by Kruger, Mary
She jerked free. “Actually, I believe you said ‘apples,’ rather than ‘fruits.’ Yes, that was it. Though I wouldn’t call them apples, precisely.” She frowned down at herself. “More like peaches. Ripe, full peaches, of course—”
“Stop it!” he shouted again, and quieted her the only way he could, with his mouth on hers. Startled, she went still, but then her mouth opened under his, and her arms twined around his neck, and the kiss went on much longer than he had expected. When he finally released her, she looked up at him, her eyes shining.
“Do you like apples, Justin?” she said, her voice husky.
Justin had to clear his throat before he could answer. “Yes,” he said, finally, his voice as rough as hers. “I like apples very much.” He gazed down at her décolletage and then raised his eyes, suddenly sparkling with mischief. “Like peaches, too.”
Melissa gave a crow of laughter and threw herself into his arms. His lips were warm and firm on hers, but after a moment, he pushed her away. “But,” he said, firmly, “you will not dress like this again.”
Melissa pouted. “Not even for you?”
“What?” Justin looked startled. “Well, maybe for me.”
“All right.”
Her smile was so sweet and so inviting that it nearly distracted him from his purpose. “But, for no one else, is that clear? I don’t care how fashionable it is, I will not have my wife exposing her wares to all the world like a common wh- “
“Don’t say it!” Melissa’s fingers swiftly covered his lips, and he regretted the pain that darkened her eyes.
“Ah, my love, I haven’t thought that of you for a very long time,” he murmured, pressing his lips against her palm. Her hand tingled so much in response that she snatched it away. “Will you forgive me?”
“Yes,” she said, breathlessly. His love. Was she really his love? “It was never a fair thing to say, Justin. Because, as it happens—” She hesitated, her fingers toying with the lapels of his coat, and then went on, raising her eyes to his, “I am still untouched.”
Justin’s eyes lit up, and his arms tightened around her. ”Well,” he murmured, “that we can do something about.” And with that, his mouth came down on hers. They were both ready for this now, with no memories of the past or fears for the future to taint their need. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, his roved over her curves as the kiss lengthened and deepened. “I’ve always liked the taste of peaches,” he whispered in her ear, before his lips trailed down her arched throat to her chest.
“Oh, Justin,” she gasped, torn between laughter and the heat that was invading all her senses, making her knees grow weak, making her clutch at him. “Justin.”
“Yes, princess.” His fingertips followed the path his lips had taken, and she squirmed against him, on fire with the exquisite sensations he was evoking within her. Justin groaned low in his throat and bent to put an arm behind her knees, lifting her, and it was only as he cradled her high against his chest that a sound from outside broke through the haze of desire that surrounded them.
“Justin?” Melissa said, when he didn’t move for a few moments.
“Shh.”
“What is it?”
“Don’t you hear it?”
“What?” Melissa cocked her head, listening, and then she heard it, too, the frantic peeling of a bell, echoing through the night’s stillness. “What—”
“My God!” Justin suddenly relaxed his grip and, to her immense surprise, set her down. “My God, it’s the fire bell!”
“What?” Melissa scurried after him as he strode out of the room. “But, where—”
“Somewhere on the estate,” he called over his shoulder as he ran for the stairs. “Phelps. Phelps!”
“Yes, my lord, I hear it,” Phelps said as he ran into the hall, pulling on his coat.
Justin ran down the stairs, Melissa not far behind. “Any idea where it is?”
“No, my lord, but Jeffrey’s gone to see.”
“God! Of all nights—I’ll have to go.” He turned to Melissa, raking a hand through his hair.
“Yes, of course,” Melissa said. “I’ll just go change—”
“No, you’ll be better off here.”
“But—”
“I want you where you’ll be safe.” Heedless of Phelps, Justin bent and placed a brief, hard kiss on her lips. “Later,” he promised, and headed for the door.
“Later,” Melissa murmured, her fingers to her lips, and then became aware of Phelps’s presence. “Phelps.”
Phelps cleared his throat. “Yes, my lady?”
“Let me know when you find out where it is, please? I’ll be in my sitting room.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Melissa climbed the stairs again, tiredly this time. All her hopes, all her plans, gone for naught, but it couldn’t be helped. Still, there was always tomorrow. She tingled at the thought.
In his room at the hedge tavern, Sir Stephen suddenly jerked awake. At first he wasn’t sure what had awakened him, but then he heard it, the distant, frantic peeling of a bell. Damn! He jumped from the bed and began scrambling into his clothes. The fire bell!
He ran into Jenkins in the hall, just buttoning his breeches. “Guv’nor—”
“Damn it all to hell, Jenkins, what happened?” he demanded, and Jenkins swallowed. Sir Stephen was not physically imposing, but Jenkins didn’t care to cross him when he was angry.
“Don’t know, guv, but—”
“You sent the message canceling it, did you not?”
“Yeah, I sent the message. Might be this has nothing to do with it.”
“Damn, two fires in two days, even my dolt of a son-in-law would begin to suspect—do you know where the fire is?”
“Heard it’s the Watling farm. The one farthest from the Hall.”
“The one we settled on! Damn, Stokes mustn’t have gotten the message. This blows all our plans to hell.” Jenkins prudently held his tongue. “Or perhaps it doesn’t. All right, this is what I want you to do.” He laid a hand on Jenkins’s shoulder. “I want you to go to Stokes,” he began, and swiftly outlined the changes to the plan. Jenkins listened in silence, nodding occasionally. “Is that clear?”
“Yes, guv, clear enough.”
“Good. Oh, and Jenkins.” Sir Stephen turned from the door to his room. “You might want to start thinking of a way to dispose of Stokes and his wife.”
“Guv?”
“No reason to share the money any more than we have to.”
An evil grin split Jenkins’s face. “Right, guv. I’ll be thinking.”
The ivory satin evening gown was crumpled and rucked up about Melissa’s knees as she dozed in a chair. Then, as the first rays of the sun crept into the room, she awoke, blinking at the unexpected brilliance. Morning, and Justin had yet to come home. The fire, at a tenant’s farm on the edge of the estate, must be very bad indeed, but, sorry though she felt for the tenants, she was far more concerned about her husband. In the past month she had seen him become a conscientious landlord, and she had no doubt that he would pitch in and help however he could. Even now, he could be lying hurt, under a burning beam, perhaps, or…
No. She got up, stiffly, stamping one foot to wake it. It was foolish to think that way. Justin was fine. She would have to proceed with that belief. He was fine, and would soon return to her.
And would they then take up where they had left off? Melissa glanced at her reflection in the mirror and grimaced. Heavy guns, indeed. Well, it had almost worked, she thought, fumbling for the laces that fastened her gown. Better to wear something sensible, in case she was needed.
A few moments later, dressed in riding habit and boots, she went downstairs, her heels clicking loudly in the early morning silence. Hearing there had been no news, she went into the breakfast room. She was just finishing her tea and toast when a footman came into the room, knocking tentatively at the door. “Yes?” she said.
“Begging your pardon, my lady, but there’s a woman asking for you.”
“A woman?” Melissa laid her napkin on her plate and rose. “Who is it, Hawkins?”
“Can’t say, my lady. Never seen her before in my life.”
Melissa frowned. “Is she gentry?”
“No, my lady, hardly,” he said, scornfully. “Nor would she say what she wants, except it’s something about the fire.”
“The fire! Yes, of course I’ll see her.” Melissa hurried from the room. The sound of voices raised in argument reached her as she came into the hall, and ahead of her she saw the porter remonstrating with a woman. Short and stout, she was dressed in rough peasant garb, a dress of homespun and an apron that was none too clean. A cap was set askew upon lank, greasy, hair. No wonder the footman had turned up his nose, Melissa thought.
“You wished to see me?” she said, and the woman turned.
“Oh, my lady, thank goodness!” she gasped. “He told me, talk to you and no one else.”
“Who did?”
“His lordship. He’s—”
“Is he hurt?”
“No, not so badly, my lady, but—”
“Then I’ll come.”
“No, my lady, he said he didn’t want you to worry, you was to stay here—”
“Not if he’s injured,” she said crisply, and turned to the porter. “I may need the barouche, if it’s bad, but I will let you know. And you had best send for Dr. Porter.” She turned back to the woman. “How did you get here?”
“Walked, my lady,” the woman said.
“Walked! Very well, we’ll get you home. Where do you live?”
“In the village, ma’am. My name is Mrs. Stokes.”
“Stokes. I’ll remember that. Thank you for your help.”
Mrs. Stokes bobbed a curtsy as Melissa went swiftly out the door, and her eyes narrowed for just a second. “Weren’t nothing, my lady,” she murmured. “Weren’t nothing at all.”
Melissa strode into the stables a few moments later. “Saddle Lady for me, Jeffrey,” she said, crisply.
“But, my lady—” the groom protested.
“Quickly, now, I am needed at the fire.” Jeffrey hesitated. “I said, quickly! His lordship is hurt, and—”
“Yes, my lady! And if you’ll just wait I’ll saddle Pepper and come with you.”
“There isn’t time!”
“Beggin’ your pardon, my lady, but his lordship said as how we’re not to let you ride out alone. Ever,” said the man who was leading Lady out from her stall. He was new to the Hall, and though he knew horses Melissa thought him a peculiar choice for an undergroom. He was older, for one thing, and obviously of the city.
“When? When did he say that?” she demanded.
“When you came back from town, my lady,” Jeffrey said as he saddled Lady.
“I wonder why? Well, no matter. What is your name?”
The undergroom looked up. “Lawton, my lady.”
“Lawton. Is she ready, Jeffrey?”
“Yes, my lady, but—”
“Give me a leg up.”
“Won’t take me a minute to saddle Pepper,” Lawton said, and at that moment Harry rode into the stableyard, just returning from his morning ride.
“Never mind, I’ll go with my brother,” she said, and rode out of the stable.
Lawton mumbled something under his breath. “What did you say?” Jeffrey asked.
“Can’t let her go alone,” Lawton said, throwing a saddle onto Pepper. “Her brother won’t be any protection.”
“Protection against what?” Jeffrey asked.
“God knows,” Lawton said, and rode out of the stable after the countess and her brother.
“Where are we going?” Harry panted, hard pressed to keep up with Melissa as they rode through the narrow lanes that crossed the estate, towards the Watling farm and Justin.
“To the fire,” she called back.
“Oh, capital!”
“Harry!”
“Well, it isn’t every day something so exciting happens.”
“Justin may be hurt, Harry!”
“I say, didn’t know that!” He sobered. “Bad?”
“I don’t know.”
Harry studied her intent face. “You love him, don’t you?”
“Oh, Harry, what a time to talk about that!” she said, impatiently. “Just ride.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Harry said, subsiding, and for a long time there was nothing but the sounds of hoofbeats and the horses’ breathing. Harry managed to contain himself until the lane crossed the road. “What’s that?” he called, pointing with his riding crop to a carriage pulled up on the side of the road. It was old and ramshackle, its black paint dull and peeling, the team of horses harnessed to it the only sign of life. “Should we stop and see if they need help?”
“We can’t, Harry,” she called back over her shoulder. “Justin may need us.”
“But—” he began, just as they drew level with the carriage and two men rode out from its shelter straight towards them. Harry watched them curiously, but then Melissa let out a shriek and shot ahead, using her riding crop on Lady in a way he had never seen before. The taller of the two men set off after her, and suddenly Harry recognized him. “No!” he yelled, as Sir Stephen, ungainly looking a rider though he was, steadily gained on her. Then the other man reared up before him, and he had his own problems.
Harry put up a good fight, bringing his riding crop down in a slashing blow on the man’s arm. But the man was bigger and more experienced at this sort of thing. He brought his own riding crop down just as Melissa screamed. Harry watched in horror as Sir Stephen pulled her off her horse onto his own. Then the other man’s fist connected solidly with his jaw, and the ground rushed up to meet him.
Chapter Nineteen
“The fire was set, no doubt about it.” Alfred’s face was grim as he picked up the charred remains of an oil-soaked rag.
Justin frowned as he looked at the ruins of what had been a prosperous farm. Though the fire was out, the full extent of the tragedy was just beginning to strike home. The shell of the farmhouse, made of local stone, was still standing, but the thatched roof had gone up in an instant, and the inside was gutted. So was the barn, opposite the house and far enough away to have escaped the fire, under ordinary circumstances. The Watlings had been lucky to escape with their lives. “But why?” he said. “Who would do such a thing?”
“Who wants you dead, sir?”
Justin stiffened. “Melissa,” he said, suddenly.
“My lord?”
“She’s back at the Hall.”
“But Lawton is there, sir,” Alfred protested as Justin strode towards their horses. “You’re the one should be concerned.”
“Perhaps.” Justin unlooped Diablo’s reins from the branch of a tree, and glanced back at the wreckage of the farm. “But I’ll feel better back at the Hall.”
Sir Stephen rode back to Stokes, standing over his fallen opponent. “Want I should take him, too?” Stokes said.
Sir Stephen looked coldly down at Harry’s unconscious form. “No, I’ve other plans for him. We’re after bigger game now.”
“So I see.” Stokes leered at Melissa’s limp figure, lying across Sir Stephen’s saddle. Bruises were already darkening at her temple and jaw. “Hope she wakes up soon, guv. No fun if she’s out.”
“Take your filthy eyes off her,” Sir Stephen snapped, and Stokes involuntarily stepped back a pace.
“Now, guv, I didn’t mean nothin’—”
“Damn!”
“Guv?”
“Company.” Sir Stephen pointed down the lane, at the figure of a man riding hell for leather towards them. “Damn!” he exclaimed again, wheeling his horse. “Back to the carriage!”
“But what of the stripling, he’s a witness—”
“Leave him! There’s no time!” Both men raced across the field towards the carriage. Stokes threw himself up onto the box and Sir Stephen crammed Melissa’s body inside, reaching to pull the door closed just as the carriage, with a lu
rch, started off.
“Stop!” Lawton cried, as he came even with them, and fired off his pistol. “Stop, I say!” But the carriage careened down the road and was lost to sight around a bend.
Lawton flung himself off his mount and stumbled over to where Harry lay, much too still and quiet. So now they knew the countess wasn’t in on the plot, but what a way to find out. “Come on, lad,” he said, slipping an arm under Harry’s shoulders. “Wake up.” He shook him. “Wake up, lad.”
“Um.” Harry groaned and opened his eyes, a brilliant blue without the protection of his spectacles. For a moment he stared up at the Runner, a perplexed frown creasing his forehead, and then he sat bolt upright. “Lissa! He’s got Melissa!”
“Easy, lad.” Lawton’s hand on his shoulder restrained him. “Who has her?”
“Sir Stephen, damn his eyes,” Harry said, sounding oddly adult as he scrambled to his feet.
“Sir Stephen?”
“Sir Stephen Barton, my stepfather, may he rot in hell. Where are my spectacles?”
Lawton spotted something reflecting the sun and went to pick it up. “Here, lad. Lucky they didn’t break. Why would your stepfather want to abduct your sister?” he asked as Harry put the spectacles, bent askew, on.
“He’s always wanted her. She thinks I don’t know.”
Lawton stood stock still as Harry limped over to his horse. Of all the motives he and the earl had discussed, they had never thought of this, that the countess might be the motive behind the attacks. It fair turned his stomach. “How many of them were there, lad?”
“Just two that I saw, unless there were more in the carriage.” Harry swung up into the saddle. “Well? Aren’t we going after them?”
Game ‘un, the lad was. “Not yet. Best you ride back to the Hall and get help.” Harry’s mouth opened to protest, and Lawton went quickly on. “Your sister’s in danger, lad, and we don’t know what we’re facing. Best to do it with a few men.”
“You’re not a groom at all, are you?”
“No, lad, I’m from Bow Street.”
“A Runner!”
“Yes, so if you’ll just ride back to the Hall—”
“No, look!” Harry pointed with his crop. Riding across the fields towards them were Justin and Alfred. “Chatleigh!” he shouted, and took off at a gallop. With an oath Lawton threw himself onto his horse and went after him. God save him from amateurs, game or not.