The Earl of Benton_Wicked Regency Romance

by Madeline Martin

  “But we are wed. That cannot be simply set aside.”

  “I can allow myself to forget if ye can,” he said it as if he were offering a treaty.

  Emma gawped at him in horror. “Marriage cannot be forgotten, Alistair.”

  “Very well. Let us return as husband and wife with ye going to the country as ye’d planned and me going to London. We can settle matters with a solicitor there. I dinna want yer wealth, Emma.”

  “Don’t you?” she threw back. “I’ve witnessed the disrepair of the castle. I caught Madge’s keen excitement at the mention of my fortune. I am not as stupid as you seem to presume me to be.”

  “I never once considered ye to be daft.” Alistair’s cheeks darkened under the growth of his whiskered beard. “I dinna need yer inheritance.”

  “Why did you trick me like this?” she demanded with all the misery in her soul. “Why did you say you were my husband when you knew the consequences?”

  “Ye looked so damn desperate, Emma. Ye were obviously endeavoring to protect yer virtue and I…” He ran his hand through his hair. “Damn it, I was only trying to help ye.”

  “Protecting the virtue you conveniently took.” Tears burned in her eyes. “Damn you,” she cried. “You plied me with honeyed words and made me feel beautiful.” Her voice broke, blast it. “You have made a greater fool of me than even Viscount Sage.”

  “Emma.” Desperation edged into his voice.

  But he was a decent actor, wasn’t he? Or was he being honest with her? The back and forth of it played out in her head until it became a confusing blur. Her mind and heart were too muddied by exhaustion and heartache to sort through it all.

  There was part of her that wanted to trust him, to believe that it had been an innocent mistake. And yet there was the vulnerable side of her, so often struck by such similar wounds, it was difficult to set aside the notion that it actually might be trickery, that he could be lying.

  “Don’t.” The single word scratched out from the tension in her throat. She clenched her jaw and stared out the window. She would not cry. Not in front of him.

  A commotion of scrabbling sounded from Beast and the weight of his warm, furry body flopped against her so a majority of him lay across her lap. He regarded her with his large brown eyes.

  She smiled sadly and stroked a hand over his silky head. If only Beast’s master were as easy to believe, as easy to trust. Unfortunately he’d been just as easy to love.

  ***

  Reasoning with Emma had been a futile task when Alistair knew the depth of the wrong he’d done to her. She slept opposite him, her head propped against the side. Beast lay in the limp circle of her arms, snoring peacefully, the traitor.

  Alistair watched her, the same as he had when they traveled to Scotland, only this time doing so did not lighten his heart but weighed it down. Could a blunder of this proportion ever be made right? What could he possibly say that she would believe?

  Offering to go about separate lives had been far more difficult than he had anticipated. He hated the idea of knowing she was his and never getting to see her, never getting to have her, or enjoy their conversations and the sound of her laughter.

  Anger rose up hot within him. He hated this helplessness. She was suffering, he was the reason, and she would not allow him to make it right.

  He glanced up from Beast to find Emma’s blue eyes fixed on him, curious…assessing.

  “What is in this carriage?” she asked.

  He lifted his brows. “I beg your pardon?”

  “This carriage. And the cart for that matter.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. The shadows under her eyes had darkened from earlier, suggesting she had not slept.

  “Ye, me, MacKenzie, Hamish, and Beast, as well as the lot of my effects, as ye so tactfully pointed out.” He winked. He’d never been a charmer and when he tried, the jest for levity fell with the implication of criticism.

  “Is that all?”

  His pulse quickened and he had the sudden panicked warning he’d had as a lad when he was in trouble. “Aye,” he lied.

  Emma narrowed her eyes, giving him as shrewd an expression as he’d ever seen from her. “Do you always lie so easily, Alistair, or is it merely with me that you seek to take the path of deception?”

  Damn. But how to tell her about the whisky smuggling? After all, he had just declared he did not need her wealth. What man of his own solid financial standing would risk his life to smuggle twenty barrels of whisky if not a man desperate for income?

  She smirked. “We have six horses to our four last time, and yet we travel at half the pace. Given that the weather is similar to what we encountered previously on this same trail, it would imply our overall weight has grown considerably. In addition, the cart with your trunks could easily be drawn with only one horse, a pair if one wanted to be grand. And yet you have four. It appears to be a gross necessity of power or exhibition of wealth, though I’ll assume it’s the former.”

  “And there’s this.” She stamped her foot on the floor. It gave a solid thud. Beast startled and almost immediately settled back against the warmth of her body once more. “Beast’s tail did not resonate with the same sound as it had previously. The makeup of this carriage has changed. What was once empty is full. Of what?”

  Alistair scrubbed a hand over his face and suddenly felt as though he’d aged four decades in the span of a day. “Whisky,” he answered on a heavy exhale. “I have twenty casks of whisky I’m smuggling to England.”

  Whatever she might have been expecting, it was not this. Her eyes went wide and she stiffened. “Alistair, that is treason,” she hissed. “You could be hanged if caught.”

  Concern flashed in her eyes briefly before another realization made the warmth there cool. “An earl who is of good financial standing does not have to smuggle whisky.”

  Alistair swallowed a groan. Could she have been any more bloody predictable in her cleverness?

  “Madge was angry when I decided to stay in London and take my position as earl,” he said. “I had done it before I inherited the earldom, when aye, I did need money then. On my honor, I dinna need it now. She wanted to continue smuggling it herself and landed in a world of trouble, making exorbitant deals with dangerous men. My entire purpose for going to Lochslin Castle was to see the order fulfilled and ensure she would remain safe. Hamish will be taking on the task going forward to ensure it remains in the family and Madge canna get into any more trouble. Though I confess, I worry she might endeavor some other scheme to ensure I am lured back up to Scotland again.”

  There. It had all been laid out like a winning hand of cards. He focused on Emma’s face in an attempt to read her apathetic expression.

  “On your honor.” She gave a wry smile. “And only minutes before you lied so easily when I asked you what was in the carriage. It took my detailing out my observations to dredge the truth from you. On your honor indeed.”

  Shite.

  “Emma, I dinna want ye to find out.” Desperation rose up in him, frantic and eager for her to believe him. Not only about the whisky, but the whole of its entirety… his wealth, their marriage, how he felt about her. Everything. “If I did get caught, I couldna have ye know too much and be implicated with me.”

  She pursed her lips and tears shone bright in her eyes. “You are not the man I thought you were, Alistair.”

  In Alistair’s life, he’d had many insults hurled his way and many hurts to heal on his own. Yet never had one of them cut him as deeply as Emma’s sadly stated reply.

  This had been a pivotal opportunity to repair the shreds of her trust, and he had failed.

  Chapter 15

  The following fortnight was torture in Alistair’s opinion. Emma was civil to him, her responses were polite and cool without additional elaboration. Their conversation centered on meals, breaks, and the weather.

  While boring, it was not only the tediousness of their humdrum exchanges that edged under his skin. What gnawed at him most was the los
s of the familiarity they once had. To sit across from her, to see her and speak with her, but refrain from kissing her, having her. It was more than he could bear. But it wasn’t merely the loss of their intimacy or physical affection, it was the way they had conversed before with ease.

  This silence between them was not companionable as it once had been. Nay, it was thick and stifling, as though it meant to suffocate him.

  They had crossed into England some two days prior and the burr of his Scottish accent had begun to elicit curious gawks. As a result, Alistair had forced himself to be more mindful of his speech once more, wrestling his awareness to properly enunciate while pretending it was a bore to do so. Every part of Alistair missed Scotland and mourned his relationship with Emma.

  They pulled into a coaching inn that was about a solid day’s ride from London to change out the horses. It was similar to many others, set in a small village where the inn was by far the largest building aside from the towering church. The trees surrounding the villages thinned out as they drew closer to London, which made for easier travel.

  The door opened and they waited for Beast to bound out with his usual limitless enthusiasm. MacKenzie appeared in the open doorway and assisted Emma from the carriage. She thanked him graciously, and with such kindness, Alistair found himself mentally choking his faithful valet. MacKenzie only grinned at him, the bastard.

  Alistair caught up with Emma. She wore a new day gown of pale blue that accentuated her eyes, her rapidly depleting bag of coins dangling from her wrist. She had insisted on paying her own way through the duration of their travel.

  “May I walk with you?” he asked.

  “You?” She said the word with careful enunciation and made a light humming sound. “It appears we are once more on English soil as you are speaking with such refinement.”

  “Emma, please, let me walk with you.” Desperation tightened around his chest and squeezed until he could barely draw breath. With only a day to London, this was his last chance. Tomorrow she would go to a solicitor and be gone from his life forever. The wife he could never have. “Please. I must speak with ye.” He drew on a fledging reserve of strength and repeated more clearly. “I must to speak with you. Please.”

  “I think enough has been said.” She said it so softly and looked up at him with such sad eyes, it tore into his very core.

  “No,” he gritted out. “Enough hasna been said. Ye have to believe me, Emma. I—”

  “Forgive the intrusion, my lord, but is that your carriage and cart by the coaching inn?” The nasal voice cut into Alistair’s pleading.

  He spun on the man and stopped. The short man carried about him an air of authority. Regardless, the man was not a noble, for though his coat was fine, it was not the quality expected of the ton. Alistair let his gaze drift over the man in a way such that the man would see Alistair’s assessment. “Who cares to know?”

  The man straightened with importance. “Constable Wiggins, my lord.”

  Alistair lifted a brow, assuming an expression of disinterest he certainly did not feel. “It is mine.”

  Wiggins indicated the carriage and cart where Hamish was busy removing the tired horses and reattaching the fresh ones. “It would appear you have a goodly bit of horseflesh to carry you about.”

  “Are you calling me ostentatious?”

  “Of course not.” The constable’s face went pink. “It’s only that even if you were going faster, the items might be jostled and thrown about.”

  Alistair’s pulse ticked up a notch. Damn this meddlesome man and his questions. No doubt he would not be easily satisfied. “It’s merely clothing I carry.”

  “With four horses. Interesting.” The man set a stubby forefinger on his chin.

  “If you’ll forgive us, we are in a bit of a rush.” Emma slipped her hand into his arm. “Hence the additional horses.”

  The delicate weight of her hand on his arm made his anxiety to keep her with him significantly more poignant. He wanted much more than the warmth of her standing beside him. He wanted everything they had before. Everything he’d ruined. And he would damn well ruin things further if they were caught.

  “Yes, of course.” The constable peered more closely at her. “Might I inquire who you are, my lady?”

  “This is Lady Benton,” Alistair said quickly, eager to claim her in any way he might. “My wife.”

  Wiggins swept off his top hat, revealing his shiny bald head beneath before replacing it. “It’s a pleasure, my lady.” He swiveled to Alistair once more. “If we can, we’d prefer to take an inspection of your cart.”

  Emma stiffened at his side. Alistair put a hand over her arm, for comfort, for closeness, for the simple act of the contact he had missed.

  “We are in a hurry, as my wife has stated,” he replied in a brusque tone.

  “Of course.” Wiggins put his hands up. “We will be done before the horses have been changed, I assure you.”

  We. That reference again. It was then Alistair noticed a lanky man in a brown greatcoat walking about the length of the cart and peering about it nosily. Beast trotted about beside the man, following him this way and that with his tail wagging.

  Alistair hesitated to reply to the constable. To decline would appear suspect, but to accept would leave them exposed and increase the probability of being caught. Damn. It was a bad spot to be sure.

  “We are, of course, in a hurry,” Emma offered.

  Wiggins bobbed his head in understanding. “We’ll be quick as lightning, Lady Benton.”

  “Very well.” Alistair ensured his pace was slow as he led Emma to the cart with Constable Wiggins in tow.

  The man in the greatcoat bent over the side of the carriage and fisted his hand, as if in preparation to knock upon it. Beast spun about suddenly and darted toward them, or rather toward Emma, and bumped heartily into the man, sending him staggering back.

  Beast bounded in quick circles around Emma, slowing their pace even further. Emma gave a quiet, ladylike laugh, and bent to pet him before continuing onward. Only four horses remained to change out. If they could somehow manage to stall for an adequate amount of time, this might have a sufficiently safe outcome.

  “This is Jefferson with the Bow Street Runners,” Wiggins motioned to the man.

  Jefferson nodded respectfully. He had scraggly brown hair and a serious face. Typically Runners didn’t bother with contraband. But from time to time, one became too curious for his own good. The constable, for his part, would readily welcome the opportunity to catch Alistair with the stash of whisky he brought into England. He’d be declared a hero for taking down an earl and having him hung for treason.

  The idea of it sent a shiver of unease rattling down Alistair’s spine.

  “If you would, please.” Wiggins indicated the cart. “We’d like to see what is inside.”

  Alistair forced his hand steady and drew away the canvas, hoping they wouldn’t notice the thick bottom, and hoping the Runner wouldn’t attempt to rap at the side of the cart once more. They were mere seconds and one mistake away from being utterly and completely caught.

  ***

  Emma’s heart slammed so hard in her chest, she could scarcely breathe. Yes, she was angry with Alistair, but she did not want to see him hanged. It was one thing to defer to her solicitor’s expansive knowledge on how to handle the situation with the husband who had fooled himself into her life, it was entirely another for him to swing from a rope like a common criminal.

  Her stomach knotted at the mere thought.

  Alistair indicated the neat rows of trunks laid out on the base of the cart. Its bottom was too fat, thicker than the usual layered boards that made up a typical cart. Was it obvious, or was it only because Emma knew what was held within?

  The constable murmured in satisfaction, but the Runner leaned in closer, his ogling too astute and sharp and far too dangerous. To Alistair and Emma, at least. Beast stood with his front paws braced on the side of the cart in an attempt to peer in.
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  “I want to see what’s inside those trunks,” Jefferson said.

  Emma’s heart lurched. If they were filled completely with whisky, they were as good as caught.

  Alistair was as good as dead.

  Ripples of fear shivered down her skin. For his part, Alistair did not meet her gaze. No, his expression remained aloof with disinterest, as apathetic as a cultured noble might be. He slid a glance to the carriage and she noted a horse being changed out. Only three more remained before they could go. Would it be enough time?

  “You want me to open it?” Alistair said with incredulity.

  “Some of these trunks contain…delicate items,” Emma protested. “These are our personal effects. Mine included.”

  Alistair looked down at her with a soft note of gratitude in his eyes. Whatever had happened between them before, they were a team again, if only for this moment. And though she ought to be more cautious and guard her foolish heart better, the idea of being with him again in any way was wholly appealing.

  The scent of him was warm and smoky, intimately familiar, and she welcomed the rush of memories they carried, even if they stung the tender place in her heart.

  Alistair gently released Emma and leaned forward to unlatch the closest trunk. Emma’s body went stiff, her muscles locked tight in place and her everything clenched in anticipation. Her arm cooled where Alistair’s warmth had cradled next to her.

  The lid creaked open and revealed a basic silk-lined trunk, filled to the top with cravats ranging in shades of white and gray to more unusual colors and black. Jefferson leaned forward and examined the contents. He extended a hand forward and paused. “May I?”

  “May you rifle through my effects?” Alistair said with appalled offense. “You may not. My valet spent a considerable amount of time ensuring they were pressed and properly stowed. I will not have you create more work for him than he will already have upon our arrival.”