Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem: A Bluestocking Belles Collection

by Mariana Gabrielle

  Miss Pritchard invited him into her comfortable parlor, where she told him Mary had decided to visit her Aunt Theo in Oxford.

  "We sent her off in a post chaise, Lieutenant Redepenning," said Miss Rumbold, the cousin, "so you may be quite comfortable about her safety."

  Rick wasn't comfortable, though. After he finished the tea Miss Rumbold insisted on serving him, and made his careful way back across the road to the inn, he sat on the edge of his bed, worrying about all the things that could go wrong when two young women travelled with just a post boy for protection.

  He slept poorly, and by morning, he had made up his mind. He would follow Mary to Oxford, and see for himself that she was all right.

  ***

  Mary was pleased to reach the end of the first day's travel. She climbed down at the posting inn, stretching the kinks out of her back and knees, as Polly clambered down to join her.

  The inn allocated them a pair of rooms on the second floor, near the back, and they were climbing the stairs when they passed someone coming down. He was looking at the gloves he was putting on, rather than where he was going, and Mary had to step smartly to the right to avoid a collision.

  He looked up impatiently, saying, "Watch where you are going, Ma—Cousin Mary? Good God, it is. What are you doing in this godforsaken place?"

  Lord Bosville. Of all the people Mary imagined meeting, he was the last she'd expect to find this far from London. "Cousin," she replied, giving him a frosty nod. They had parted on unfriendly terms, after he had tried to kiss her and she had, as her father had taught her, punched him in a vulnerable part of his anatomy.

  Bosville rearranged his face into a friendly smile that did not reach his eyes. "I do apologize for my language, Cousin Mary. I was startled. How nice to see you. Mother will be delighted to hear you are well. She has been so worried."

  What nonsense. Mary suppressed a snort. Worried to have lost Mary's money, perhaps.

  "If you will excuse me, Cousin, my maid and I are tired."

  But Viscount Bosville turned and accompanied them up the stairs, insisting he would see them safely to their rooms. "And after you are refreshed, dear cousin, you will, of course, allow me the privilege of providing a small dinner? In a private parlor, so you need not hesitate for a moment."

  "Thank you, Cousin, but we are very tired…"

  Viscount Bosville kept arguing all the way to their rooms, and stood in the doorway, still insisting, until Mary agreed, just to be rid of him.

  "Excellent, Cousin. I will do myself the honor of escorting you myself. Shall we say eight o'clock?"

  Mary closed the door on him, and wondered how she could gracefully extricate herself from his fulsome and insincere compliments over dinner. Perhaps a sudden and unexpected dose of the plague?

  ***

  Bosville kept to his side of the table. Mind you, that could be because Mary took Polly down to dinner with her, and showed the viscount the little pistol that Mary always carried for protection.

  Even if he wasn't a danger, he was a bore. He couldn't seem to grasp she didn't find him, his friends, and his activities as engrossing as he did. And he seemed to have convinced himself her refusal of his advances was modesty, not repulsion. He said, several times, he realized he had rushed her. He apologized for his haste, but assured her it was her fault for being so beautiful.

  Mary, who had heard him describe her to a friend as his homely cousin, was not fooled. Replying in monosyllables, changing the subject, looking all around the room instead of at him; all the little strategies she could try and still stay just this side of good manners, he ignored. He was delighted to carry the full burden of the conversation, ignored any topic she raised, and did not look at her often enough to notice her distraction. As soon as she could, she escaped to bed.

  Mary and Polly left the inn before the sun was fully up, to avoid his escort. Mary felt silly. Surely she was overreacting. What could he do, after all? This wasn't medieval times.

  Even so, as the post chaise left the inn, and turned onto the Oxford Road, she relaxed. She needn't think about Bosville again.

  "Would you care for a game of cards, Polly?"

  ***

  The morning passed quickly, and in the afternoon, both women fell asleep after finishing the picnic lunch packed by the inn.

  Mary woke when the post boy shouted, and all of a sudden, the carriage leapt as it sped up. With difficulty, she pulled herself to the front window. The increased velocity set the carriage lurching and swaying worse than a ship in a storm. The windows were too dirty for easy viewing, but she could see no sign of the post boy, and on either side, the hedges rushed by. The horses must have bolted!

  Could she get to the front luggage rack from the side door? If she didn't try, would she and Polly survive?

  Balancing herself as best she could, she used her free hand to pull her skirt up from the back to tuck it into her sash, leaving her legs free. She wound one end of a long shawl around her wrist, and gave the other end to Polly.

  "Polly, hold tight," she said. Polly, veteran oldest sister of a tribe of boys, wedged herself into the corner of the seat.

  When Mary opened the door, it whipped back out of her hands. She caught both sides of the doorway, and then, grasping every handhold she could find, she pulled herself forward up onto the luggage rack. The horses were uncontrolled, galloping heedless and headlong with the post boy nowhere to be seen.

  She sent up a quick prayer of thanks that this part of the country had long straight roads, sunk between hedges. In any other carriage, she might have had a chance of grabbing the reins, but this was a post chaise, controlled by the post boy who rode one of the horses. Back here on the carriage itself, there were no reins to grab.

  The carriage bounded over a large rut or rock, and she was airborne for a moment, holding the front rail of the luggage rack with a white-knuckled grip. With a thump that jarred every bone in her body and expelled what little breath she had left, she crashed back onto her trunks. She would be safer inside the carriage.

  As she edged her way cautiously back to the door, a flash of movement behind the hedge to her left caught her eye. A rider? The hedge thickened again, and she couldn't be sure. Another bounding lurch prompted her to move again, and she swung herself back inside to rejoin Polly—though not without a few extra bruises.

  "The post boy is gone, and the horses are bolting," Mary told Polly. "Stay in your corner and hold on tight. And pray that they run themselves out before we reach a bend in the road."

  Following her own advice meant she couldn't see whether the glimpse she'd caught was a rider. Someone riding to their aid would be wonderful, but unlikely. Might as well wish for Rick to save her once again.

  Polly, to her credit, didn't panic, just held on grimly, her face white and her lips moving—whether in prayer or cursing, Mary couldn't tell. Mary was praying. This was no time to annoy God!

  Were the horses slowing? Yes. They were no longer in a full-out panicked gallop. Quite quickly, the gallop became a canter, and the canter a walk. The horses would be tired, of course. Mary didn't know how long she and Polly had slept, but they must be close to the next posting inn.

  She carefully made her way back to the door. Perhaps now that they had slowed, she might be able to do something to stop them?

  But there was no need. At the head of the offside horse, shouldering into it with his own horse and pulling the pair to a slower walk and then a stop, was a rider—a rider she recognized.

  Rick Redepenning had rescued her again.

  Chapter Six

  Rick had ridden hard that day, and his leg was complaining bitterly. He'd left Haslemere at first light, making haste along the road to Oxford, compelled by an impulse he didn't understand. He'd lunched at the inn where Mary spent the night, and been alarmed to hear about Viscount Bosville's presence—and Bosville's departure not long after Mary.

  He had no cause for concern, surely? Mary was not alone, and this was the end of the
eighteenth century, not the middle ages.

  Nevertheless, he called for a fresh horse and pressed even harder on Mary's trail.

  They were clearly in no hurry. Two more posts later, he was only an hour behind them. This was the last post of the day. He'd see them at the next inn, if he didn't catch up with them beforehand.

  Half an hour later, he crested a slight rise, and they were in sight ahead of him on the long straight road, toy-sized in the distance. He narrowed his eyes. What were those men on the side of the road doing? Throwing something?

  Several somethings, and the horses reacted, moving from an amble to a panicked gallop in a stride. Rick urged his own horse to a gallop. Pray God the post boy could pull them up! No. There was the post boy, sitting on the side of the road rubbing his head. The assailants had disappeared. Rick didn't have time for them, anyway, and the post boy would have to fend for himself.

  Somewhere, off in a compartment of his brain, was the urge to beat the stone throwers, to wail to the sky his fear for Mary. He allowed the emotions to lend him strength and separate him from his pain, but he had no time to pay further attention. Mary needed him.

  His best chance was to leave the road; something galloping from behind would panic the team even more. If he could come up beside them, he might have a chance.

  He set the hired horse at the first gate he saw, and thanked all the powers of heaven that the beast had a jump in it. More than one, for it gamely soared over several stone walls and hedgerows as they slowly gained on the post chaise.

  In glimpses, as the ground on his side of the hedge rose, or as the hedge thinned, he saw his quarry. What was Mary doing? Climbing onto the luggage compartment at the front of the carriage? Did she have any idea how dangerous that was? Of course she did, but he'd be a fool to expect her to wait patiently in an out-of-control chaise bounding towards disaster. It was like her to climb out to see what she could do. She must have concluded there was nothing, for she edged backwards and disappeared again, but not before his brain had recorded an image of her legs that he knew would keep him awake many a fevered night.

  Idiot. This was no time for lust. He needed a gate or a low point to get back onto the road at the horses' heads.

  There. His horse was tiring, but gathered itself for one more effort and cleared the gate, with a jarring stumble on the other side. He ignored the effect of the sudden lurch on his leg, as he had ignored it on previous jumps, and urged the horse forward. Moments later, he had the bridle of the offsider and was urging the team to a halt.

  He looked back at the carriage in time to see Mary jump down from the door, and couldn't help noting she'd dropped her skirts back to where they belonged. He dismounted, taking care to keep hold of the carriage horses, as she hurried towards him.

  "Rick, I'm so pleased to see you. What happened to the post boy, do you know? What spooked the horses? What are you doing here?"

  Now that the immediate danger was over, his leg hurt like hell. He opened his mouth to reply, but the world spun around him, and he clutched his horse's neck to stay upright.

  "Polly, take their heads." Through a haze of pain, he could hear Mary taking over, and suddenly she was under his arm on his better side, supporting him. "I have you, Rick. Just a step. Here, and another."

  "A minute," he gasped. "It's jarred. The leg. Not ready for jumping. Good horse, though."

  Mary lowered him onto the slope at the side of the road, and was gone. He missed her. She felt good tucked into his side, his arm around her shoulders.

  Then she was there again, holding his head against her chest with one hand while she held something to his mouth with another. His mouth flooded with brandy from the flask he carried in his saddle bag.

  "Just stay still, Rick. You will be fine in a minute." She sounded calm and confident, but for the edge of a question in the last few words. Brave girl. He had always been able to count on Mary in a crisis.

  He took another sip of brandy. Not too much. He would have to ride the horses to the nearest inn, though how he would mount, he had no idea.

  Mary would not allow it.

  "You will ride in the chaise, Rick, and I will have no argument. You are in no fit state to ride, and I will not have you hurting yourself more on my account. Besides, a fine mess Polly and I would be in if you fell off and the horses spooked again."

  "Someone has to ride the horses," he protested.

  "I will do it. Just to the nearest farmhouse, so you need not worry for me, Rick."

  "Aye, aye, Captain," he managed, which made her smile, but didn't banish the anxious wrinkle between her brows.

  Chapter Seven

  Mary entered the bedroom she had commandeered on Rick's behalf, her brow furrowed with concern.

  "The doctor thinks the leg is just bruised," Rick told her, "and I have done no further damage."

  Her face cleared, and she rewarded him with a beaming smile.

  "Was the post boy hurt?" he asked. He had heard Mary marshalling the troops when they arrived at the farmhouse: bargaining with the farmer's wife for bedchambers, sending the farmer's son galloping for a doctor from the nearby town, and instructing others to go back along the road to hunt for the post boy.

  "They did not find him. I cannot understand why he did not follow after the horses. Do you think he was confused?"

  "Perhaps. Perhaps he went for the constables."

  "Yes. You said that some people threw rocks, deliberately frightened the horses. Do you think they meant to kill us, Rick?"

  Rick avoided a direct answer. "When you and Polly go on to the inn, make sure you take some of the farmer's men to protect you."

  "Go?" Mary put a hand on each hip and frowned. "We are going nowhere until you are fit to travel. Did you think we would leave you? Besides, I have told the farmer's wife you are my brother. A fine sister I would be to leave while you are bedridden!"

  "But, Mary…"

  "No, Rick, I will not leave you." She gave a decisive nod, her lips firmly pressed together. He sank back against the pillows, too tired and sore to fight her. At least she had claimed to be his sister, which should be some sort of protection to her reputation.

  Her stubborn glare dissolved into concern.

  "Oh, Rick, here I am brangling with you when you have been injured on my account. No more. I will not leave, but nor will I bother you with arguments."

  She made sure he could reach the glass on the bedside table, plumped his pillows, and straightened his blankets. "By the way, our name is Reid, as it was that night on the way to Haslemere. You are Lieutenant Rick Reid, and I am Mary Reid. I hope you do not mind?"

  Good girl. She had thought of everything. With a false name, the fiction they were brother and sister, and her maid to keep her company, she should come out of this with an unscathed reputation. If ever she accepted his suit, he wanted it to be her choice, not something she was forced to do.

  The thought startled him awake. Was he courting Mary Pritchard? It seemed he was, the decision made without him knowing it and firmly lodged in his mind. He settled himself more comfortably, his leg now just a dull ache, and fell asleep wearing a smile.

  ***

  The following morning, Mary sent a message to the posting inn, telling them what had happened and asking for a postilion to present himself, so they could continue their journey.

  Rick insisted he had slept and was well enough to travel, though his heavy-lidded eyes suggested an untruth. He insisted on dressing, the farmer's son acting valet, and came down to breakfast, white under his tan and moving stiffly, but refusing to acknowledge weakness.

  The postilion was slow arriving, but by mid-morning, they were all in the post-chaise, Rick and Mary sharing the bench seat while Polly sat on a small seat that folded down from the front wall.

  Polly was shy at first, but soon the three of them were chatting away, Mary just as enthralled by Polly's and Rick's tales of growing up in England as Polly was by Rick's and Mary's stories of their journeys and the place
s they'd seen.

  By the time they stopped for a bite to eat in the early afternoon, Rick's pallor had increased alarmingly, and he'd been clenching the front of the bench for more than an hour, his knuckles white with the force of his grip.

  He managed a slow, awkward descent from the carriage and twisted his mouth into a shadow of his usual jaunty grin when he caught Mary's concerned frown.

  "I'm feeling a bit battered, Mary, but no harm done."

  Mary felt a bit battered herself. The carriage was not called a bounder for nothing.

  "Let us take our meal in the garden, so we can stroll a little," she suggested, "unless… should you be sitting down, Rick? Or lying even? We could enquire about a room."

  "A walk would be just the thing," Rick assured her.

  Mary sent Polly off to order sustenance. "We will eat in the garden, Polly. I can see tables under the trees. Order for three. You'll eat with us."

  Rick opened the gate from the inn-yard to the garden, and Mary went through it on his arm, trying to support him as much as she could without being obvious.

  Another guest was before them, sitting at one of the tables and staring disconsolately at the small, dirty pond that adorned one corner.

  "What is the matter?" Rick asked. Mary realized she had halted and was clutching his arm in a death grip. She willed herself to relax.

  "Nothing. It was a surprise to see him here, that was all." Before she could explain herself, the man at the table turned to the sound of their voices, then leapt to his feet and hurried towards them.

  "Cousin Mary! You're safe! I'm so…" He stopped just short of them and started again. "Hello, Cousin Mary, what a surprise to see you here. I had thought you at your aunt's already."

  He was not looking at Mary any more, but had fixed Rick with a hard stare, which Rick was returning full measure. Any moment, Mary fancied, they'd start snarling and circling.

  "Viscount Bosville, may I make known to you Lieutenant Redepenning? Lieutenant, my cousin, Viscount Bosville."