His hand shaking, Charles opened the door and stepped down.
‘Now you, Lucius.’ She kept the pistol levelled at him as she shifted to keep them in sight.
‘Disarm him, Charles, and remember who will get shot.’
Lucius stood utterly still as Charles drew out the pistol and placed it on the ground.
‘Kick it away.’
‘It...it might go off!’
She smiled. ‘It might. But that’s not my problem. See where my pistol is pointing?’ Straight at Charles’s chest. ‘Kick that one away.’
He obeyed and it spun away with a clatter.
‘Very good. Now, tell your coachman to throw his pistols down where I’ll be able to see them.’
Charles gulped. ‘Bragg, do as she says.’
There was a ripe curse from the box, but a pistol sailed through the air to land with a thump on the heath.
‘And the other.’ Most coachmen carried a brace of pistols. She could think herself lucky they had decided not to risk any more witnesses to a kidnapping and there wasn’t an armed footman to deal with.
Another curse and a second pistol joined the first.
‘Both of you, back away. Not towards any pistol.’
Lucius clenched his fists as Charles grabbed his arm and dragged him back. ‘You’re no better than an animal!’ he spat.
‘One of you would be dead already if that were true,’ she said, slipping the knife back into its sheath in her muff. She stepped down and circled carefully to get herself between the pair of them and Lucius’s pistol. Never taking her eyes off them or letting her own pistol waver, she crouched down to pick up the weapon.
‘Carriage coming, my lord!’
Automatically she looked, saw the gig perhaps a quarter of a mile away...and heard the metallic click of a gun being cocked.
* * *
Will urged Circe on up the steep road over the Heath. The ground was muddy, but he was making good time. He’d driven out of Soho and on to the Edgware Road again as the sun rose, the mare’s breath condensing as she settled into her stride and trotted easily along, hooves ringing.
He kept her moving at that swinging, mile-eating trot, well up to her bit. She was fresh and even the steep hill didn’t seem to bother her.
The sun was well up now, banners of pink fading in the eastern sky, and the rising green of the heath in its cloak of golden daffodils around him. Ahead at the very top, among the greening trees smoke rose from the chimneys of Highwood where Psyché’s uncle lay. The groom who’d brought the news had said she’d been in time.
‘Mr Marney said as how they stayed with him and the master passed very peaceful.’
Eventually it would comfort her to remember that she had been there at the last for the man who had been there at the right time in her own life.
He hoped she wouldn’t mind that he had driven out to bring her home. The groom had also brought the news of Harbury’s arrival and said that he was ‘swinging his weight around’.
He didn’t doubt that Psyché could look after herself, but after what she’d told him about Harbury, he didn’t like the idea of her having to deal with him. Even if Lady Harbury was there.
With Highwood’s chimneys in sight, Will saw the carriage halted some way ahead. He eased Circe, wondering. Hold-ups were not unheard of, but in daylight? And there was no horseman—more likely a breakdown.
Two men were already out of the carriage, another stepping down... He frowned, squinting—that was a woman. Dressed in black, she took a few steps, then crouched and the rising sun fell on a dark face, the light glinting on something in her hand...
Two shots rang out and she fell.
He cracked his whip beside the mare’s ear, dropped his hands and sprang her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Psyché dropped and rolled as the coachman’s pistol roared and her own discharged. Deafened, she scrambled into a crouch in the reek of gun smoke and Lucius—ten feet away—stopped dead in his tracks.
In the distance she could hear the thunder of hooves, but didn’t dare look around. Lucius was too close.
Trembling, she levelled his own pistol at him, cocked it. ‘No closer.’
The thunder of hooves drew closer.
‘Harbury—quick! Circle around. We’ll flank her. Say we’re taking a thieving servant before a magistrate.’
Charles shook his head. ‘It won’t work, Lucius. She’ll talk! And the servants—’
‘Will hold their tongues if they know what’s good for them and she can’t talk if she’s on a ship!’
She kept the gun steady, her heart pounding as she prayed whoever was driving the carriage would believe her.
Closer it came, closer. Until the horse, flanks heaving and breath smoking, halted beside her.
‘Back off, Winthrop.’
His voice, so dear and familiar even iced with rage, nearly dropped her to her knees as relief roared through her. She locked her trembling legs, kept the pistol unwavering.
‘You lose, Lucius.’ Somehow her voice remained steady.
‘Are you hurt, love? You fell.’ Will’s voice, not quite as steady. From the corner of her eye she saw the pistol in his hand.
‘He missed.’
Will spoke with lethal softness. ‘Where were they taking you?’
Psyché took a deep breath. ‘Will, don’t—’
‘Where?’
If he lost his temper—‘The West India Dock.’
A short, vicious curse accompanied the click as he cocked his pistol.
‘Will!’
‘I should shoot you like a dog, Winthrop.’ No longer unsteady, promise edged his voice and Lucius paled, taking a step back. ‘Except I’d give a dog a quick death. You, too, Harbury.’
‘I... I... It wasn’t me!’ Charles babbled. ‘Bragg fired that shot! It was all Winthrop’s idea!’
Will snorted. ‘Perhaps a ball between the legs for you? At least you’d have one, then.’
Psyché backed up until she stood by the gig. ‘Will, better if—’
‘Any other guns you know about, Psyché?’
The calm, utterly controlled voice, as if he were merely asking if there were more coffee in the pot, had her blinking. ‘The...the coachman threw down two. I didn’t realise he had a third.’
‘Fetch them while I cover you.’
She obeyed, seeing the sense of making sure they couldn’t rearm. She brought the guns back to the gig, keeping it between Lucius and herself.
Will flicked them a glance. ‘Set them on the seat for now and get in.’
She stepped into the gig, but kept her own pistol cocked.
A brief smile touched the corner of Will’s mouth.
‘You.’ He levelled his barrel directly on the coachman. ‘Get down from there. Leave the brake off.’
The coachman clambered down quickly as the horses stamped, restless with slack reins.
‘Can you hit the coach, sweetheart?’
‘Can I—?’ She swallowed the insult. He’d never seen her shoot after all. ‘Yes.’
‘Do it.’
She put the ball straight into the front of the coach. The already nervous horses bolted down the hill, the coach rattling and jouncing behind them.
Will handed her his own pistol and steadied the mare as she huffed and sidled. ‘Good shot. Take another pistol. Cover them until we’re clear.’
‘Think again, Barclay,’ Lucius snarled. ‘You think you’re going to stop me walking back to my own house?’ He gestured to Highwood, his expression smug.
Genuine laughter bubbled up in Psyché. ‘But it’s not yours, Lucius.’ Fierce satisfaction burned through her as his jaw dropped. ‘Uncle Theo left it to Hetty—tied up in a trust along with sufficient income for her to live there.’ She glanced at Harbury. ‘Not even you can tou
ch it, Charles. He made very sure of that. And since you left her tied up, I somehow doubt she’ll be inviting you to visit.’
‘Off you go then, gentlemen.’ Sarcasm dripped from Will’s voice. ‘You’ve a long walk ahead of you.’
He gave them a wide berth and set the mare into a trot. Psyché twisted around to watch, keeping the pistols cocked until they were well out of range. Then she uncocked them carefully and took what felt like her first steady breath in an eternity. Lucius, Charles and the coachman were trudging down the muddy road after the runaway carriage.
‘Will?’ Somehow just saying his name made her feel safer. ‘Thank—’
‘What are they doing?’
‘Walking after the carriage.’
‘Right.’ He pulled the mare up before the gates leading into Highwood and set the brake.
‘What—?’
His mouth silenced her. Fierce, desperate and demanding, as if something had ripped loose inside him and found an answer in her. Because she responded in the same vein, as though there were nothing else in the world, as if it had contracted to this moment and the space that held them.
* * *
There were no words. He was not entirely sure words existed to express what he’d felt on hearing those shots, seeing her fall. All his control, all the words had been used up getting her away. Now all that mattered was to reassure himself that she was alive, safe in his arms where she belonged. Her mouth, lush and sweet, burned against his, offering everything and demanding more. He took it, gave it, with a groan, wondering if he’d ever be able to let her out of his arms again, let alone out of his sight.
The thunder of hooves broke them apart. Freeing his mouth reluctantly, Will looked up to see half a dozen riders rounding the corner of the house, Caleb and Lady Harbury, the latter hatless and dishevelled, in their midst.
‘Company.’ He touched her cheek with shaking fingers.
‘Caleb,’ she whispered. ‘He...he was on the box. He realised something was wrong and jumped. He must have—’
Her words were lost as the riders pulled up around them and Lady Harbury flung herself from her horse, weeping and laughing. ‘That pig!’ She dragged Psyché from the gig, hugged her wildly. ‘He gagged me while I was still asleep and tied me up!’
Caleb leapt from his horse and ran to them. ‘Miss Psyché! You’re safe!’
Lady Harbury, one arm still about Psyché, reached out and squeezed Caleb’s shoulder. ‘Caleb raised the alarm and found me. He’s a hero!’ She hugged Psyché again.
Psyché reached out and Will saw her hand tremble as it curved against Caleb’s cheek. ‘Thank you. More than I can say.’
Caleb hunched his shoulders. ‘I knew it was all wrong when that Mr Winthrop got in.’ He looked up at Will. ‘I was coming for you, Mr Barclay.’ He waved at the grooms. ‘Her ladyship and the grooms were going after the coach.’
Will swallowed. Brains, courage and unswerving loyalty. ‘My thanks as well, Caleb. I’ll never be able to repay you.’
The boy shuffled a little. ‘You beat us to it, sir.’
He gave a cracked laugh. ‘Only because you’d asked the groom to stop at The Phoenix last night, you young idiot. And—’ he wrung the boy’s hand ‘—she’d already escaped the coach when I reached her.’
He had a woman who could look after herself and inspired unswerving loyalty in her friends. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve her, but he’d be grateful for the rest of their lives together.
Releasing Psyché, Lady Harbury took charge. ‘One of you ride down to St John’s and inform the Vicar that Lord Staverton has passed. He is needed here as soon as possible. Someone else is to take the carriage into London to bring my children back and ask my housekeeper to pack my clothes as well. I will be remaining here for the time being.’
‘Hetty—’ Psyché touched her cheek gently.
‘He told me where they were taking you, Psyché.’ Lady Harbury’s eyes were wet. ‘He boasted of it. And then claimed you’d offered to be his mistress. That he was doing it to spare me embarrassment.’
‘Hetty, I—’
‘And don’t you dare think you have to tell me he was lying! I’m going to ruin him!’ She rounded on Will. ‘When are you going to marry my cousin, Mr Barclay?’
Laughter welled up in him, as he pulled Psyché back into his arms. ‘Next week.’ He looked down at her. ‘If that’s what you want. I’m yours. Now. For ever.’ He smiled.
Psyché stared at him. ‘Can we? That fast? You have to apply for a licence.’
‘I did that yesterday.’ He chuckled. ‘Huntercombe expects to give the wedding breakfast at Moresby House.’
‘What does Lady Huntercombe think of that?’
Will grinned. ‘She’s delighted. I left Huntercombe writing to Selbourne on the very vexed subject of who escorts the bride down the aisle.’
‘Excellent.’ Lady Harbury gave a decisive nod. ‘Uncle Theo did tell you not to keep him waiting.’
Psyché met Will’s smiling eyes for a moment, then turned to Hetty. ‘There’s not the least chance of that!’
EPILOGUE
Will stretched his legs by the fire, sipped his brandy and wondered how long it took for a bride to ready herself for her wedding night. And was she going to sit out here by the fire and sip brandy decorously while he readied himself in the bedroom? In fact, what did a bridegroom need to do to ready himself? Beyond tearing off his own clothes and the bride’s, that was. Because he was more than ready now and had been since they arrived back at The Phoenix.
Tomorrow they were going out to Chiswick for a few days. Cambourne had offered them a small house ‘...for as long as you like, Barclay. Consider it a wedding gift.’
But tonight, after spending the day surrounded by friends and well-wishers, both of them had wanted to return here to the apartment where they would live. He’d thought it a marvellous idea—fully intending, the moment he got Psyché upstairs, to take her straight to bed. After a week during which he’d been chaperoned more closely than any virgin, Will was more than ready for his wedding night and his bride.
It had been a wonderful day. They had married around the corner at St Anne’s, then Huntercombe and Lady Huntercombe had given a wedding breakfast. Kit had arrived in London the day before and, according to Lady Huntercombe, society was reeling at the news that the one-time heiress had spurned her father, been disinherited and moved openly into her great-uncle’s lodgings above his shop.
Hetty had come down from Hampstead with her children to attend. The scandal over the attempted kidnapping had forced Harbury to agree to a deed of private separation from Hetty and to leave the children with their mother. Even Lucius was persona non grata with a number of influential hostesses, Lady Huntercombe among them. Huntercombe had made it very clear that if it had come to an ordinary trial, both men would have very likely been found guilty.
‘Unfortunately, they’d have to be tried literally before their peers—in the Lords. I couldn’t guarantee the outcome of that.’
As it was, several members of the Lords, including Huntercombe and Cambourne, had publicly stated that if either Harbury or Lucius crossed their paths, a thrashing would be the least they could expect. Will had gone a little further, calling on Harbury to inform him that any attempt to force Hetty to return to him, or to take the children before the deed of separation could be finalised, would result in an immediate challenge.
He hadn’t mentioned that to Psyché yet, not wanting to worry her before the wedding. Not that he thought there was much to worry about—Harbury had swallowed several times before assuring Will that he had no such intent...hadn’t crossed his mind. That he would be leaving London directly the legal deed was signed.
Assured of Harbury’s ongoing cowardice, Will had approached his wedding day with joy.
Even Will’s mother and brother Rob had a
ttended. They had been rather stiff and uncomfortable, but at least they had come, congratulated him, wished Psyché happy and welcomed her into the family.
He suspected that they were simply putting the best face they could on what they considered an appalling situation, but his mother had thawed enough to say she hoped Psyché would soon visit them for a few days. Rob had reiterated the invitation, a little over-hearty, but they were trying.
And he still had a position. Foxworthy was retiring on a generous pension and Hunt had offered him the post. It would still involve some travel outside London, but he wouldn’t need to accompany the Marquess all over the country.
But now all Will wanted was his bride. The woman who filled his life, his world and his heart with such joy and love that—
The click of the bedroom door opening behind him had him slewing around in his seat to see... Very carefully he set the brandy—a wedding night gift from Hunt—on the wine table.
Before he dropped it.
Psyché glided towards him, hips swaying, confident and utterly alluring. All that wonderful, spiralling hair tumbled about her shoulders and her smile promised every earthly delight imaginable.
‘Do you like them?’
God help him! The low, sultry voice was temptation incarnate. And like was an understatement. A very poor choice of word indeed. He was fairly sure there wasn’t a word in the entirety of the English language that would cover this. At least not one he could think of when every drop of blood had apparently drained into his breeches.
In the lamplight her bronze skin glowed against the dusky, rose-pink chemise—the exact shade of the gown she had worn for their wedding—veiling her curves. She stroked one hand over matching drawers that skimmed long, slim legs. But the coup de grâce... She might as well have hit him in the head with a brick.
‘Ah...’ He fought for coherent words. ‘Are those my riding boots?’
‘Mmm.’ Her sultry smile lured him to insanity. ‘I never did get around to trying them on.’
He rose from the chair. ‘Do they fit?’
She came to him on a ripple of laughter. ‘Not really. But—’ a wicked glance assessed his state ‘—they do seem to have done the job.’
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