t like it. It’s like he’s stallin’ or somethin’. We should go.”
“I need these hops.”
“Fine,” he said. “But I’m on the lookout for anything suspicious.”
Following luncheon, an agreement was reached. After which was the matter of arranging transport. By the time everything was settled, dusk draped itself across the countryside. The farmer waved them off and shut the door to his house, and Will helped her back into the waiting hansom.
As she climbed aboard, she had a brief feeling that the cab driver looked different. She had thought that the man who drove them out had worn large sideburns; this fellow had a mustache. But she tried to dismiss her apprehension. After all, she had not gotten a very good look at the driver, since he’d been behind them most of the time. She stepped into the cab, getting ready to settle herself in for the ride to the station, when she heard Will say behind her, “Whoa, Liv, this driver ain’t—”
Suddenly the driver’s whip gave a sharp crack, and the cab sped forward, throwing her into the carriage, the door swinging open, and leaving Will behind.
“Driver, stop!” she shouted, struggling to raise herself up onto the seats.
But the man didn’t listen.
She banged on the roof of the cab. “Stop immediately,” she demanded as the countryside raced past. They were not on the road back to the station.
“Shut up,” a voice behind her snarled, “or I’ll turn this whip on you.”
Great God, she had been kidnapped.
Chapter Eleven
For less than a second, Will just stared after the cab as it raced away, the door hanging open like a broken wing and the heel of Olivia’s little boot visible on the floor. But he was already moving before he could blink his eyes. He acted without thought, switching into a state of mind where everything was pure reflex and instinct.
He ran back to the corral where the horses grazed and grabbed a bridle hanging on the fence post. One of the mares was too startled by his sudden approach to move as he quickly slipped the bridle over its head. He made a quick mental note of the differences between the English bridle and the American ones he was used to before swinging himself up onto the bare back of the horse and kicking it into a gallop. They cleared the fence in a smooth jump and took off down the road in pursuit of the cab.
Under other circumstances, he would’ve relished being back on a horse again. It felt natural—more natural than being on foot—and he loved using the horse as an extension of himself to eat up the land beneath them. But these weren’t ideal circumstances for appreciating life in the saddle, and he focused all his attention on catching up with the cab, where, God help him, Olivia was trapped.
They bolted down the road, trees and fences whipping by. He hunched over the neck of the horse, urging it onward. He could hear Olivia shouting at the driver to stop. She didn’t sound panicked—more angry than anything—and he saw her try to reach up through the open door to hit the driver. But then the driver knocked her hand down hard, causing her to yelp and fall back, and Will’s blood, already riled up, turned hotter than a branding iron. He spurred his horse hard.
The driver looked over his shoulder, and Will could barely make out his face in the coming night, but he saw the cold determination that set his features. Will had known that something about that son of a bitch wasn’t quite on the level, but he hadn’t done anything about it. Now he had to clean the son of a bitch’s plow and get Olivia to safety.
He knew who’d sent this ruthless hombre: Pryce. The bastard had gone from bad to worse.
The unmistakable zing of a bullet whizzed past Will. Another pop, another bullet, and he ducked low to avoid the gunfire. Damn it. His horse spooked a little, but he kept firm hands on the reins and moved it in a zigzag pattern across the road to dodge the bullets. He didn’t fear gunfire—he’d been around it all his life—but no one in England had ever used it except him, until now. And that meant one thing: Pryce’s man meant to end the war between them, and at the cost of Olivia’s life and likely his own.
Well damn him if he thought Will would roll over and die. He planned on fighting until he couldn’t fight anymore to keep her safe. But he had to fight smart. He let his horse fall back a bit, giving Pryce’s man the idea that he’d been scared off, letting him get comfortable. But he still followed when the cab veered off the road and into a wooded area, bouncing over a rutted, barely marked path. Ducking under low branches and around trees, he raced through unfamiliar territory, the pounding of the horse’s hooves in time with his own racing heart.
When he saw the driver relax a touch, Will kicked his horse hard. It shot forward until it was alongside the cab. He was glad to see the cab was low and small, the driver’s seat just a little higher than the horse’s ears. The driver aimed his gun at Will and fired, but Will reached out and knocked the man’s arm just as the pistol went off, sending the bullet off course. He felt a burn in his upper arm; he’d been grazed. Will was about to strike again when he saw Olivia’s head poke up from the window.
“Get back down, damn it!” he shouted at her.
But she had other plans. As the driver tried to steady his gun, she reached out to grab his hand and held it tight, her face resolute and her eyes narrowed.
“Let go!” the driver bellowed, trying to shake her free. She wouldn’t release him, but she couldn’t pry his fingers off the pistol, either. So Will watched, stunned, as she sunk her sharp little teeth into the back of his hand. Screaming, Pryce’s man dropped the gun, and it disappeared behind them in the darkness.
But the driver was enraged. He pulled his hand free and sent it across her face, throwing her back and nearly flinging her from the cab. Thank God she had the presence of mind to grab the frame of the open window. Her boot heels scraped against the floor of the cab, trying to gain purchase, but the wheels clattered over rocks and branches and sent the hansom bouncing. Olivia dangled over the speeding ground beneath her, gripping hard. Any second, she could fall and be crushed by the cab, or slam against a tree.
Will wanted so badly to knock the driver’s teeth down his throat, smash his face in until he couldn’t breathe anymore, kill the bastard who’d hit Olivia. But he had to make a choice: go for the driver or get her to safety.
So he gave Pryce’s man one hard punch to the ribs to wind him, and then brought his horse up next to Olivia, who struggled to draw herself upright.
“Get on!” He reached his arm out for her.
She judged the distance between his galloping horse and the hurtling cab with an expression of uncertainty.
“Trust me,” he said.
And then she let him put his arm around her waist as she looped her own arms around his neck. Thank the lord she was a slim thing. He pulled her up and out of the cab, then across the withers of the horse so she rested against his chest.
The cab sped forward as Will drew the horse away.
“What are you doing?” she cried. “We should go after him!”
“I got two of us ridin’ bareback,” Will said, determined, “chasin’ after someone on a carriage, who may have another gun.” He shook his head. “Nope. I ain’t going to risk you.”
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“Don’t worry about me,” she insisted. “That man should be caught.”
Will slowed the horse to a canter. The cab clattered away into the distance.
“He’ll be back,” he said grimly. The horse trotted, then walked, and finally stopped. “His work ain’t finished. But next time I’ll be ready for him. And as for you,” he added, sudden fury in his voice as he turned his head to face her, “what the hell were you thinkin’? Grabbin’ his gun like that?”
“He was shooting at you, Will,” she said hotly. Even in the evening dark, he saw the bright, resolute spark in her eyes. “I couldn’t let him do that without trying to help.”
“Next time don’t worry about me. Take care of yourself.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” she snapped. “Of course I worry about you.”
He might have appreciated that last statement a hell of a lot more if they had been someplace else. He might have gotten considerable enjoyment from having her pressed so close against him, her arms around his shoulders, her face and delicious lips so near his own, except for a few minor problems.
“Where the hell are we?” He looked around.
She also gazed around. They were in the middle of some kind of forest or woods, surrounded by trees he didn’t recognize, and the sounds of animals he had never heard. Dusk was over, and night had fallen.
Olivia began to laugh. At first, just a small chuckle, but then it began to spread through her until her body shook and sent vibrations through his own.
“We’ve managed to find the last wild place in Kent,” she finally managed to gasp through her laughter. There was the faintest note of delayed fear in her laughter, a realization that she had escaped great danger. “And we’re lost.”
He didn’t feel like laughing at all. They were out in the wilderness, the world of drawing rooms and polite dinners far away. Olivia’s slim body pressed against his own and her arms wound about his neck. She was so close, he was engulfed in a warm female scent of perfume and skin, and thank God, she was safe.