Rogue's Lady

by Robyn Carr

  “You tricked me. You purposely put me between you and your brother; you laid your demise on my head and had me buy into both a family and a business proposition where I had no chance for profit or even survival unless I won a battle that has plagued you for over forty years.”

  “There is trouble,” the baron agreed, “but there is also reward. Once Charles is stopped, there is plenty to enjoy.”

  “By God, you have no damned conscience about it. The minute you had my money, you used all the available force at hand to lock me into your bitter war. You could have exercised some honor and told me beforehand.”

  “I am an old man,” the baron said. “I could not take the chance that you would refuse.”

  “And so adding to my disadvantage, you forced me into marriage with your daughter.”

  “Vieve knows nothing about this,” Lord Ridgley said hotly. “I backed you into my family troubles through the warehouse investment. Your marriage to my daughter is another issue.”

  “Does it matter to you that I have my own family to be concerned about? What the devil made you think you could use me to this degree?”

  “The way you looked at my daughter made me think so,” the baron shouted. “I was not too old to see the naked lust in your eyes. Nor am I a fool to give her to any man. Prove yourself worthy of her and you will have many good years.” Lord Ridgley smiled into Tyson’s glowering eyes. “You are put out by this arrangement, eh? With whom did you think you were dealing? Some dribbling old man who couldn’t wait to gift you with four ships and two large warehouses and a beautiful woman to boot? You want it all? Then get it. You will find a way.” The baron rocked on his heels as he looked out over his threatened demesne. “You know the price. You know the villain you fight, and if you don’t know the reward, you have not opened your damn fool eyes.”

  Tyson’s fists were clenched at his sides, his fury was so great. He seethed with the knowledge that Latimer was already busily plotting against him and had gone as far as America to find his vulnerability. The careful records had shown Charles’s intention to destroy Lord Ridgley; now he would have to remove Tyson to have a clear path to the baron. To fail to help the baron would cost him everything, including Vieve.

  “It would have been wise to resist the warehouse temptation,” Tyson said. “Then your daughter’s wily seductions would not have cost me so much.”

  Boris whirled in sudden anger, his fists tensed. Tyson laughed at the old man’s distress. “Oh, your price on the rebuilding of storage space was good, and your commission on four ships was enticing, but it was your daughter’s beckoning lips and rosy breasts that sealed the deal.” He laughed again at the stormy look on the baron’s face. “I might have fled after my first taste if not for the grand sum I...”

  Tyson’s head exploded in sudden pain as the baron’s fist met his cheek. The strength of the blow sent him reeling hack into a heap in the tall grass.

  “Get up and fight, you worthless son of a bitch,” Lord Ridgley growled.

  Tyson touched his eye, feeling the rising welt of a bruise, and finding blood on his fingers. “My lord, I...”

  “That is my daughter you speak of. I have stood for much from you, but to malign her goodness is too much. Had I known you were a complete fool, I’d have had you killed for touching her. Now get up or name yourself a coward, you miserable jackass.”

  Even through the baron’s waistcoat Tyson could see the rippling of muscles in the old man’s arms. The fist that had struck him was already swollen with a bruise, and by the look in the baron’s eyes, there was more from where that had come. Tyson did not move. He was not about to fight a tired and desperate old man. He had pushed the baron past the point of pride, and this he regretted.

  “I don’t give a bloody damn what you think of me, Captain,” Lord Ridgley growled. “Refuse this nasty business if you like; I don’t need you. I may be old, but I have a little time. Just know this,” he said, gesturing to the vastness of his holdings. “I treasure what my parents passed on to me, but I value my children more. If you ever hurt my daughter, I will hunt you down and kill you.”

  That said, the baron mounted his horse and gave a quick heel to the beast. By the time Tyson rose and held the reins of his own mount, he could see the baron’s dust on the road toward the hall. Tyson winced as he touched his cheekbone below his eye. “By damn,” he cursed. “He must have been hell to tangle with in his younger days.”

  Vieve found it hard to relax with her sewing. She had been sitting mending her husband’s shirt in the parlor when her father had stormed into the hall in mid-morning. He wore a furious glower on his face and was muttering curses that bore her husband’s name.

  “Papa, what is it?” she had asked in surprise.

  “Leave me be, girl,” he snapped, going immediately to his study and slamming the door. When Vieve inquired of servants and stable hands, she learned that her father and husband had ridden out together, but had not returned with one another. She found herself pacing between parlor, foyer, and back hall, waiting for Tyson to appear.

  By afternoon, he was still absent. His bath stood cooled and unused, and he was not present for either the midday meal or dinner. As Vieve picked at her food that evening, she noticed that her father’s knuckles were bruised and swollen. “Father,” she asked suspiciously, “what happened to your hand?”

  He glanced at it abstractly, then back to his plate. “An accident in the stable,” he grumbled.

  Vieve put down her knife. “Father, did you have a disagreement with Tyson?”

  “Minor. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Did you fight with him?” she pressed.

  “Why would I be fool enough to fight with a young man of his obvious strength?”

  Vieve frowned her displeasure, knowing better than anyone her father’s temperament. “Will he return?”

  “You will be better off if he doesn’t,” he snapped.

  “Papa, if you’ve...”

  “Leave me be,” Lord Ridgley demanded. “I am finished with the self-centered whims of that young man,” he ranted. “Always thinking of his personal wants. If he is the simpleminded whelp to flee because responsibility is too much for him, let him go. No one gives a damn—least of all me.”

  “Father,” she said sharply. “If you have insulted my husband and driven him away, I doubt I can easily forgive you.”

  Lord Ridgley glared at her for a moment before he rose and left the dining room. She heard the door to his study slam shut, and with a sigh she finished her dinner alone.

  When she heard the foyer clock strike eight, she retired to her room. She sent for Bevis to stoke her fire. She pulled her shawl tightly around her and stood quietly aside as the manservant entered with fresh firewood.

  “My husband has not returned from his ride,” she said softly.

  Bevis shrugged. “Ain’t unusual fer the cap’n to take a spell away, mum. He does that sometimes when he aims t’ think ‘bout some problem.”

  “I have been afraid that he has gone for good and all,” she whispered.

  Bevis shook his head. “I wouldn’t worry, mum. The cap’n’s a little foolish sometimes, but he ain’t a fool. ‘E’ll come ‘round.”

  She nodded and gave him a little smile of thanks, and when the servant had gone, she donned her nightgown and wrapper. She sat before the flaming hearth with her sewing, but the needle and thread never touched the worn shirt. At times she held the linen to her face to breathe in his lingering scent. Two hours passed before she heard footsteps on the stair and looked toward the bedroom door in apprehension.

  The grime of a long day’s ride showed on his clothes. His growth of dark beard cast a shadow on his face, and his hair was tousled. She smiled as he entered, but the smile gave way to a worried frown when she noticed the purple bruise around his eye. She rose to approach him. “Tyson? What happened?”

  He ducked away from her close scrutiny with a mumbled curse. “A loosened board in the stable,” he g
rumbled.

  “I was worried about you,” she told him.

  “You needn’t be worried, madam. I am not likely to report my whereabouts to you; I have been my own steward long enough.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that I expected...”

  “I missed my bath and roused Bevis to fill the tub. You needn’t let my altered schedule disturb your routine; after he has gone, you may retire if you like.”

  He stalked past her toward his trunk and began to remove his waistcoat. She sighed and went to stand behind him, taking the shoulders of the coat to help him out of it. “My routine is not so important as your injury. Does it pain you?”

  “Not so much as it pains my mood,” he threw over his shoulder.

  “Let me see,” she gently urged, turning him around to face her. She looked up at the split skin under his eye. She gently touched the bruised area with a delicate finger, but even her light touch caused him to wince. “Well,” she sighed, “I see he has not lost his touch.” The door creaked slowly open as Bevis cautiously entered with two buckets from the cookery fires. “I will get you something to put on the wound,” she said, extracting herself from the bedroom.

  Vieve went to the kitchen in search of the salve and cloths that the cook used for her own cuts and burns, but she lingered long downstairs, giving Tyson the privacy he needed for his bath. She filled a tray with meats and breads left from the evening meal and wisely included a large snifter of brandy to assuage his aching disposition. She carried the heavy load to her bedroom.

  He was leaning back in the tub, easing his tensions from the long day when she entered. As she came closer she was relieved to see that the water was clouded from soap and the grime of his day astride, so as not to injure her delicate sensibilities. Albeit no longer a virgin, Vieve had yet to see a totally naked man.

  She put the tray on a nearby table and approached the tub, folding back the sleeves of her wrapper. He raised his brows in question, but made no protest as she leaned toward him. “My father is stubborn, Tyson,” she said without looking at him. She picked up a cloth from her tray and, dipping it in his bath, bent to the chore of cleaning the dirt from around the cut. He winced away, but she used a soft and commanding tone. “Let me,” she said sternly. “It will only get worse if you don’t have it tended.”

  She turned away and returned with a bit of the salve on her fingers. “Try not to be too hard on my father, Tyson. He means well, truly, but he is proud and he ruffles easily when his plans go awry.”

  “He told you that he struck me?”

  “Of course not. In fact, he met with the same loose board in the stable that injured you. But when my father comes growling into the house with an injured fist, and my husband, in an equally poor mood, sports a nasty black eye, it does not require a great mind to see what has transpired.” She leaned away from him after the salve was spread. “I doubt you deserved it, Tyson, and I make no excuse for my father, but he is worried about many things and is not very patient.”

  “Do you know what worries him, madam?” Tyson asked tersely.

  She shrugged. “I know that he wishes to do well by your investment. And when Lord Dumere passed away, Father began to fret about his own time that is left. I don’t like to think of ever losing him...but he is right.” And very softly she added, “I suppose I can’t expect him to live forever.”

  Tyson turned away from the sad look in her eyes and raised the sponge to scrub the dirt from his shoulders and arms. Then he moved in the tub to wet his hair and began to lather his head with a bar of soap. When he sat upright again, Vieve was ready to pour more hot water from a hearth kettle into his tub. He watched her with interest, sighing in appreciation as the hot water soothed his aching body. Then her hand stretched toward him with the brandy snifter. He raised a brow in question, but accepted the libation, taking a hearty gulp. She withdrew again to fetch a linen towel and placed it near his tub.

  “Your ministrations are welcome, Vieve. You act the wife as if you’ve been well trained.”

  “Despite the many accusations to the contrary, Tyson, I have wished to be a wife, and not the many other possibilities to which you’ve alluded.”

  He laughed good-naturedly, for his injury, his exhaustion, and his mood had begun to ease. “Touché.”

  “There is food when you are finished washing.”

  “I admit, my appetite has returned. You may seek your bed, if you desire, for tomorrow will be a full day. We journey to London.”

  “We?” she asked in surprise.

  “You and I. As soon as you can be ready, we will leave.”

  “Does Father...” She stopped her question before she asked it.

  “I have not asked him for permission, nor will he accompany us. I think, however, he will allow this.” He smiled at her. “That is, if you can find it in your heart to tell the baron that you do not fear to live outside of his protection.”

  She considered what terrible strife existed between her husband and father, but decided that it was not hers to work out. She would refuse either side. Somehow she intended to be sure these men knew she loved them both. However, they were equally stubborn. She braced herself to exercise patience.

  She bent to place a wifely kiss on Tyson’s brow. “Thank you for not hurting him, Tyson,” she said softly. And then she withdrew to the dark side of the four-poster so that when he rose from the tub she would not be close at hand to view his nakedness.

  It was a very long time before Tyson joined her in the bed. She had begun to drift into sleep but roused slightly as she felt the bed dip with his added weight. She huddled deeper under the folds of the quilt, sighing sleepily, feeling his presence close by. A strange motion caught her attention, and she became aware that he gently stroked her hair. She was still, as if asleep, while his hand gently caressed her freed tresses.

  “Oh, Vieve,” he sighed. “Did you fool me, or am I just a fool?”

  Boris Ridgley stood on the landing in front of Chappington Hall and watched the loading of both the coach and an extra cart. His hands were plunged into his pockets as he regarded this hastily arranged retinue. The maid, Harriet, emerged from the house garbed in a heavy wool coat, a small black hat over her graying locks, and carrying two hatboxes and a small bag. “Here, missus,” he said. “Let me get that for you.”

  “Never mind, m’lord. I’ll manage. London,” she snorted. “Wet. Cold. Stinking gutters.” She hobbled down the steps toward the coach, allowing Bevis to take her parcels. She lumbered up on the stool to throw herself into the coach. Boris’s shoulders shook with laughter.

  A final trunk was added to the cart, making it ten large parcels that had been packed for the journey. He doubted that one simple shawl remained in his daughter’s room. He mused on the loneliness of the winter.

  Vieve came onto the landing and paused before her father. She wore a tailored coat of deep blue wool edged with mink around the collar and sleeves. Her golden hair was neatly tucked under a hat of the same fur, and her eyes were a deeper sapphire than a summer sky. She rose on her toes to kiss his cheek.

  “You are certain you wish to go with him?” he asked gruffly.

  She nodded and her eyes misted slightly. “It is not so far. You will visit.”

  “Not very soon. I have pushed him far enough. You need some time alone with your husband.”

  “I could as well abide two angry old mules,” she assured him.

  “Go ahead, child,” he said, feeling his voice catch slightly. He was amazed at how his own eyes watered at her departure.

  “Take very special care, Papa,” she whispered.

  The door from the manse opened as the very last traveler emerged. Vieve moved quickly toward the coach. She inspected the stacked trunks herself and stood quietly talking to Bevis.

  Lord Ridgley looked at his son-in-law. Tyson stood a head taller than the baron, but appeared somewhat humbled. “One demand made of me during my upbringing was respect for my elders, my lord. I would withdraw th
e words uttered in anger.”

  “Someone likely told you to treat an old coot gently,” Lord Ridgley replied good-naturedly.

  Tyson laughed. He winced and touched his delicate cheek. “Aye, my lord. I can see I was given.” He held out his hand to shake the baron’s. “I will send word on my progress.”

  “Take care of her, Tyson. That is the most important thing.”

  “All will be well.”

  The baron grasped Tyson’s hands in a solid grip. “I, too, would withdraw the insults. Do not judge me too harshly, son. Old men are oft in a hurry to settle their accounts.”

  Tyson looked toward his wife. “I cede you are right, my lord. I will reserve judgment until I have seen myself do better than you in as many years.” He grew serious. “Have you considered sending Paul and his wife abroad until this is past?”

  Lord Ridgley shook his head. “I will tell him of the problems that exist and urge him toward caution, but he is a man with a family now. I don’t have much time, Tyson. I cannot continue to coddle my children as if they are babies. I think, sometimes, that those of us who were abandoned through our parents’ death and other hardship are better off in the end. We all have to come through the rough to our adulthood.” He sighed. “It is not easy, but it is essential.”

  “Watch carefully,” Tyson said. He stepped away from the baron and moved toward his wife. He stopped short as he noticed the heavily laden cart. “Madam, have you packed everything you own?”

  She flashed him a smile that would melt the ice around any heart. Lord Ridgley watched her in appreciation. “Yes, Tyson,” she said sweetly. And then, blowing her father a kiss, she let Tyson help her into the coach. As Bevis took the reins and gave his horses their start, Tyson leaned out the window and raised a hand in farewell.

  Lord Ridgley stood as the solitary watch until the coach was out of sight. When he returned to the house, it seemed suddenly silent and empty. He listened for the familiar sounds of laughter, shouting, arguing—the sounds of living. His children were married and gone.