He made a clicking sound that seemed to urge the horse forward. It bolted and he was grateful to feel Mary’s arms wrap around his waist. “Hold on,” Alasdair muttered, more to himself than Mary, who likely couldn’t hear him anyway.
They thundered down the road, Alasdair’s heart nearly beating out of his chest. Mary’s hands had held on tightly to his abdomen and her face was pressed against his back.
They continued running for another twenty minutes, Alasdair urging the horse forward any time it seemed as if it were slowing from an all-out gallop. He could feel the horse’s labored breathing under his legs, and Mary’s tense body behind him. Finally, when he judged they were out of range, he slowed the horse to a trot.
“How are you?” he asked without turning around. It was the first time either of them had spoken since leaving the inn.
“Terrified,” she replied matter-of-factly. “But there is no point to that, I know that already.” Her voice held a world-weary tone that probably hadn’t been there a month ago. “Why did we have to run?”
Alasdair grunted. “He had a banknote. Signed by my cousin. I took it, but—”
“But,” she said, interrupting before he could finish, “Matthias sold my mother’s letters to Hugh, who will use them to undermine you. It makes perfect sense.”
“Yes.” It was a relief to have her understand so quickly. He took a deeper breath than he had since he’d gone to sleep the night before. “So we’ll have to get to London, and quickly. There was no time to waste with inquisitive magistrates.” He scanned the landscape and slowed the horse to a walk.
“Of course.” Again, she had that tone, the one that made him wish he could hold her and tell her it was going to be fine, he’d solve everything.
If only he could be certain of that.
***
For many long minutes, they just rode, Alasdair’s thoughts a jumble as he tried to gauge what Hugh’s next move would be. Wondering if Mary was as calm as she seemed. He was inured to seeing death by now, but he doubted—he hoped—that she wasn’t.
When it seemed as though no one was following them, he stopped the horse and jumped off, turning to look at her.
Her face was pale, paler than usual.
She slid off the horse’s back herself, her knees buckling as she hit the ground.
“Are you all right?” he asked, steadying her, as it seemed as though she might fall.
She shook her head, her lips pursed tight. One hand slid to her stomach, which she held as though feeling ill. “Of course you are. Your life has been a lot more exciting than mine.” Including seeing death, her tone implied.
Alasdair placed his hand on top of hers. “You don’t have as much experience as people like me.”
She glanced up at him, rueful amusement in her blue eyes. She still shook, but he admired her courage to tease him now. “Do you mean men, lieutenant colonels, members of the aristocracy, or people who take opium?”
He trailed his fingers along her jawline. “We have a lot to learn about each other. You’re my first vicar’s daughter.”
He cupped the back of her head and gazed down at her, at her lovely face now gaining back some of its color. “You can trust me to keep you from as much of this as I can, don’t you?” He paused, and felt his throat get thick with emotion. “Can you trust me?”
He’d never asked anyone that before, because he’d thought he knew the answer. Now he waited as she kept her eyes locked with his.
Chapter 18
Mary didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” And she did. She truly did.
She reached her hand up to touch his fingers. At her words, he clasped her to him, his eyes fixed on her face. He moved closer, as if he couldn’t help himself, and stared down into her face.
“I will do everything I can to keep you safe,” he said, his voice as solemn as a vicar’s.
She squeezed his hand. “I know.” She released him, and mirrored his earlier actions, drawing her fingers along his jawline, feeling the roughness of his stubble, the hard, firm, sculpted lines of his face. “I know,” she repeated, more softly this time. And she reached to draw his head down to hers.
He resisted at first, the honorable man, then it seemed as if he couldn’t help himself. He met her mouth with his, crushing her lips to his as he pulled her into his body.
His kiss was desperate, hungry, the kiss of a man who needed the touch as much as wanted it.
And she was no different—she opened her mouth to him, met his tongue with an equal eagerness, relished how his hands were traveling fiercely over her body, first her waist, then her back, down to her backside as he pulled her even closer.
She could get used to this. Dangerously used to this.
She felt every long, hard inch of him up against her. She wanted his body against her, naked as they’d been before, and she slid her hand to his waist and yanked his shirt up, thrusting her fingers inside to feel his warm, muscled flesh. He groaned, deep in his throat, and she felt his fingers tighten against her. He had his hand firmly on her backside now, squeezing the soft, full mounds of her buttocks as his tongue plundered her mouth.
She ran her hand along his waist to the small of his back and splayed her fingers. She could feel his muscles shift and bunch as he moved against her. His skin was warm, but not as warm as his mouth. She moved her leg so it was between his legs and his—he was pressed against her stomach.
She wanted more, she wanted to scream her frustration at not being able to touch him everywhere, strip him of his clothes and do again everything they’d already done. Only better.
She inched closer, rubbing her mound against his thigh, the friction making it impossible for her to concentrate on anything else. She yanked his shirt entirely out of his waistband and ran her hands all over him, up his strong, muscled back to his broad shoulders, and down to his slim waist and narrow hips.
And then she slid her hand around to his front and put her hand on him, tentatively, until he thrust himself into her hand and she knew he liked what she was doing. She chuckled, the kind of laugh a woman gives when she knows she is in control of her man.
How could she have doubted him? She loved him, and that was the truth of it.
He throbbed under her fingers, and she traced the outline of him through his trousers. With each trailing caress, he clutched her tighter, kissed her harder. She still wanted more, and she tugged impatiently on his waistband, sliding her finger underneath the fabric to touch his skin.
He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her hand out, drawing his head away from hers at the same time. “We have to”—he was panting, his body still plastered to hers—“we have to stop.”
Mary flung her head up to meet his eyes. “Why?” She stroked him again. He shuddered and closed his eyes.
“It’s not safe here.” She began to shrug. “And I promised to keep you safe.” She snatched her hand away, feeling as though she were the weak one. The one addicted to something. Only it wasn’t something as easy to obtain and master as opium. It was him.
Her stomach was beginning to knot when he grabbed her hand. He leaned his head back to look up in the sky. “I love how you touch me. I wish—” His head twisted in the direction they had come from. “Quickly,” he said, putting his hands on her waist and hoisting her back up onto the horse’s sweat-drenched back. He leapt up behind her and grabbed the reins. Mary looked behind also, but could see nothing.
“Someone’s coming?” she asked, squinting her eyes to look further down the road.
“Mmph,” he grunted behind her. Instead of urging the horse back into a gallop, as she’d expected, he lightly dropped the reins on the horse’s back and set him walking at a sedate pace.
“Shouldn’t we be running?” she asked, whipping her head back and forth between where they were going and where they had been.
“That’s just what they’d expect,” he replied, still keeping the horse to a maddeningly slow pace.
“Because it gives us a
slight chance at escape?” she asked in a tart voice.
He snorted behind her in recognition of her barb. “No,” he said in a sarcastic drawl, “because we can escape if they think we’ve gone somewhere else. Don’t tell me you never played hide-and-seek.”
Mary stayed silent, watching the path ahead as Alasdair guided their horse through the thicket of trees he’d led them into. After five minutes they were well into the forest, where it was silent except for the outraged squawks of the birds they’d disturbed.
Alasdair stopped the horse, then slid off and pulled Mary off before she could hop down for herself.
With one arm still holding her shoulders, he reached with the other to the horse. Mary flinched as she heard the loud whack of his open palm on the horse’s flank. “Go, go,” he urged.
The horse whinnied and took off, trampling through the forest with none of the finesse Alasdair had shown going in.
He looked down at her. “Now what?” he asked, a grin forming on his lips.
Her eyes widened. “Now what?” she repeated in an incredulous screech. “Now what? What the hell, I mean, what kind of plan is that?”
He smiled wider. “Did you know I love it when you swear, my vicar’s daughter?”
“If that’s why you’ve gotten rid of our only means of transportation, my lord, I swear I will throttle you.” She glared at him, but started to giggle as he continued holding her gaze, warm light glinting in his eyes. “What the hell?” she said again, only this time in a softer voice.
He tilted his head toward the sky and spoke, his hand lightly caressing her shoulder. “I thought we would walk straight through the forest to the other side. I asked about it when I was looking for you, and it seems there is another town on the other side. But no road. Anybody who wants to get there has to circle the forest, and we’ll have a head start if we walk.”
“And then?” It was hard to concentrate with his hand on her. If he moved it just a few inches to her left, he’d touch bare skin.
“And then we locate a conveyance and make our way to London.” He met her eyes. “The plan was to go to London, yes?”
She nodded. “Yes, of course. An excellent plan.”
***
“This is the most ridiculous plan I’ve ever heard of,” Mary said two hours later. They’d been hacking their way through the trees; both of them had been scratched from swinging branches, and Mary’s feet were aching.
She knew, too, that she looked an absolute fright. Her hair had fallen down, her gown was twisted sideways, and her face had scratches and probably smudges of dirt all over it.
Alasdair, damn him, looked more roguishly handsome for his tramp through the wild. His hair was deliciously tousled, he’d gotten a scrape on his face that only emphasized his cheekbones, and the look on his face was fierce, intent, ferocious. And completely devastating. No wonder people had followed him into battle.
“That man back there at the inn,” Mary said, wincing as a twig snapped under her foot and flew toward her eyes. “He was in your company? Or whatever it is it’s called?”
“Company, yes,” he replied tersely.
She would not be cowed by his unhelpful tone. Besides, annoying him distracted her from the discomfort she was in. “Why do you suppose those men wanted him? Was he the type to cause trouble?”
“I hardly know.”
“You do, too. You just don’t want to tell me because it means revealing more about yourself than you’re willing to say.” She paused and spoke in a disgusted tone. “Men.”
He spun around and planted himself directly in front of her. His shirt was damp, clinging to his chest. She tried to keep her eyes above his neck.
“I’ve told you I have a dependence on opium. You know I am the kind of man who will purchase a woman at auction.”
“To rescue her,” Mary interjected. He wasn’t nearly as bad as he thought he was. She allowed her eyes to slip lower, and felt her breath hitch in her throat. The thin linen revealed the lines and curves of his muscles, and his nipples were faintly visible through the fabric. She wished she could—
He grimaced. “To be tempted by her.”
As she was by him, she thought.
“And, obviously, I’m not very good at resisting temptation. You have already told me I am ruthless, opinionated, arrogant, and overbearing. What more do you want?”
She stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “I want to know why you hurt so much.” She raised her hand to place it on his chest, but changed her mind and it hung, suspended between their bodies. They both stared at it until she lowered it back to her side.
“Thank you, love,” he said in a quiet voice, “but that is not possible.” He spun on his heel and began stalking through the forest again before Mary could reply.
***
Alasdair shoved a tree branch aside and heard Mary’s yelp as it snapped back behind him. Served her right. She dared to question him, to probe inside his head. Wasn’t she forgetting why he had started taking opium in the first place? And now here she was, dredging it all up when he had promised not to succumb again. At least not until he got her safe. Damned, maddening, inquisitive woman. Why did she have to pry so much?
Matthias’s death relieved her immediate danger, but those missing letters meant much more danger loomed in the future.
Who would Society believe? The charismatic darling of the ton, or the sullenly arrogant, opium-addicted lord?
He had to get those letters back for her. Before Hugh acted. He had to do something right for a change.
Anthony. Judith. His parents. He hadn’t killed any of them directly, of course, but the fact remained that all of them were gone. He couldn’t bear to lose Mary, too. Then he really would go insane.
“Are you going to sulk all day, or can we talk?” Her acerbic tone bit through his self-hatred.
“No.”
Her voice held a tinge of laughter. “No to the first question, or the second?”
He didn’t feel like laughing. He felt like sulking. But that would be behaving as arrogantly and selfishly as she already thought he was. He wanted, no he needed, to look better in her eyes. Because then he would look a little better to himself. “No, I won’t be sulking anymore.”
He turned back and met her eyes. “I am sorry for being such a difficult husband.”
She shrugged. “You’re no worse than any I’ve seen.” She looked him up and down. A flicker of laughter appeared in her blue eyes. “Better, actually.”
His cock stiffened in response to her eyes wandering over him. God, he wanted her, wanted to have her as fully and completely, as he’d never been able to have his wife. Judith had tolerated it, but he’d already experienced ten times the passion with Mary as he’d had with Judith, and it hadn’t even been a week. He wanted it more times than he could count.
Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face because she let out a little gasp and her eyes widened.
He knew he wasn’t imagining her interest; she wanted him, too. That much temptation meant trouble.
Instead of intentions, the road to hell was really paved with good temptations.
Chapter 19
“Finally,” he muttered, pushing aside the last of the trees. They emerged into an open field, which was lying fallow for the moment, but was likely about to be planted. He lifted his face up to the sun and squinted, eyeing where the sun would be if it weren’t for the clouds. “It’s probably about four o’clock.”
Mary stood beside him, very still, very close. If he reached out, he could touch her waist with his hand.
Stop thinking like that.
“We should head there,” he said, gesturing to where a small group of buildings were clustered. “It’ll be the best place to obtain some sort of vehicle to get us to London.”
She followed his hand with her eyes. “We don’t have enough money, not to hire a carriage.”
His hand dropped as he turned to face her. “What happened to the mone
y you took?”
She threw her shoulders back and glared at him. “It wasn’t that much in the first place. And I left some for the innkeeper. I meant to get change, but then you grabbed me.” She stopped and bit her lip.
“So we’re broke?” Her eyes widened at his jubilant tone. “We’ll have to have a plan for battle, love. You do appreciate a good plan, don’t you?” He raised his eyebrows and cast her a knowing grin. God, but he loved to see her blush.
***
“I thought you said I couldn’t act!” His fingers were on her bodice, yanking the fabric down lower. Just as fast, she yanked it back up.
“That was before we were in a race for time,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. He pulled her bodice lower. “If Hugh has the opportunity to spread his gossip before we arrive in London …” His lips tightened into a thin line.
He smoothed the fabric of her gown where it had wrinkled, and then, as if he couldn’t help himself, touched her skin with his finger. It burned like fire, and for a moment, all she could think about was where their flesh met. And how it had felt the last time he had touched her.
She watched and held her breath as his finger trailed into the valley between her breasts. Touch me, touch me, she wanted to say, but her words caught in her throat.
Instead, she took his hand and moved it so that it was on the outside of the gown, completely covering one of her breasts. Her nipples tightened, and it was as if she could almost feel them harden and thrust toward him. Touch me.
He pulled his hand away from her as if he was burned, and she met his gaze—hungry, desperate, anguished. “We should not,” he said in a low voice. She blinked at his intensity. And wanted more of it.
She was addicted as surely as he was.
“Should we not, my lord?” She deliberately affected the broad accent of a lower-class woman. “If I am to play a part, shouldn’t I rehearse first?”
A muscle in his jaw flexed. “Mary, you don’t know what you’re doing.”
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