Debra Mullins
Just One Touch
For my friends,
Rayna Vause
and
Jennifer Wagner
Contents
Chapter 1
Rage tore at him like a biting wind. He leaned…
Chapter 2
Everything seemed almost normal.
Chapter 3
When the sun rose the next morn, Rogan was up…
Chapter 4
Caroline took only a moment to watch Rogan walk down…
Chapter 5
She had kissed a man.
Chapter 6
It poured rain on their wedding day.
Chapter 7
Caroline dismissed her maid and climbed into bed, still unsettled…
Chapter 8
Caroline came awake slowly, conscious of the toasty comfort of…
Chapter 9
Once they realized that the gray would respond only to…
Chapter 10
Entranced, Rogan followed Caroline through the maze of hedges and…
Chapter 11
“I want to be a good wife to you,” Caroline…
Chapter 12
The next day, Rogan left the magistrate’s office with a…
Chapter 13
Lord Tennsley’s horse was a devil.
Chapter 14
Rogan stood by helplessly, uncertain what to do. The panic…
Chapter 15
Caroline was unusually quiet on the ride home.
Chapter 16
Caroline clicked her tongue at Melody and urged her to…
Chapter 17
The nightmare started as a pleasant dream.
Chapter 18
Belvingham already felt like a tomb.
Chapter 19
Caroline was going through the account ledgers when Malcolm Gregson…
Chapter 20
Malcolm Gregson gathered his courage around him. The knowledge he…
Chapter 21
Rogan woke slowly to sunlight in his eyes and a…
Chapter 22
Rogan paced outside Caroline’s bedroom, glancing up every few moments…
About the Author
Other Books by Debra Mullins
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Rage tore at him like a biting wind. He leaned over the horse’s neck, the pounding of his mount’s galloping hooves keeping rhythm with his thundering heart. Beneath the thin skin of civility, fury and frustration bubbled in a dangerous elixir that drowned out reason.
He would rebuild what had been stolen from him.
Moonlight lit the way as man and horse skimmed the boundaries of his neighbor’s vast estate. Inside the elegant manor house, the duke slept peacefully, unaware that he held the key to a man’s dreams—his very existence—in his hands.
The duke had no agenda; refusing Rogan’s offer had been merely a matter of practicality, not a personal victory, and Rogan would not blame him for it. But the beast inside him howled for justice.
Leashing the beast was never easy. Deliberately, Rogan opened his senses to the land around him, sucking the fresh, cool air into his lungs, letting it serve as a calming balm to his boiling temper. The shadows of the bushes and trees surrounded him like old friends, and the darkness enfolded him like a warm cloak. In the sky, the moon shone like a candle left burning, and the stars glittered.
The beast slunk back into the dark recesses of his mind, snarling and reluctant, but obedient.
And beneath him, the stallion stretched its legs, eager to chase away the whispering of Rogan Hunt’s demons.
Lady Caroline Ware tucked her cloak more closely about her and watched through the coach’s window as the moonlit countryside rushed past. The urgent heyah of Denton the coachman and the crack of his whip told her he was doing his best to honor her request that they arrive home with all possible speed.
She glanced around the dark, empty coach and suppressed a shiver, wishing she hadn’t sent the footman and her abigail and the guards home. But Mrs. Trenton’s childbirth had taken hours longer than expected, and she hadn’t wanted the servants to be away from their families for so long. All had gone home to their children while Caroline stayed at the Trenton home and kept her promise to widowed Mrs. Trenton that she would watch over the woman’s other offspring during the birth.
She had expected to be home by dinner.
But Mrs. Trenton’s ninth childbirth had developed complications, and so Caroline had stayed until nearly midnight to help Dr. Raines deliver the healthy baby girl.
The coach jolted, and she groaned as her sore back muscles protested. She huddled deeper into her cloak, hating the night, but hating far worse the fear that made her distrust every shadow. It had been five years, and still she could not shake the legacy her tormenters had left her.
Tired and achy from assisting with the birth, she sniffed back the tears that threatened, swallowed despair that she would never be able to have a normal life.
A husband.
Children.
A life of contentment where she would never have to be afraid again.
She wanted that, wanted it so much she was willing to climb mountains and swim the seas to have it. But the fear always stopped her. That craven, crippling dread of being touched. The panic that choked her and turned her into a whimpering, frantic animal.
How could she ever have children if she couldn’t bear the simplest touch of a man?
The coach jerked to a stop. Unprepared, she slid to the floor in a tangle of skirts and cloak.
“Stand and deliver!”
Her blood froze. Highwaymen? Impossible!
Someone shouted. Denton’s voice.
The crack of a pistol echoed around her, vibrated through the coach. A soft thud sounded from outside.
Caroline cried out and scurried back into her seat, squeezing herself into the farthest corner of the coach. Her hair began to slip its anchorings, and she impatiently plucked out the hairpins, clutching them with white-knuckled fingers.
Footsteps. She huddled in her cloak, tried to make herself as small as possible. Then the door jerked open, and a brigand grinned at her, his uneven teeth a dull white in the moonlight. “Well, well. Good evenin’, milady.”
He reached for her and grabbed a piece of her skirt, dragging her toward him. Laughing.
He was laughing at her, amused by her helplessness.
Rage exploded out of nowhere.
She jabbed his hand with her hairpins. He howled as blood spurted, and he dropped her skirt. She scurried across the seat to the other door. He grabbed for her ankle, but she kicked him as hard as she could in the chest. He fell backward with a yell of surprise.
She managed to open the door, still clutching some of the pins in her hand. She slid from the coach, hesitated when she realized her only option for escape was the dark woods at the side of the road. A scuffling sound from the other side of the coach decided her, and she sprinted toward the woods.
An arm hooked around her waist.
“Just a moment now.” The highwayman yanked her back against him, his breath ripe with ale and poor dental habits. “You’re to come with us, milady.”
Terror stopped her breath at the words. Please God, not again!
The brigand hauled her toward the coach like a sack of meal, her feet dragging on the ground.
Not again. Fury rose behind the words. Never again.
She jabbed upward. A yowl of pain rewarded her as the hairpins found a target in the villain’s eye. He dropped her and clutched at his wound, blood seeping from between his fingers. She scrambled away from him on her hands and knees, then stumbled to her feet and raced for the wood
s.
Cries of alarm sounded behind her. She didn’t look back, just ran as hard and as fast as she could. Then something hit her across the back, a huge weight that flattened her to the ground and knocked the breath from her lungs.
“Now then, Milady Bitch,” a voice snarled in her ear, “let’s get on with things, eh?”
Trapped on her stomach, she could do nothing as he rubbed against her, lewdly rocking his hips against her bottom. A whimper threatened to escape her lips, but she bit it back. She would not give him the satisfaction of showing her fear. But inside her mind, she screamed in horror as memories of the past rained down on her.
“We need ye alive for the ransom,” he said, then licked her neck. “No one said we couldn’t have fun with ye first.”
A shudder rocked her, and he laughed. Then he rose. She pushed herself up on her hands and knees and managed to suck one breath of air into her starving lungs before he grabbed her by her long hair and hauled her to her feet. She looked up into his face; it was the first man, the one she’d stabbed in the hand.
“Let’s get rid of those claws, shall we?” He grabbed her hand and gave it a cruel twist. She cried out and opened her fingers. The hairpins fell into the grass. “That’s more like it,” he sneered.
She fought as he tugged her back toward the coach. She dragged her feet, twisted in his grasp, but he had a good hold on her hair. She stumbled over the edge of her cloak, falling into him. He gave a snarl and jerked her upright again. Then he yanked the cloak from around her and threw it aside. She batted his hands away, but one of them curled into the bodice of her dress and ripped. Buttons and bows flew everywhere. He hauled the remnants of the dress off her arms, leaving her clad only in her chemise.
She threw back her head and screamed.
Her voice ripped through the night, piercing and long, until her captor’s hand connected with her face. The scream cut off on a sob.
“Not so high an’ mighty now, are ye?” he spat.
He towed her toward the coach. Denton lay in the road, a red stain splashed across his shirt. She whimpered at the sight. Her captor gave the body a kick, then laughed and continued on to the open door of the conveyance.
“You’ve got to drive,” his cohort said, stumbling toward them, one hand clasped to his injured eye. “I can’t bloody see!”
“You’ve got one good eye,” the other man replied. “You can drive while the lady and I get better acquainted.”
“I said I can’t see! You can wait to take your pleasure until we get there.”
“Ye’ll not have her first!”
“I’m bloody bleeding!” the man with the wounded eye shouted.
“You’ll live.”
Caroline hung on to her sanity by the barest threads. The one brigand had her hair so tightly wound around his hand that she had no chance of breaking free. She hung from his grasp like a broken doll, memories of five years ago slamming through her brain and jumbling with the events of tonight.
Breathe. In. Out. As long as you’re breathing, you’re still alive. You can still escape.
She hung on to that basic truth with all her resolve. She had to stay alive. As long as she stayed alive, there was always the promise of escape. She stared longingly at the dark stretch of road that led home.
Something moved. She squinted, thinking it a trick of the moonlight but unable to ignore the spark of hope. Patches of darkness washed over the road, shifting with the breeze. A soft, rhythmic thudding reached her ears over the increasingly loud argument of her captors. As she watched, a shadow broke away from the rest, a savior in a flowing cloak riding a powerful black stallion.
“What the…?” The villain yanked her closer by her hair, making her wince. “Who the bloody hell is that?”
“Go! Get in the coach!” One Eye screamed, running for the driver’s seat. “Get in!”
The stranger withdrew a pistol, aimed, and fired as he galloped past. One Eye let out a gurgle and flew backward. Blood bloomed on his chest. He didn’t move again.
The stranger wheeled his horse in a tight turn and charged back toward them. Her captor let go of her hair and gave her a hard shove in the back, sending her stumbling into the path of the stampeding stallion.
He was too close, couldn’t stop.
“Get down!” the stranger shouted. Caroline dropped into a crouch and covered her head with her hands, waiting for the deadly hooves to strike her. A rush of motion stirred the air above her, followed by the musky scent of horse. Then the sound of hooves striking the ground beyond her.
Dear God, he’d jumped over her!
She rose, trembling, to her feet. The highwayman gave a shout of alarm as horse and rider rushed the man. He raised his pistol. The stranger kicked the weapon away with a booted foot, and the brigand screamed. Cradling his injured arm to his chest, he began to run.
Toward her.
Caroline darted toward the coach, the highwayman hot on her heels. She kept her gaze fixed on the door to the conveyance, the promise of safety. A movement out of the corner of her eye warned her, and she dived beneath the coach just as her would-be abductor tried to hook an arm around her throat. His curse of frustration nearly made her smile. He dropped to his knees and swept a searching hand beneath the carriage. She shuffled beyond his reach.
The thunder of approaching hoofbeats made him curse. He jumped to his feet and ran. She could see only the inky black legs of the stallion pass by her as the stranger gave pursuit.
Edging herself closer to the ground, she was able to view the scene down the road. Her rescuer easily caught up with the fleeing villain. He leaped off his horse, his flowing black cape and extended arms making him appear like Death striking. The two men hit the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. Fists crunched into flesh. They rolled, kicked.
The brigand stumbled to his feet. Still on the ground, the stranger rolled to his side and sent a fierce kick at the back of his opponent’s knee. The villain howled and dropped like a stone. Her rescuer rolled to his hands and knees and pushed to his feet. The highwayman fumbled at his boot and then staggered up. Moonlight gleamed on the knife he held.
The stranger shrugged off his cloak and wrapped it around his arm, dropping into the fighting stance of a man who had clearly faced a knife before. The villain sneered and swiped. The stranger sidestepped. Both men circled each other. The knife wielder slashed again, and her rescuer evaded, bending backward as the blade skimmed where his throat would have been. He came back in the same movement, grabbing the brigand’s knife hand and twisting. The knife fell to the ground even as the thief swung around with his other hand and struck a blow to her rescuer’s jaw.
The stranger’s head whipped to the side, and for an instant Caroline caught a glimpse of his face.
Rogan Hunt.
She knew him, had seen him at Belvingham several times. Had watched him…
His handsome features twisted into a snarl, and he came back around and slammed his knee into the brigand’s stomach. The villain dropped to his knees, gasping for breath. Rogan kneed him again, this time in the chin.
Her assailant fell backward and did not move again.
Rogan stood there for a moment, chest heaving like that of a stallion who’d been given its head, and looked down on the defeated highwayman. After a moment he seemed to decide that the ruffian posed no more danger, and he turned toward the coach.
Caroline stayed where she was. Her heart pounded like thunder in her ears, and her fingers clawed into the dirt of the road. She knew that it was safe to come out, that she was acquainted with her rescuer. Yet she still couldn’t seem to move.
She began to tremble as she heard his footsteps, yet he didn’t come near the coach. She could hear the soft shuffling as he moved somewhere nearby. What was he doing? Was he searching for a weapon? Robbing the bodies? Her imagination exploded with frantic possibilities.
The noises drifted closer. His booted feet came into her line of sight, then stopped with a soft scrape. “C
ome out, Lady Caroline.”
He knew who she was. Panic threatened, and a whimper escaped her throat. He would…he would…
“Lady Caroline,” he said again, his voice gentle and soft with a hint of Ireland, “your man is injured.”
“Denton?” She barely whispered the word.
“Aye, Denton. I suggest we take him to Dr. Raines in the village if we are to save his life, but I fear we cannot do that as long as you remain underneath our transportation.”
She rested her forehead on the ground. Denton was alive and needed a physician, and here she cowered like a child beneath the coach that would get him there. She took a deep breath. And another. The ghosts of the past drifted away, and she slowly became grounded in the here and now.
“I’m coming out.”
She edged out from beneath the coach. Strong male fingers closed around her arm and nearly sent her back into terror. But no, he was just helping her to her feet. He released her the instant she had her balance.
“Are you injured?” He swept her tangled dark hair out of her face, then immediately dropped his hand to his side and searched her expression for a clue to her state. His eyes looked dark in the moonlight, but she knew they were gray. Storm-cloud gray.
“No…no, they didn’t hurt me.”
“Are you certain?” He cast a quick glance down her body, and she suddenly realized that she was standing in front of him in nothing more than her chemise—and that he had taken great care to look only at her face until this moment. “If they hurt you—in any way—-” he began, his expression darkening.
“No.” Face flooding with heat, she averted her gaze. “They were just…well, it doesn’t matter. Denton needs help.”
His mouth tightened. “It matters.”
He peeled off the cloak wrapped around his arm and shook it out. As he settled it around her shoulders, she realized it was still warm from his body.
Just One Touch Page 1