The Lady’s Lover

by Deb Marlowe

  “Your carriage is all ready for the road, ma’am,” the innkeeper said, leaving the taproom. “Your husband is just outside.”

  She thanked him and hurried out.

  “Drake feels certain we can make it to Reading tonight,” the earl said as she approached.

  “Stoneacre, I’ve something to tell you—”

  He opened the door. “Can you tell me once we’re underway? There is still a way to go and a fog is rising on the heath.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  They pulled away and the coachman set a quick pace.

  “Stoneacre, back in the taproom, two men—”

  “I saw them. Both Drake and I asked around and there are rumors of thieves lately, abroad on the heath. We need to keep watch.”

  “It’s worse than that.” She told him all that she’d overheard.

  “So the London brothel keepers knew to watch for you as they travelled?” he asked, perplexed.

  “And must have known when they left, even before we visited Mrs. Ledger’s. It doesn’t make sense. Worse, we’ve lost any element of surprise we might have had, going in after them.”

  “Damn Marstoke,” he cursed. “Well, at least for now, you’ve nothing to fear. Our driver is an old family servant. He’s been with me through thick and thin. If trouble comes today, he’ll know what to do.”

  “When trouble comes, I’m afraid.”

  He shot her a grin. “Still, I’d put my money on the pair of us over any number of highwaymen.”

  The silence this time was full of a different kind of tension. They watched and waited while the miles passed and the evening shadows stretched out over the growing fog. They’d reached a wild, empty stretch of long grasses and scrubby shrubs when they heard the first shout.

  The carriage picked up speed.

  Another shout. “Stand!” was all she could make out.

  Stoneacre pressed a decorative scroll in the wood of the far wall. The panel beneath it slid down. Reaching into the cavity, he pulled out a richly decorated dueling pistol and extended it toward her. “Go carefully. It’s loaded. You know how to use it, I assume?”

  “Yes, but I’ve one of my own.”

  “Good. Save them both for when your shot will matter.” He tucked the second of the pair into his waistband. “Now, would you be so kind as to move over to this bench?”

  She complied and he bent down and pressed the bottom trim on the bench on which she’d been sitting. It tilted outward, all along the length of the bench, and this time he reached in and extracted a rifle. “A Baker,” he said fondly. With unhurried movements, he started to load it. “With a Newland lock and a split stock.” He pointed with his chin. “Back you go, please.”

  She moved back and he lowered the window in the door, then thumped on the ceiling. The coach, which had been slowing, gradually pulled to a stop.

  “Everyone out of the coach!” The order came from outside. “Coachman, get your hands back on the reins where they can be seen!”

  Stoneacre pointed the rifle out the window. “Now, Drake!” he said clearly.

  Sudden light shone, illuminating the area outside of the coach and a bit of the inside as well. Raising her brows, Hestia slid away, into the shadows.

  “Adjustable lantern of my own design,” Stoneacre told her quietly. “And a mount that swings out to widen the illumination.”

  “One on each side?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Impressive.”

  “We’ve been in this situation before.”

  The mist outside swirled and a figure on horseback emerged. His hat rode low and he wore a kerchief pulled high. He held a flintlock pistol pointed in their direction.

  “Another on the right flank, my lord.” The coachman spoke loud enough to be heard by all. “Got him covered.”

  “If he approaches, shoot him between the eyes,” Stoneacre called easily.

  “Now, don’t be hasty. It’s you who will suffer, you fool, if you don’t follow orders.” The highwayman on their side of the coach motioned with his gun. “All we want is your fancy piece. Send her out and we’ll let you go on your way, unharmed.”

  Stoneacre cocked the rifle.

  The other bandit spoke, but Hestia could not make out the words.

  “No,” the thief on the door side answered. “We said we meant to have her and so we shall.” He motioned again with his pistol. “Put away your gun and send her out—or we’ll take a bit out of her before we pass her on, in payment.”

  No one moved or spoke.

  Hestia jumped when the shot sounded and a bullet dug into the door at the window frame, sending splinters flying. The rifle roared as Stoneacre fired back.

  “Damn. I missed.”

  She peered out as he reloaded. “You knocked him cockeyed, sent his hat flying and parted his hair for him.” The bandit was cursing and wiping blood from his eyes and trying to control his frightened mount. “I see a familiar set of shaggy eyebrows,” she relayed.

  Stoneacre reached for the door handle. “Stay here.”

  “Be careful.”

  He was gone, out the door and crouching low. Hestia sat back a moment and considered, thinking fast. A low spate of cursing sounded and she moved to the corner of the window. Stoneacre was circling closer to the thief. The man’s spent pistol lay on the ground. He kept trying to aim another at Stoneacre, but the blood was flowing freely into his eyes and his mount kept dancing away from the earl.

  Two bandits. Both covered. Too easy.

  Any number of highwaymen, he’d said.

  She dug her own small pistol from the pocket hidden in her skirts. It was delicate, but deadly accurate, and she’d had plenty of practice with it. Waiting, she took her moment when she was sure both Stoneacre and the thief were occupied with each other. Sliding out the door, she crouched near the step up onto the driver’s box. Straining, she tried to see or hear anything lurking beyond the circle of light.

  Nothing.

  Awkward, with two weapons in hand, she climbed up onto the step, startling the coachman.

  “Get back inside, ma’am!” he gasped. She was pleased to see he kept his gun and his focus trained on the second bandit.

  Ignoring him, she peered over the box and stretched her senses out again, scanning what she could see of the other side. But when she turned her attention to the road ahead . . .

  There. In the roiling mist she caught the gleam of a metal barrel. Using her own pistol, she fired straight at it.

  The flash of a return shot flared bright for a moment, but she couldn’t tell where it hit. She kept her attention fixed ahead and suddenly a rider-less horse danced out of the mist and into the light.

  Behind her two more reports sounded in rapid succession. The horse before her snorted and ran, disappearing into the fog. Rapid hoof beats faded into the distance.

  “Stoneacre?” The lighted space behind her was empty now. No sign of either the earl or the bandit. Anxiety bloomed in her gut, but she turned and pointed the pistol Stoneacre had given her toward the second bandit. He still sat motionless, glaring at her and the coachman. They all waited.

  “Stoneacre?” Only long practice kept her tone even and free of the first tendrils of panic stirring inside of her.

  “Here! I’m fine, but this one is dead,” he called.

  Relief melted the icy fear. The waiting bandit sneered at her, then turned and faded away into the mist-shrouded night.

  She grinned at the coachman, and turned as Stoneacre strode into the circle of light and came to lift her down.

  “How did you know there was another one?” he demanded.

  She shrugged. “I would have had someone held back, were I holding us up.”

  He laughed. “You terrify me. Now, let’s take care of this and get back on the road.”

  Chapter 8

  Lord M— has used other ruses in his faked marriages. He has hired actors to perform the services, and in more than one case bribed true clergymen to e
rase all evidence of some ceremonies. All told, we have discovered seventeen false marriages—seventeen ruined lives—and believe there are more to be found.

  --from the Journal of the Infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  * * *

  Stoneacre strode about, tidying up. He found a blood trail in the road ahead, followed it a ways into the bracken, and came back declaring it not worth further chase.

  “You must have hit him in a vital spot,” he told Hestia. He was wrapping the dead bandit up in the man’s own cape. “He’s got a substantial enough leak that he won’t be bothering us any time soon. As for this one?” He stood. “We’ll leave him here. Either his cohorts will come to see to him . . .”

  “Or they won’t,” she finished for him. Standing over the dead man, she found herself unable to spare him any pity. The self-serving violence of his life had bought this death. She was focused on the living—and specifically, at the moment, on Stoneacre.

  What a revelation he was. Once again, they’d worked well together in a complicated situation. He was calm and competent, and shockingly, he’d held the obvious conviction that she was, too. She’d been in worse situations than the one they’d just conquered, and she knew how easily things could go horribly wrong. But they hadn’t. The two of them were well matched in this and he wasn’t put off by it.

  She hadn’t expected it to be so heady. She’d forgotten the relief of sharing her burdens. They were truly partners, in deed as well as name, now—and for this moment, despite all the trouble lurking ahead, she felt light and hopeful.

  He came to see her into the carriage and stood close in the open door, his shoulders blocking out the world. “I think I will take the horse for this leg.” Mist gathered like little pearls in those raven locks as he indicated the dead bandit’s mount and the smell of bay rum and horse hung about him. “At least I will be able to listen better, in this dratted fog.”

  She nodded, feeling both disappointed and slightly relieved. “Thank you,” she said. “For . . .” she gestured.

  He waved off her thanks. “We did well.” Bending over her hand, he kissed it.

  Emotion spiked. Their gazes met. Faint music swelled within her. Heat rose from that chaste spot like water over a floodgate. And it mixed with those feelings she’d started to associate with Stoneacre. Peace. Warmth. Acceptance. Gratitude for his powerful and honorable presence in her world.

  He started to straighten—and she reached out, curled her fingers around his neck and pressed her mouth to his.

  Stoneacre stiffened in surprise, but the fight had already heightened his senses and the shock quickly unraveled into something far more heated and primal.

  The taste of desire, the abrupt racing of his heart, the quick, tightening swell in his groin—after-battle-lust was something many men were familiar with.

  This wasn’t a role. It wasn’t pretend. It wasn’t something he would feel for any woman. This was Hestia—and so it meant so much more. A storm of long-denied craving had him grasping her hard. His tongue swept hers, and he kissed her with all the dreams and longing he’d carried, without hope. He twisted his hand into the fabric of her pelisse and wrapped the other one around the slender column of her neck. He kissed her forcefully. Relentlessly. And he waited for her to come to her senses and push him away.

  She didn’t. She leaned out and eased down out of the carriage, never breaking contact. Her body softened and went pliant against him. She kissed him back, measure for measure.

  Her hands fisted around the collars of his coat. His heart thundered. She was here. Stay, he wanted to order her, for he craved more and more. He slid his hand down, settled it into the small of her back and tugged her closer. Lord, but she was made for him. There she is.

  He could feel her nipple peaking against his other hand. Letting go of her pelisse, he covered her breast. Her heart drummed fierce against him.

  She reached up, touched his face. And the kiss gentled. Below the towering desire lay more. All the things he craved. Pleasure. Comfort. Home.

  He didn’t want it to end, though he knew it must.

  Sighing, she did it, breaking contact and pulling away. She pressed her forehead against his chest for a moment, then turned to climb back up into the coach. Squeezing his hand, she gave him a twisted smile. “I’ll see you in Reading.”

  He nodded. Strode away from her, his mind awhirl, and mounted up.

  Covering her eyes with one hand, Hestia sunk down in the seat. Why now? How long had it been since she’d been stirred up this way? Veritable parades of men passed through her life. Diplomats, bankers, politicians, dukes, merchants, even a prince or two or three. She hadn’t been the slightest bit tempted by one of them, not in years.

  Yet, now she found one who raised her senses like a conductor calling music from his orchestra? Now? At the perfectly wrong time and in the most complicated circumstances?

  She’d achieved a rapport with Stoneacre. It felt lovely and tenuous and she might have ruined it by acting worse than the youngest, most inexperienced tease of a girl, unsure of herself and playing with a man’s desires.

  It was wicked behavior. Utterly unfair to Stoneacre—and when he’d been more than decent to her.

  She wasn’t acting like herself.

  And as the long hours alone with her thoughts dragged on, it became clear how wise he’d been to distract her with talk of friendship and sharing.

  Alone, she fell prey to not only guilt, but to nerves and dark imaginings of what might come about when they confronted Marstoke. This trip was doing things to her. The thought of entering that house . . .

  She bent over, feeling nauseated. She should be elated at the thought of finally finishing off her old enemy. She was. But right now she felt like the flailing needle of a compass—and steady, stable Stoneacre drew her like due north.

  The moon climbed high as they changed horses again and went on. The hour was late when they reached Reading. Stoneacre’s shoulders drooped with weariness. He registered them as brother and sister and scarcely spoke as they separated for the night.

  She lay in the strange bed knowing he might despise her—and that she could not blame him. In the morning she would rise early and seize the chance to apologize—and to reestablish her equilibrium. Rolling over, she ignored the memory of his hands on her and sought out blessed sleep.

  The next morning, Stoneacre bounded up the stairs, note in hand, fighting to school his expression. Fortunately, he’d had the long ride to Reading last night to indulge himself—and he had, riding behind the carriage largely to hide the broad, recurring and no-doubt-ridiculous grin on his face.

  Hestia Wright was not indifferent to him. He felt like singing the words out in song. She was not indifferent—no matter how much she would like to be.

  That kiss had proved it. No mere after-battle affirmation, that had been a kiss of epic implications, gloriously heated and sweetly tender and utterly natural. They had both been present, aware and perhaps, a little awed.

  But it had given him hope.

  It had given her a headache, if her expression when they’d arrived last night had been any indication, so this morning, he went cautiously to seek her out.

  The hour was early, but he found her leaving her room, fully dressed and seemingly ready for the day. He paused at the top of the stairs to gaze upon her.

  There it was. The little catch of his breath. That moment of weightless, boundless anticipation that hit him every time he saw her anew. It could be filled with so much more, he understood suddenly.

  She was backing out of her room, speaking to a maid inside about the removal of her valise. Early morning light streamed in the window just beyond her at the end of the passage. Her sturdy, dark navy traveling costume absorbed the rays, but the sunshine bathed her above the high neckline, creating a halo of her golden hair, hiding some of her features in the bright haze, and highlighting her delicate profile in soft, shell pink. She turned and blinked, her sight adjusting—and then she saw him.


  He witnessed it. The slight loosening of her tense shoulders, the ease of a certain tightness around her eyes. The light that grew behind her eyes and the smile that began to curl the side of her mouth.

  And he knew.

  It lived there, between them. The potential for everything he longed for, all that he felt was missing from his life. And she felt it there, hovering, too.

  There was no other woman like her. She was wily. Resourceful. Her eyes saw things others didn’t. Different paths. Real truths. Her mind traveled in different directions.

  And there was no other woman for him.

  Only her.

  She adjusted her expression as she moved toward him. Drew the shutters down once again. He understood why. Mountains of obstacles still loomed before them, all the uncertainty and the surety of Marstoke’s wickedness, the harsh realities of the job before them and even the world they would return to.

  But he didn’t care. He knew now. Knew that he would not push her. That because of all that lay in her past and might loom in their future—that she would have to come to him. But he resolved with absolute certainty that he would shove against every impediment, fight and claw and do everything in his power to clear a path, to give her the freedom to choose.

  To choose him.

  The difficult enormity of the job made catching Marstoke look like child’s play. But he would do it.

  “Stoneacre?” she asked uncertainly as she approached and he did nothing but stare.

  He shook his head and buried any sign of his decision—even as he took up the banner of this new crusade.

  “Your gloves,” he said awkwardly. “I like the color.”

  She looked down at the pair she carried. “Thank you.”

  “The perfect light blue, just the color of a robin’s egg. I remember the first time I saw a nest of them. They dazzled me.” And he was blathering like an idiot. He shook his head and recalled why he’d been coming up for her.