Secrets for Seducing a Royal Bodyguard

by Vanessa Kelly

  Vivien had forgotten the fellow patiently holding the horse’s bridle. Whipping around, she peered across the field at the woods, straining to see but barely able to make out the line of trees against the midnight sky.

  St. George settled a comforting hand on the small of her back, gently steering her toward the coach.

  “Probably,” he answered. “Although they struck me as the most inept bunch of criminals one could imagine. Still, it won’t do to underestimate them.”

  He sounded not the least bit worried. Annoyed, more than anything else, as if the men who pursued them were little more than an inconvenience.

  As St. George nudged her toward the coach, the other man moved ahead to let down the steps. He gave her a deferential nod, following it up with a kindly smile. By his ease of movement and his general air of stealth, she’d thought him to be a younger man. But in the light of the carriage lamps she could see his grizzled whiskers and the deep lines etched around his mouth. Despite the smile, he had a grim, hard cast to his features, as if life had thrown too many challenges in his path.

  She gave him a tentative smile back, rather at a loss for words. A casual word of thanks and a nod, as if he were simply a footman escorting her on a round of errands, hardly seemed appropriate to the occasion.

  An unexpected tremor wracked her body. The men who’d kidnapped her were dangerous, no matter what St. George might think. She’d sensed it in their handling of her, had seen it in their cold, lustful gazes. They would have raped her if they could, and killed her without a second thought. Only the threat of reprisals from the man who’d ordered her kidnapping had held them back. Of that, Vivien was certain.

  As if he sensed her growing anxiety, St. George gave her back a slow, reassuring stroke. Sensation rippled up her spine and heat flowed from his gloved hand into her rigid muscles.

  “My lady, I’d like you to meet Tom, my batman.” St. George said. His calm tone wrapped around her like the warmest of cashmere shawls, settling her flustered pulses. “Neither of us will let anyone hurt you.”

  Tom touched the brim of his hat. “That’s right, my lady. You’ll be home and safe and sound before you know it. The cap’n and I will see to that.”

  Blinking back a sudden sting of grateful tears, Vivien hesitantly touched Tom’s sleeve. “Thank you for helping me, Tom. I’m so very grateful.”

  He made an embarrassed, clucking noise with his tongue. “No thanks necessary, my lady. What’s the world coming to when a young lady can be snatched right from her carriage in the middle of Mayfair? It ain’t right, and I told the cap’n so in no uncertain terms, too.” He looked mightily aggrieved.

  She let out a watery laugh. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, even if the circumstances are less than ideal.”

  While she and Tom were exchanging bizarre pleasantries, St. George stepped away to have a quiet word with the coachman. Vivien could see only the outline of a large, greatcoated man holding the reins of the restive horses, but she could hear him speaking in a low, urgent voice to his master.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked anxiously as St. George returned to her side.

  “Not in the least. I was simply conferring with my coachman on the best place to change horses. We’ll be on our way this very moment, Lady Vivien.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief and took his outstretched hand. As she put a foot on the step of the travelling chaise, the coachman uttered a curse. St. George cast a glance over his shoulder at the field behind them.

  “Aye, that tears it, Cap’n,” barked Tom. “They’re onto us.”

  Vivien froze, awkwardly poised on the carriage step. She craned her neck to see around St. George’s broad shoulders. Unfortunately, the thick, obscuring clouds chose that moment to inconveniently part, and a half moon cast its rays across the shorn field they had crossed only a few minutes ago. Four horsemen broke free from the trees and pounded toward them, crouched low over their animals and bearing down on her party with reckless speed.

  St. George’s hand tightened on hers. “Get into the carriage,” he said in a voice of icy calm.

  Her body gripped with a strange paralysis, Vivien could only stare at the horrifying vision of her captors closing in on them. One of them raised his arm, pointing right at them. The sound of a pistol shot rang out, and a second later the branch above her head cracked, raining bark down onto the roof of the coach.

  St. George let out a low curse. He yanked his hand free from her clutching fingers, seized her about the waist, and dumped her onto the floor of the carriage. She went down in a heap, tangled up in her frothing skirts and her velvet cloak.

  “Stay down,” he snapped.

  Flailing, Vivien struggled to right herself, fighting the material twisting about her legs. She finally managed to get up on her knees, gaping up at St. George. Braced against the door frame, his body shielded her from the danger racing toward them with a thundering beat.

  Heart thudding painfully in her chest, she peeked around his legs, straining to see something—anything. But the vision of her kidnappers bearing down on them made her want to scramble into the corner of the coach, cover her ears, close her eyes, and pray for deliverance with every shred of piety in her soul.

  The villains were already halfway across the field and closing fast. Vivien made a silent, desperate vow that she would go to church every Sunday without fail, even if their pastor gave the most boring sermons in London. It would be a small price to pay if she could escape this unending nightmare.

  Pistol fire exploded once more, dangerously close and spooking the horses. The carriage jerked forward, slamming her into the seat. St. George slipped one foot off the step as he struggled to keep his balance. The coachman yelled, obviously attempting to wrestle his horses under control, but the carriage continued to lurch as the animals tried to bolt.

  Righting herself, Vivien wrapped her arms around St. George’s knees and pulled back with all her might. He steadied himself, then snapped instructions to the coachman who finally managed to bring his charges under control. Tom, now mounted on St. George’s horse, flashed by the door of the carriage and sailed over the low hedge separating the laneway from the field. He headed directly toward the advancing horsemen.

  St. George spared her a quick glance. “Thank you for your assistance, Lady Vivien. You can let go now.”

  Stunned, she ignored him. She gazed in horror after Tom, who was charging in a foolhardy manner across the open field.

  Vivien yanked on the hem of St. George’s coat. “Why are you letting him do that? He’ll be killed!”

  “He’ll be fine,” he replied in a maddeningly calm voice. “Now, let go of me, Vivien. And this time you will stay down on the floor.”

  Startled by the use of her name, she did as he ordered. He produced a large pistol from somewhere inside his coat, took swift aim, and discharged it. At almost the same time another shot from somewhere just above her head roared out. The coachman, obviously as well armed as his master.

  Vivien crouched on the floor, covering her ears against the deafening reports and silently commanding her stomach to stay put. The laudanum had already made her feel queasy, and finding herself in the middle of a pitched battle didn’t help.

  St. George gave a satisfied grunt. “Two down, two to go.” He pounded his fist on the top of the carriage. “Spring them, John. It’s time to go.”

  He pivoted as the carriage lurched forward, pulling himself in and slamming the door shut in one swift, economical motion. Somehow he managed to avoid stepping on her although his booted legs crowded her against the rise of the seat. He reached for her, lifting her up and depositing her gently on the opposite seat, where she collapsed against the cushions, a breathless wreck.

  For a long moment they stared at each other. Vivien sucked in huge breaths, convinced her heart would race up her throat to plop out onto her lap any moment. Every part of her body shook and she knew she must look like a wild-eyed escapee from Bedlam. St. George, however, was prac
tically lounging in his seat, watching her with an expression that managed to convey both an absence of alarm and a readiness to spring into action. Considering what they had just experienced, she found it disorienting.

  He cocked his head, studying her. “Were you injured when I lifted you into the carriage, Lady Vivien? You look unsettled.”

  Her jaw sagged. Vivien began to wonder if the man was mentally unbalanced. Not at all a comforting thought under the circumstances.

  “You didn’t lift me into the carriage, Mr. St. George,” she croaked. “You threw me into the carriage. I assure you, there is a decided difference.”

  His mouth twitched. “I apologize for that, but events dictated swift action.”

  Blast the man for looking like he wanted to laugh.

  “As for why I am unsettled, I can think of a dozen reasons,” she said. “However, at the moment, I am most concerned about your man, Tom. Why in heaven’s name did you leave him behind to confront those villains? Surely he will be killed!”

  As she voiced the awful words, her chest pulled tight and she could barely breathe. She pressed a fist to her mouth, trying to hold back tears. As grateful as she was to be free of the monsters who’d taken her, she couldn’t bear the idea that Tom—or anyone else—might have died while saving her.

  St. George stripped off his gloves and leaned forward, taking her cold fingers between his blessedly warm hands. That brought them only inches apart, and she stared helplessly into the dark depths of his raven eyes. She felt trapped in his gaze, exposed, but not in any way that frightened her. Rather, it commanded all her attention so that no fear and no other emotion could be allowed to intrude. She bit her lip, holding back a fierce need to melt across the narrow space between them, into his arms and strength.

  He gently smoothed a finger across her pursed mouth. His eyes narrowed, his glittering gaze catching on her lips and remaining there.

  Vivian jerked out of his hold, unnerved by the intimate touch. A prickling flush crept up her neck, stinging her skin.

  St. George jerked a bit too, looking startled. Frowning, he sat back.

  “Forgive me,” he said in a tight voice. “You’ve been through a wrenching ordeal, and I’ve not been as careful with you as I should have been. As for Tom, you needn’t worry. I shot one man and my coachman managed to wing another, knocking him off his horse. Tom will handle the other two.”

  She blinked at him, her heart still thrumming with the intensity of their silent exchange, but she decided to ignore that for now. Best to keep her attention on present circumstances. “I’m fine,” she said. “But that leaves two men against Tom. Those are hardly even odds.”

  “In Tom’s case, those are very good odds.”

  She eyed him doubtfully. She wanted to trust him, but after the last awful hours trust seemed very hard to come by.

  “But what if one of them gets past him.” A horrible thought struck her. “What if there are more? What if they come after us?”

  In truth, she had no idea how many men had been involved in her kidnapping. But when they’d carried her into that cave, she’d gained the distinct impression there were at least half a dozen, if not more. What if they were in pursuit this very moment?

  Despite her best efforts to remain calm, her heart began to race again. She swallowed the sensation that her stomach was crawling up into her throat. The feeble light of the single carriage lamp was hardly enough to push back the threatening night, and dark spots began to swarm across her vision.

  “Lady Vivien, look at me.” St. George’s level voice slashed through her panic. She forced herself to focus on him. His black gaze captured hers again, although this time he maintained a respectable distance between them.

  “Yes?” She winced, hating the quaver in her voice. She cleared her throat and straightened her spine, determined to bring her wayward emotions under control. Surely they weren’t out of danger, even though the carriage had slowed to a steady trot from the initial mad dash of their escape. Logically, she understood the road would be treacherous at night, but every fiber of her being shrieked for them to hurry.

  “I promise you, my lady, you are safe. I will not let anything happen to you.”

  She pondered his statement for a few moments. “I thank you, sir. And I’m sure you think so, but I will not feel out of harm’s way until I have arrived home safely.”

  He crossed his arms across his brawny chest, frowning at her. For the first time, she noticed the hollows under his cheekbones and the drawn look around his eyes, as if he’d not slept well for quite some time.

  “I gave you my word,” he said. “Is that not enough?”

  She almost raised her brows at his easy, masculine arrogance. “I’m sure it is, but you see . . .” she trailed off, not wanting to offend him. After all, the man had rescued her. Still . . .

  “What?”

  She grimaced. “What if there were more of them in pursuit? What if they got past Tom?”

  He let out a weary sigh. Shifting in his seat, he drew back the curtain over the window and let down the glass. After a quick glance behind them, he called forward to the coachman.

  “Any sign of trouble, John?”

  The coachman’s reply, muffled by the sound of horses’ hooves and creaking wheels, drifted back, too indistinct to catch. But it satisfied St. George for he pulled his head inside, pushed up the window, and settled back in his seat. He extended his long legs, his boots pushing up against her skirts, his body seeming to take up every spare inch of space. He lifted one eyebrow, giving her a self-satisfied, challenging stare. Clearly, this was a man little used to being questioned and, she suspected, little used to failure. If he said he would do something, Vivien would bet one hundred guineas on his success.

  She took in the muscular physique and the strong, determined face with its hard, deep-set gaze. An almost overwhelming sense of power emanated from him—carefully leashed, she thought, but still barely disguised by his relaxed pose. She also noted his plain but clearly expensive clothing and the well-made boots that encased his muscled calves. Then she glanced around the dimly lit interior of the coach, finally registering its details. The fixtures were handsome, highly polished brass, the wood framework richly dark and fine-grained, and the benches and cushions were covered in plush black velvet. Everything she saw spoke of wealth and power, and of a quiet confidence—one that had no desire or need to draw notice.

  She snapped her attention back to the man sitting across from her, still and watchful and entirely in command. Vivien realized something then that her terror had not yet allowed her to fully grasp. From the moment he had walked into her dreary cell, St. George had controlled events with a calm yet lethal intent that swept everything before it.

  Including her.

  She froze, barely breathing as she met his gaze. He studied her, his eyes as dark, cold, and glittering as a winter’s eve. She prised open her reluctant lips.

  “Mr. St. George, who are you?”

  Chapter Five

  Given the look on Lady Vivien’s face, Aden knew her question was not rhetorical. She stared at him, her blue eyes wide, her pretty mouth pursed with anxiety and doubt.

  Doubt about him. He’d never thought of himself in heroic terms, but given the night’s events he would have thought her ladyship would have been a tad more grateful. Such was obviously not the case.

  When he didn’t immediately answer, she shifted, trying to tuck her pale little feet under her mantle and away from his boots.

  Her naked feet, the same feet that had been exposed to the elements for the last hour.

  Idiot. If he didn’t get her warm, she’d likely freeze to death before he returned her to the arms of her not-so-loving family.

  He reached under the seat and pulled out a woolen blanket, then moved across to sit beside her. A little gasp escaped her and she shrank farther into her corner. Aden frowned. Her behavior made no sense. He expected some degree of skittishness, but her reaction was more than that.<
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  “There’s no need to be alarmed, my lady,” he soothed. “If I don’t get you warmed up, Sir Dominic will have my head on a platter as will your mamma, I expect.”

  Mentioning Dominic and her mother did the trick. Her shoulders, which had travelled up around her ears, dropped, and she gave him a tentative smile. He draped the blanket over her, tucking it around her waist. He hesitated a moment, but then common sense overcame social prohibitions. He bent forward, brushed aside the blanket, and grasped her ankles.

  She gasped, trying to jerk away from him. “Sir, what are you doing?”

  “Your feet are frozen,” he said, grasping at his fraying patience. She needed his care, but it had become manifestly clear the lady had a strong will and an equally strong need to remain in control of her circumstances. He could respect that and would, at a more convenient time. Right now, she had to stop questioning him and start obeying.

  Peering down at her feet, she wriggled her toes against his palms. She frowned. “I can’t feel them at all.”

  “Exactly. If we don’t get them warm, you might lose one or two toes to frostbite.”

  She squeaked with dismay. It was a funny, high-pitched little sound, and for some reason he found it adorable.

  His brain stuttered. Adorable? When the hell did he start using a word like that?

  “Turn sideways, my lady,” he said in a brusque voice, shaking off the odd impulse to cuddle her.

  She cast him an uncertain look but then complied, shifting along the padded bench. He drew her feet into his lap and settled the blanket over their bodies. The cold didn’t bother him but it made sense to share body heat, particularly since it would be another hour before reaching the inn where they would change horses. While the ostlers took care of that, he’d procure heated bricks and something hot for her to drink.

  He reached under the blanket to gently wrap his hands around her feet. Blast. He’d been right to be concerned. They felt like little blocks of ice under his fingers.