by D. M. Quincy
He couldn’t make any sense of it. How had such a proud woman of obvious good breeding come to be married to a blunderbuss like Warwick?
“I have three elder brothers,” he told her, “and they are called Apollo, Hermes, and Jason.”
One side of her mouth quirked up, revealing a sense of humor buried deep beneath that marble reserve. “Are you quite serious? Have you any sisters?”
He paused. “Yes.”
“And?” She raised a queenly brow. “What are their names?”
“Thea and . . .”—he swallowed against the tightening in his throat—“Phoebe.”
“Your parents must have been great fans of Greek mythology.”
“My father was.”
“And your mother?”
“Was a great fan of my father.”
“A rarity in marriage, to be sure.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure, so I wouldn’t be in a position to know.”
She blinked and looked away. “Well, I have. As you’ve had the misfortune to witness.”
He leaned forward, eager to understand this enigma of a woman. “One can only assume that your marriage was unhappy, and your husband has obviously treated you in a disgraceful manner, yet you were eager to return home with the blackguard.”
“Yes.” She said it simply, as though she didn’t owe him any explanation, which of course she didn’t, but he couldn’t help being damned curious.
He sat back. “I don’t intend to cause you any harm.”
Those bright sherry-colored eyes came back to him. “Then release me.”
“You are not a prisoner. However, I do feel duty bound to return you to the protection of your family.”
“I have no family.”
“Everyone has family,” he said. “Although at times we might prefer not to claim them.”
She rose. “I would like to go and refresh myself.” As courtesy dictated, the men stood as well.
She didn’t wait for permission. They watched her walk up to the publican’s wife and exchange a few words before a chambermaid led her out of the taproom.
Regaining his seat, Charlton’s gaze lingered after them. “What do you think the chances are of her climbing out the window and vanishing into the wilds of England?”
Atlas sat as well and sipped his saccharine ale. “She’s too proud for that. If Artemis chooses to part company with us, I’d wager my mount that she’ll sail out the front door and vanquish anyone who steps in her path.”
“Artemis?” Charlton’s golden brows lifted. “Dare I ask which goddess she is?”
“The daughter of Zeus. Aloof, courageous, and confident”—Atlas’s mouth quirked—“and so protective of her virginity that when a hunter threatened her purity, she turned him into a stag and set fifty dogs upon him.”
“That seems apt.” A devilish gleam shone in Charlton’s eyes. “She might not be a virgin, but I can definitely see Mrs. Warwick setting wild beasts upon you.”
* * *
Atlas set Mrs. Warwick’s valise on the floor of the chamber he’d taken for the night. “I regret it is not the most comfortable accommodation, but fortunately it’s just for the one night.”
She stood by the window, looking out, her slender form perfectly erect. “And where do you plan to sleep?”
“With Charlton. The inn only had two available beds.” He stifled a sigh. “If you were better acquainted with the earl, you would understand just how great an inconvenience that is.”
“I did not ask for your help.”
He tapped down a twinge of impatience. It had been a long day, and his foot had been throbbing for hours. By the time her husband had returned with the bill of sale, their journey had been delayed long enough to require that they stay the night. “Nonetheless, you have it. Forgive me if I did not wish to see you ravaged by your former neighbor, who looked most keen to pay for the pleasure.”
“I would have managed him.” She turned from the window. “Is it true what your friend said?”
“In regards to what?”
“Do you make a habit of saving females who are in trouble?”
The air in his lungs iced. “No.” He turned to go, thinking of the time he had failed miserably in that endeavor. “We leave for London in the morning. If it is convenient, please be ready to go down to break our fast at the seven o’clock hour.”
“None of this is convenient.”
He was too tired to spar with her. “I thought you might be agreeable to staying with my sister Thea in London until you make arrangements for your future. Perhaps we can discuss it further in the morning.”
“Yes,” she said, surprising him by not objecting to his plans for her. “Let us talk on the morrow.”
He returned to his musty bedchamber to find Charlton sniffing the counterpane. “They clearly don’t make a habit of washing the bedclothes. How many other travelers do you think have slept on these?”
Atlas shrugged out of his jacket and sat to tug off his boots. “Considering the look of this place, I would venture to guess dozens.”
Charlton shuddered. “That’s what I was afraid of. We’ll be crawling with bedbugs and lice by the morning.”
“It is more than likely.” Yawning, Atlas arranged his greatcoat over the bedclothes and reclined on his side of the bed.
Charlton watched him. “You are sleeping in your clothes?”
He closed his eyes. “So it appears.”
“That’s very uncivilized.”
“Quite,” he agreed before drifting off to sleep.
* * *
By morning, she was gone.
“What do you mean gone?” Atlas demanded of Mrs. Wenzel, the publican’s wife. “Where did she go?”
He and Charlton had come down to breakfast at the appointed time. When Mrs. Warwick had not appeared by seven thirty, he’d asked the chambermaid to go and look in on her. That’s when the publican’s wife had shared the news of Mrs. Warwick’s early departure.
“Likely back home.” She wiped down the scarred bar with a soiled rag. “That’d be my guess.”
Frustration bubbled in his chest. “Mr. Warwick treated her abominably. Why would she return to him?”
Mrs. Wenzel didn’t answer. She didn’t appear to think any more highly of him, a man who had purchased a woman, than the husband who had sold her.
“Bitte, meine Frau.” He switched to her native tongue, thinking it might make her more amenable. He had a natural talent for languages, which his travels had greatly enhanced. “I just want to help her.”
Her expression lightened. “Sie sprechen Deutsch?”
“Ja,” he answered in the affirmative. “I have had the good fortune to visit Bavaria.”
“She hasn’t gone home to the husband.” Mrs. Wenzel was instantly more talkative, seeming to enjoy speaking to someone in the language of her childhood. “But to her boys.”
He frowned. “What boys?”
“Two children she has.”
Atlas’s mouth dropped open. Outrage simmered within him. It was even worse than he’d first thought. He switched to English to make certain he’d understood her correctly. “Are you saying that reprobate sold away the mother of his children?”
“Children? Mrs. Warwick has children?” Charlton, who’d watched their exchange with open curiosity, shook his head. “I don’t believe I’ve ever encountered a more vile man.”
“How did she leave?” Atlas asked Mrs. Wenzel in German.
She lined up pewter mugs behind the bar, readying them for the day’s use. “One of the ostlers give her a ride in the wagon.”
“Has he returned?”
“Jasper?” She nodded. “Ja, he’s likely out in the stables.”
After thanking her, he strode out to the stables with Charlton trailing. “You speak German too?” the earl asked. “I say, how many languages have you mastered?”
Atlas didn’t break his stride. “Six, give or take.”
“Goodness.” Charlton hastened hi
s step until the two men were walking side by side. “Where are we going? What did the fräulein say?”
“To the stable. She said the ostler gave Mrs. Warwick a ride this morning.”
“Maybe you should leave her be,” the earl said. “You cannot hope to part a mother from her children.”
“I did not part them. That bastard Warwick did.”
“For some unfathomable reason, some females become very attached to the sniffling, noisy little nuisances they push out of their bodies.” Charlton sidestepped a muddy puddle. “My sister Emma is unaccountably besotted with her new babe, and all it does is eat, sleep, and produce malodorous messes.”
Atlas shot his friend a sidelong glance. “You do realize that you’re expected to sire an heir to carry on the exalted Charlton line.”
“The act of begetting an heir, I do not mind in the least.” The earl flashed a mischievous grin. “Fortunately, there is a nursery where the little nuisance can be housed until he’s sent away to school.”
“What a heartwarming view of fatherhood.” They rounded the stable door and soon located Jasper, the young man who’d driven Mrs. Warwick home. He was a tall, strapping lad with sandy-colored hair and inquisitive eyes blinking in a narrow face.
“I didn’t take her directly to the house,” he said, twisting his cap in his hands.
Impatience rippled through Atlas. “Where then?”
“She asked to be set down a ways from the house. She said she didn’t want to wake the household. That she would enter quietly.”
Atlas swore under his breath. “Saddle my mount immediately.”
While Jasper went to ready Thunder, the black stallion Atlas had borrowed from Charlton, the earl gave him a quizzical look. “What has got a bee in your beaver hat now?”
“I fear she intends to take the children.”
“Can she do that?”
“By law, no.” He walked over to the stall to help Jasper saddle his mount. There was no time to waste. “However, I doubt Mrs. Warwick would allow so minor a thing as the law to get in her way.” After getting directions to the house—an old rectory—from Jasper, he led his mount out of the stables.
Charlton walked alongside. “What precisely do you plan to do besides riding to the damsel’s rescue on your black steed?”
“Warwick likely knew his wife would never leave the children.” He swung up onto Thunder. The nasty-tempered animal pranced restlessly, his neck swaying left and then right as if assessing his chances of getting a good bite out of his rider’s thigh. Atlas kept a firm hand on the reins. The last thing he needed was another injury. “I think it’s a trap. I only pray I’m not too late.”
Charlton watch him wrestle the animal under control. “Why don’t you take my gelding? I don’t know why you insist on this stallion. You and he are too alike—stubborn and foul tempered—to get on with each other.”
“Nonsense.” Atlas guided the reluctant mount toward the lane. “We’re going to be great friends.”
About ten minutes later, the modest property came into view. The old rectory, with its tan stone exterior and two tall columns on either side of the front door, was tidy, well kept, and far nicer than Atlas had expected. From the looks of the house—comfortable but not too large—and its surrounding property, Warwick didn’t appear in need of the thirty pounds he’d earned from selling his wife.
Atlas’s attention went from the house to the group of people standing in the front yard: that bastard Warwick, another man dressed in country clothes that differentiated him from the servants, and two men flanking a defiant Lilliana Warwick.
CHAPTER THREE
“You should have known better than to steal my sons.” Triumph gleamed in Warwick’s eyes.
“They’re my children,” his wife snapped, her slender shoulders proud and unbowed. “I can hardly steal what is mine.”
“By law, you have no rights to them now that I’ve cast you out.”
One of the two men flanking Mrs. Warwick, a short, square-shaped toad, gripped her arm in a proprietary manner that made Atlas’s neck burn. “Come along now, Mrs. Warwick.”
“Unhand me, you addlepated fool.” Trying to twist free of his grasp, Mrs. Warwick stared frantically up at the house. Atlas surmised that her children must be within.
“Surely there is no need for this.” The man dressed in country clothes, who had a passing resemblance to Godfrey Warwick, stepped toward them with a calming, outstretched hand. “Let us settle this in a civilized manner.”
“Always playing the saint.” Godfrey’s words dripped with sarcasm. “It’s done, John. Move aside.”
The square-shaped man holding Mrs. Warwick’s arm interrupted them. “I am the magistrate, and this is an official matter. I’m afraid Mrs. Warwick must retire to the local gaol.”
Atlas’s patience ran out. “I will thank you to take your hands off my property.” The words—low, dark, and controlled—held an unmistakable note of warning. The attention of everyone in the yard swung in Atlas’s direction, the players in this sordid scene finally taking notice of the interloper standing by the front gate.
The man called John ran an imperious gaze over him. “And who might you be?”
“I could ask the same of you,” Atlas replied coldly. He had the size advantage over all of these men. And at well over six feet, he wasn’t opposed to using his bulky frame to encourage people to oblige him.
“This is John Warwick,” Mrs. Warwick explained, “my brother in marriage.”
“What do you mean by saying Lilliana is your property?” John looked away from Mrs. Warwick and back to Atlas. “She is my brother’s wife.”
“No longer,” Atlas replied. “He sold her to me for thirty pounds. She is under my protection now.”
John inhaled sharply. “How dare you, sir? I should call you out for casting aspersions on this house and this family’s good name.”
Atlas’s lips curled into an icy, closemouthed smile. “This scapegrace didn’t seem to have a care for your good name when he put a collar around Mrs. Warwick’s neck and sold her like cattle on market day.”
“It’s true, John,” she said. “Godfrey wasn’t content to just cast me out. He had to make my humiliation complete by selling me to the highest bidder.”
The color leached from John’s complexion. He turned to his brother, the shock etched on his face seeming genuine enough. “Is that true?”
“Yes, it’s true,” Godfrey returned impatiently. “If you hadn’t been so busy tending to your wife, you might have heard the news. Everyone else in the county has.”
“Tending to his wife?” Mrs. Warwick looked in askance at John. “Why? Is Verity unwell?”
A shadow crossed the man’s face. “A stomach ailment. She’s suffering terribly.”
“I am so sorry,” she said to him. “If there is anything I can do—”
“Enough of this.” The magistrate’s self-important voice brimmed with impatience. “I’ll be locking Mrs. Warwick up until it’s decided what is to be done with her.”
Atlas stepped into the man’s path. “She goes nowhere but with me.” From his pocket, he withdrew the bill of sale Godfrey had presented to him yesterday. “I have proof of ownership in my possession.”
Her husband balked. “You should have kept a tighter leash on your property, sir. Sadly, you did not, and she attempted to steal my children, thereby breaking the law.”
Ignoring Godfrey, Atlas stared intently, aggressively, down at the magistrate. “As I said, she goes with me. I take full responsibility for her.”
The magistrate darted a concerned glance at Godfrey before tilting his head back to peer into Atlas’s face as the larger man towered over him. “If I release her into your care, you must maintain control of her.”
“Now see here, Felix.” Godfrey’s face reddened. “You cannot allow her to go free.”
“But she is not free,” his friend stuttered. “Mr. uh . . .”
“Catesby,” Atlas said.
Atlas spoke to Mrs. Warwick. “Shall we go?”
“I cannot leave,” she whispered, her eyes shiny with emotion. “My children.”
Godfrey smirked. “They are not your children. In the eyes of the law, they are mine and only mine.”
“Either you leave with Mr. Catesby,” said Felix Bole, the magistrate, “or I take you into my custody until such time as it is determined whether you will stand trial for attempting to abduct Mr. Warwick’s children.”
She clenched her fists at her sides, her trim body taut with tension. “They are the children of my body. My own flesh and blood. It is ghastly to separate a mother from her children.”
John Warwick regarded his brother with a combination of disbelief and disgust. “Surely an accommodation can be made for Lilliana to see the boys.”
Godfrey ignored him. “The gaol or your new master,” he said to his wife. “Those are your choices.”
Atlas strode to her side, taking great pains not to limp on his aching left foot. “I will help you find a way,” he murmured with quiet resolve. “I give you my word. Come away with me now. At the moment, there is nothing you can do here.”
She stood very still, not acknowledging that he’d spoken. Atlas’s chest constricted at the distress he registered in her face.
“Come.” Atlas put a hand to her elbow. “All will be well.”
He saw the moment she realized her situation was hopeless because she didn’t resist when he took her arm and led her away from her children.
* * *
Once they settled into the hired carriage, Mrs. Warwick in the front-facing seat with Atlas and Charlton sitting across from her, an unbearable fatigue seemed to come over her. Her face pale, she laid her head against the worn squabs and closed her eyes.
She did not open them again until they reached London, when the stench of dung and waste fermenting in the Thames filled the carriage. Outside, the clacking of hooves against the pavement, the shouts of the costermongers, and the sales cry of a far-off milkmaid—“Milko!”—filtered through the air. Directly above them, a light patter sounded on the roof.