Still Wicked

by Ayers, Kathleen

  His little nun smiled. A beautiful, slightly sultry smile that did more to arouse him than reassure him he was doing the right thing.

  Spence frowned and looked out the window. What a bloody terrible time to become honorable.

  7

  Elizabeth was much relieved at the turn of events. Lord Kelso, for all that he was arrogant, snide and given to making terrible puns, seemed inclined to behave like a gentleman. He’d accepted the story that she was a novice and promised to see her safely to her brother.

  She pulled the blankets up around her shoulders, wrinkling her nose at the smell of moth balls.

  “The blankets came with the coach, as did Porter,” Kelso said. “Though he doesn’t smell of moth balls. At least, I don’t think he does. I haven’t gotten close enough. You should sleep,” he commanded in a gruff tone. “I plan to.” Crossing his arms, he settled back against the squabs, closed his eyes and proceeded to ignore her.

  Elizabeth was grateful for his lack of interest, but she found herself wishing he would engage her in conversation. They could speak of the weather. Or books they’d both read, though Kelso didn’t seem the sort of gentleman who ensconced himself in a library before a fire. He fairly crackled with a dark intensity.

  Kelso was the first man, besides friends of her family, with whom she’d shared close quarters. Elizabeth found she didn’t mind Kelso’s presence. Her anxiety should be making her blind with panic, but there was nothing but an odd tugging sensation in her chest when she looked at him.

  Elizabeth pressed her forehead to the window and closed her eyes. She told herself not to think of Mother or London, two things which would feed her anxiety. Kelso would not allow her to be taken as long as Elizabeth was with him. She knew that with certainty.

  Glancing across the coach, Elizabeth took in Kelso’s form, much too large for the leather seat. His breathing was deep and even, though something told her Kelso wasn’t truly asleep, maybe only dozing.

  His brow wrinkled in pain as his large body shifted on the seat, favoring his left side.

  Was he injured? Elizabeth peered across the coach trying to discern any hint of blood on the polished, expensively dressed exterior, but saw nothing. He was handsome in the way most men of his class were, with refined aristocratic looks which matched the arrogance in his manner. Except for the small bump on his nose.

  Elizabeth studied the tiny knot for the longest time. She supposed he could have broken his nose in some gentlemanly pursuit, maybe fisticuffs at his club. But she didn’t think it something so polite.

  Kelso hadn’t pressured her for more information…yet. But she sensed he would and probably when least expected. He didn’t strike her as a man who took anything at face value. Even a nun.

  Kelso shifted again, a small grunt of pain coming from deep inside him.

  He was hurt. She stared hard at his coat trying to imagine the injury. Sister Mary Grace would know just by looking at him, but Elizabeth possessed none of her healing skill. She possessed no nun skills at all.

  She sighed, resigned to the fact that she couldn’t return to her former peaceful existence and turned her attention from Kelso, but not before noticing how the heel of his boot trapped her skirts. Should she move from the seat, Kelso would awaken. The placement of his boots was not accidental. Upon closer inspection, Elizabeth caught the gleam of a knife hilt at the top of his boot. She already knew he carried a pistol in his coat, the slight bulge of the weapon clearly visible.

  She pulled the blankets up over her shoulders, shivering but not from the chill in the coach. Gentlemen, at least from what Elizabeth remembered, didn’t usually travel about armed to the teeth. Kelso’s appearance masked a dangerous savagery, which thankfully had not been directed at Elizabeth.

  Her anxiety ratcheted up a notch. How could she trust such a man?

  How could she not?

  8

  Spence awoke the moment the coach stopped moving. He heard Porter jump down from his seat and make his way to the door as the remnants of his dream faded. The face of the boy, the Belgian’s son, still lingered in his mind.

  ‘Did you know my father?’

  “My lord?” Porter opened the door, his eyes widening as he saw Spence wasn’t alone in the coach.

  Oh yes, his little nun.

  “We’ve picked up another passenger, Porter, on our travels. She’ll be going all the way to London.” He lowered his voice. “She’s asleep which is just as well.”

  “Yes, milord, of course,” Porter whispered as he stepped away from the door.

  Spence pulled the pistol from beneath his coat, checking the weapon before returning it to a side pocket. He didn’t expect to use the weapon. Discretion was required this evening. He stepped out of the coach, noting with satisfaction the dark, deserted streets and lack of foot traffic. Porter had chosen an alley off one of the main streets. There was nothing illuminating the alley, the closest streetlight several yards away.

  “Milord.” Porter readied to climb back into his seat. “The Wilted Rose lies two blocks over.”

  The muted sound of music and revelry filtered into the alley from the direction of the Wilted Rose. This shouldn’t take long at all. Hughes would be good and drunk by now. The man was a sot.

  “Porter, do not move from the coach.”

  “Of course not, milord. What should I do if the young lady wakes up and you haven’t returned?”

  Porter asked an excellent question. “She’s not to leave the coach for her own safety.” Then Spence added, “She’s a nun.”

  “I see, milord.” If Porter was surprised at this bit of information, he showed not the slightest sign. As a driver, he’d probably had an assortment of unusual occupants within his coach.

  “Inform her, should she awaken, that I will return shortly. Do not, under any circumstances, allow her out of the coach,” Spence said again. “Keep your pistol handy. I assume you are armed?”

  Porter bowed, looking a trifle offended. “Of course, milord.”

  Spence glanced back at his little nun. The blankets were piled up to her chin and she was snoring. The stray curl, having fallen out of her headdress earlier, now lay across her cheek. He stared at that bit of ebony for a moment longer than he should have, imagining the feel of her hair gliding through his fingers.

  Young. Innocent. A bloody nun. And too tempting by half. He’d be counting the minutes until he could hand her over to her brother.

  Spence turned from Elizabeth to the task at hand. Stepping out of the coach, he struggled not to let the pain of his ribs show. “I’ll be back momentarily,” he said to Porter with a nod before he strode off in the direction of the Wilted Rose.

  9

  Elizabeth awoke to the sound of a pistol being fired. She was familiar with the sound from her lessons with McMannish. What an odd sound, she thought, for the bell of St. Albans to make.

  Another shot sounded, echoing outside.

  Her eyes popped open, expecting to see the interior of her small room at St. Albans where she would laugh away her silly dream. But she wasn’t snuggled in her spartan cot. A pile of blankets smelling of mothballs covered her from head to toe and she was in a coach.

  Panic rushed up inside her before she could stop it.

  Mother. Gustave.

  The coach rocked as the horses pulled at the reins. She heard a man trying to calm them in a soothing voice. This wasn’t Mother’s coach.

  Porter. Her mind automatically said the name. He’s Lord Kelso’s driver.

  She looked at the empty seat across from her expecting it to be full of large, irritated male.

  Where was Kelso? Had he abandoned her? Left her to find her own way back to London?

  The horses jerked the coach forward again.

  “Christ.” The door was flung open with a bang to reveal Kelso, blood streaming down from a cut on his forehead. Pulling himself into the coach, he nodded in her direction. “Oh, I see you’re awake.” His breath came in gasps while he held on to
his left side. “Go, Porter.” He rapped hard on the roof. “Fuck.”

  Elizabeth’s cheeks pinked at the curse. It was far worse than saying bollocks.

  “Sorry. I meant to say, goodness. We’re in a spot of trouble.”

  Kelso slid into the seat across from her, wincing as the coach turned and his left side hit the wall. He mumbled a stream of foul words, most of which Elizabeth had never even heard before.

  The coach bumped across the cobbled streets as Porter expertly steered the vehicle wildly around a corner. The coach swayed back and forth.

  Elizabeth hung on for dear life. “What—”

  Shouts sounded along with the sound of horses pursuing them. The moon was out, giving a sinister look to the trees speeding by outside the window. How Porter could see in the darkness was a miracle.

  A thud sounded as a pistol ball lodged itself in the coach.

  “Get down,” Kelso ordered.

  Elizabeth pivoted, crouching to the floor. She should be cowering in terror but McMannish had prepared her for such an emergency, though she doubted he assumed his tutelage would be used in this exact situation.

  I’m not even sure what this situation is.

  Her hands slid beneath the seat of the coach, fingers searching blindly. McMannish had not only taught her to handle a pistol, but he’d also instructed her what to do in the event a coach she was traveling in was attacked by thieves. Elizabeth was fairly certain those weren’t thieves pursuing them. Kelso was embroiled in some sort of…altercation and Elizabeth knew how to help. McMannish had instructed her that most coaches, especially private coaches like her brother’s and the one she was currently riding in, carried a set of pistols on board.

  Her fingers stumbled about until she felt the smooth wood of a box. Silently she thanked McMannish for his very thorough education. Elizabeth knew exactly what she must do.

  She pulled out the case and placed it on the seat. Lifting the lid, two pistols greeted her, lying in red velvet. She took out the first pistol, checking to make sure it was loaded properly. McMannish had been exhaustive in his instruction of the cleaning and loading of firearms, even forcing Elizabeth to learn to do so blindfolded. Mother Hildegard was right. No nun should know her way around a pistol the way Elizabeth did.

  She held the weapon up to Kelso. “Here. Ready.”

  “What the bloody—” he started to say as the coach rocked forward. Grabbing the pistol, he stared at her as if she’d grown another head.

  Elizabeth ignored his shock and loaded the second pistol. She positioned herself beneath the window ready to defend herself. If only she’d been armed when Gustave and her mother had arrived at St. Albans, she wouldn’t have been taken.

  “We have a lot to discuss once this is over, little nun.” Kelso had stopped staring at her, and his attention was back on the window. Not an ounce of fear showed on his face, just cold determination.

  He’s done this before. The thought should have terrified Elizabeth but instead, it reassured her.

  Kelso’s arm leaned against the coach as he took aim and fired.

  A thump sounded outside along with the cry of a horse.

  “One down.” He held out his hand as Elizabeth slid closer to the window and lifted the pistol in her own hand. “No.” Kelso shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

  Reluctantly, Elizabeth gave him her weapon. Clearly, he was more experienced. And while Elizabeth was an excellent shot, she’d never tried for a moving target.

  “Good girl.” He winked at her. “I thought you were a nun.”

  “Novice,” she corrected him automatically. “It’s complicated.”

  Hoofbeats sounded outside the coach door as the remaining man came up beside them. Porter cracked the whip, urging the horses to go faster.

  Kelso pushed her to the floor. “Stay down. I mean it.”

  Elizabeth didn’t move or speak. Her emotions vacillated between fear and some emotion which felt strangely like excitement. The touch of Kelso’s hand on her back should have brought a rush of panic, especially under the circumstances. But the warmth of his fingers was oddly pleasurable, and despite everything, Elizabeth was reassured. Even with her face pressed to the floor of the coach, her lips mere inches from his feet.

  Her fingers crawled across the floor to touch the toe of his boot.

  Kelso curled around the window, trying to get a decent shot. “Damn it.” He cursed as the coach lifted and fell back as the wheels hit a rut. His shot had gone wild.

  “No matter what, you stay where you are, little nun.” He placed a hand lightly on her head. “Not a peep from you.”

  The low growl curled around Elizabeth’s body along with a wick of heat from his touch.

  “Pull over.” The words were uttered in a coarse accent. “Or I’ll start shooting the horses. And I like horses.”

  Kelso pounded on the roof in a sign for Porter to slow the coach.

  “Well, this is unfortunate,” Kelso said under his breath. “Nothing is ever fucking easy.”

  The sound of hooves on dirt met her ears as the remaining rider came toward the coach door. Elizabeth turned her head to the window, tilting her chin up so she could see the shadow moving toward the coach.

  “Get out,” the man outside grunted to Kelso. “You and me are going back to the Wilted Rose. I’m in the mood for an early morning hanging.” The man leaned down to look inside the coach.

  Kelso immediately moved to block the man’s view with his body.

  “What do you have in there? A skirt? Perhaps I should kill you and your driver now and take her back with me. I might trade a hanging for a little fun.”

  Kelso didn’t so much as glance down at her. “Your eyesight is as bad as your aim.” He climbed out, allowing his hand to drop discreetly and dump the blankets atop Elizabeth. “Blankets are all I’ve got.” He raised his hands.

  The man snorted. “Figures. I ought to gut you like —”

  A pistol fired.

  Elizabeth jerked at the unexpected sound echoing in the depths of the dark woods. The thud of a body falling to land in the dirt followed.

  Kelso lowered his hands and relaxed. “Ah, there you are, Porter. Good shot.”

  “Thank you, milord.” The lanky driver’s shadowed form appeared next to Kelso.

  Elizabeth came up on her knees and looked outside. She couldn’t see much of anything in the dark, which was probably just as well. There was a dead man outside. She swallowed and grabbed her hands together to stop the trembling in her fingers.

  “Everything all right, little nun?” Kelso leaned against the side of the coach. She could make out his shoulders, but his face remained shadowed. The low timbre of his voice was unexpectedly gentle. “There’s nothing more to fear.”

  “I know. I’m not afraid.” Elizabeth nodded her head even though she doubted he could see her in the dark. She should be afraid. He’d killed a man, as had Porter. But both shootings were in self-defense, though something had happened when the coach had been stopped in the village. Kelso had made someone—several someones—very upset.

  “We’ll be a few more minutes.” Kelso moved toward the front of the coach. “Get up on the seat, little nun, and close your eyes. We’ll be on our way again before you know it, and all of this will only be a bad dream.” His hand lingered over the top of her head again before he disappeared into the darkness.

  Elizabeth stayed still, the warmth of his touch steadying her. The moment he walked away she was instantly bereft. As she settled herself up into the seat, Elizabeth pulled the blankets back around her, pretending, foolishly, it was Kelso that held her.

  10

  “Shall I tidy things up, milord?” Porter said in a quiet whisper once they were out of earshot of the coach.

  Spence wondered exactly who had hired Porter to drive him to London. Usually the drivers the Crown sent him were just that. Drivers. Rarely did the men who picked him up display any but the most rudimentary knowledge of firearms. But Porter’s shootin
g ability rivaled Spence’s own. He’d made the shot from a distance and in the dark. He’d be receiving a huge bonus for this trip. “Thank you, Porter.”

  He and Porter approached the dead man, rolling the body into a ditch at the side of the road. Spence went through the man’s saddlebags before setting the horse free with a swat on the animal’s rump. The other rider’s body was at least a mile or so back and Spence didn’t dare return in that direction in case more men from the Wilted Rose followed. Porter needed to get the coach out of Scotland.

  “How far to the border?” Spence asked. The horizon was just starting to pink in the distance. Dawn would be upon them soon. He’d rather not be on this particular road when the sun finally rose.

  “Not far, milord. I know the road well. There’s a small inn just across the way. Discreet. Safe.”

  “Splendid.” Kelso got back inside the coach and sat back with a groan. His bruised ribs were throbbing. Now that everything had been taken care of, Spence could turn his mind to other questions, firstly, the ability of a nun to wield a pistol. Taking one of the lamps hanging from the side of the conveyance, Spence placed it on the floor of the coach and stepped inside.

  “You’re bleeding.” Elizabeth sounded very matter of fact, as if they hadn’t just been chased and fired at in a moving coach. “I didn’t realize we were making a stop.” She made no mention of the men chasing their coach or, more importantly, why the men were chasing him.

  “An errand I needed to run…for a friend.” Hughes, much to Spence’s surprise, had already been dead when he had arrived at the Wilted Rose. The man’s mistress had been sitting over his prone form on the bed, her body covered in bruises, stabbing at Hughes. When Spence had stepped into the room, she’d looked at him with wide eyes and dropped the knife, seeing an immediate opportunity to not hang for the murder of her lover. She’d screamed Hughes had been murdered at the top of her lungs.