Rogue in My Arms: The Runaway Brides

by Celeste Bradley

  Those eyes . . . like a cool rainy sky . . .

  He suddenly had an overwhelming desire to stand in the rain.

  Then she pulled her hand from his with just enough force to shock him back to himself. Bloody idiot, what are you doing?

  “Oh. My apologies. I was merely thinking . . .”

  She raised one brow at him suspiciously. He couldn’t blame her. He must be more weary than he thought to have drifted away like that. He closed his hand around the trace of warmth left in his palm. “I was thinking that we had best get on if we want to get to an inn by dark.”

  She pursed her lips. “Or we could set out in the morning.”

  He shook his head. “I truly do need to find Chant—Miss Marchant. I’d like to make Lord Bertram’s estate by tomorrow evening.” He hoped she didn’t realize that he was proposing a rather grueling pace, but he’d lost so much time on the way to Brighton. If Chantal wed another—

  “Shall we go?”

  She turned away from him and let out a small sigh that he was probably not meant to hear. “I’ll just go and fetch Evan then, guv. We’re already packed-like.”

  Colin shifted Melody to his other arm, where she lay limp and warm upon his shoulder. Damn, he’d forgotten about the boy already. Where were they all going to sit?

  Well, it was ride crowded or ride alone with Melody—and he didn’t think his nerves could take another two days of that!

  Pru blinked away her weariness and set out to find Evan. She had the feeling he wasn’t going to like this arrangement. Evan could be so stubborn sometimes. She really didn’t know how a brother and sister could be so different.

  A man stood in the odd daylight shadows of the theater and watched the manager supervise the props onstage.

  The man did not move or call out to anyone but it wasn’t long before the manager became aware of his presence. The heavyset theater man approached him where he stood at the back of the hall. He’d known it would not take much time. Being quiet could be more emphatic than being loud.

  He eyed the burly manager for a long time before he spoke. “You haven’t told her I’m here. Why not?”

  The manager swallowed. “She ain’t about, like.”

  The shadowed man drew in a long slow breath. “You mean she’s flown.”

  The manager daubed a stained handkerchief to his brow. “Been gone near two days. Didn’t leave a note nor nothin’.”

  The man said nothing for a long moment. “Those might be the facts but you’re leavin’ out the gossip.”

  The manager grimaced. “Gossip has her runnin’ off with a bloke. Can’t recall his name—”

  “Yes you can.” Oh, yes, he would know the name of this man. It wouldn’t make him any harder to kill and it might just make him easier to find.

  “All I heard was Bertie.” The manager averted his gaze. “Just Bertie.”

  It was a start. This Bertie would be a wealthy man, no doubt, or else his lovely Chantal would not have turned to him. A man of rank, possibly. That world was a small one, even smaller than the tightly bound world of crime. Small worlds were quite easy to search, if one had a name.

  “Bertie.”

  Far away in bustling London, on a street that was just beginning to fill with gentlemen of Society who sought the masculine refuge of their clubs, there stood a stuffy, slightly archaic institution by the name of Brown’s Club for Distinguished Gentlemen. Like a stout, balding uncle who lived on the edges of the family income, Brown’s stood several doors down from such glittering establishments as White’s and Boodle’s. Where those lively card tables and dining rooms were only beginning to reach capacity for the evening, the chambers of Brown’s echoed only the faint sounds of the club’s septuagenarian population retiring to their well-deserved beds.

  Belowstairs, there could only be heard the brisk footfalls of Wilberforce, the club’s rather excellent head of staff. With the efficiency of years of practice, Wilberforce settled the club and his charges in for an early night. If he inwardly longed for the sound of lighter footsteps than his own, or even paused a moment thinking he heard the peal of childish laughter on a floor far above, he made no outward sign of such dissatisfaction.

  As he turned the corner into the main kitchens, he caught sight of his youngest footman, Bailiwick, who was gloomily polishing off the last of his youthfully enormous dinner at the heavy wooden table where the servants took their meals.

  Bailiwick looked up at his entrance and sighed gustily. “Will they be back soon, d’ye think, sir?”

  Since Wilberforce had fielded this question from Bailiwick, the cook, the scullery boy, and every single elderly member of Brown’s several times that day, he might be excused the slight shoulder twitch of irritation that resulted. Bailiwick wilted further, however, and turned his mournful gaze back to his nearly clean plate where a crust of bread and a small pile of peas remained.

  “See? I’ve lost me appetite, I ’ave, sir.”

  Wilberforce eyed the nineteen-year-old eating machine dourly. “Pray, tell me it isn’t so,” he murmured.

  Yet there was no denying that the light had gone out of the days this past week. With Lord and Lady Blankenship away on their honeymoon and Sir Colin’s decision to take little Melody on a sea holiday to Brighton, the passing hours at Brown’s felt somewhat dry and papery, like the husks of a sweet fruit long eaten.

  After the adventures of the previous weeks, even Wilberforce had to admit that the return to the drowsy daily routine of old left one rather edgy and restless. Still, it was not his place to be restless. It was his place to provide perfect service to his charges, even if it meant answering that same petulant query all day long.

  “When will they be back?”

  Colin had them all in the chaise and on their way with blinding speed. It was a bit of a task to fit the new passengers’ sparse luggage into the small trunk fitted behind the seat of the Cabriolet and the seat was none too wide for three, but before long the noisy streets of Brighton were behind them and they were on the northwest road to Basingstoke. City gave way gradually to town gave way to country.

  “Sir, did you and the little miss come all the way from London in this rig?”

  “Yes.” Colin patted the dash fondly. “Isn’t it a beauty?”

  No answer. He looked at her. “Don’t you think so?”

  Miss Filby pursed her lips. “Not for me to say, sir. Just . . .”

  “Just what? If you have something to say, say it.”

  Her gray eyes sparked at the challenge. “It’s a bit flash for a family man, don’t you think?”

  He straightened. “No. It’s perfectly serviceable.”

  Her chin lifted. “If you say so, guv. It bein’ your rig and all.”

  The light caught the shadows beneath her eyes. She was very pale for someone who’d spent years at the seaside. “What about you? Did you originally come from Brighton?”

  She gazed outward at the passing fields. “Me and Evan were born there. Never been anywhere else.”

  “Ah.” He thought of all the world that he’d seen. “This must be exciting for you then.”

  She looked at him then with delicate russet brows raised. Right.

  He grinned. “Exciting sheep? Exciting fields?”

  Her lips twitched. “I’m beside meself, I am,” she said tonelessly.

  He laughed out loud. She smiled back, a quick flash of white teeth. For an instant her pallor and plainness disappeared. Her gray eyes laughed into his and he found himself held there, captured easily and willingly by her smile and her quick wit and the way she rode next to him with Melody in her lap, as if she belonged there—

  The wheel of the Cabriolet struck a deep pothole and the entire curricle lurched heavily. For an instant she was thrust hard against him. He flung out a hand to keep her and Melody on the seat. “Steady on!”

  Unfortunately, his palm caught nothing but a rich handful of soft breast. She gasped and jerked backward, but that only worsened matters. Her han
d slid down into his lap to push off from him. His traitorous lap really enjoyed the entire experience.

  They jerked apart and froze there.

  “Sorry!” Colin swallowed. Oh, God. How embarrassing. The weight and fullness of her breast lingered in his palm. He closed his fist around it.

  What a magnificent handful.

  “Sorry, sir!” Pru was mortified. She shrank into her seat, juggling Melody protectively in front of her. The child giggled.

  “Gordy Ann wants to do that again!”

  Gordy Ann wasn’t the only one. Pru hid her blush in Melody’s curls. She could still feel the heat of his groin held in her palm.

  What a magnificent handful.

  There was no more cheerful banter, no more easy companionship. They both sat in careful silence, rigidly resisting every sway and jolt of the curricle. There wasn’t a sound but the clop of the pretty black horse’s hooves and the creaking springs of the curricle.

  Trying not to let her body brush up against her employer’s, Pru held little Miss Melody tightly on her lap in the center of the seat. The child didn’t seem to mind. Anything that would get her closer to Evan, upon whom she’d immediately bestowed her worship—whether Evan wished it or not!

  It was surprisingly familiar, the feeling of a small, squirming body in Pru’s arms. She’d adored Evan from the moment he was born and had carried him about endlessly, her very own living doll. Mama could hardly get her to let go long enough to do her own maternal part!

  Well, she wouldn’t allow herself to feel that way about Melody, no matter how charming the child was. This was a paying job, not an adoption, and the last thing she needed was another person depending upon her for love and support.

  No, she must remain brisk, efficient, kind but not loving. She was not Melody’s mother.

  Yet, who was? Mr. Lambert had called her his “ward.” This was a loose description, indeed. It could mean Melody might be anything from the orphaned child of a distant relative to the “natural” child of the man himself, born out of wedlock.

  Neither of which is your business. Watch the child. Make the five pounds. Go to London and survive a little longer.

  Well, mystery or no, little Melody was a very nice child. Despite being a bit energetic, she was bright and voluble. One might say precocious. When Evan had been that age he’d been more of the point-and-howl variety. Sometimes he still was.

  Pru smiled wearily as she looked sideways at Evan, seated next to her with the usual black cloud of resentment etched upon his brow. The poor boy had been through so much betrayal that it wasn’t surprising he hadn’t taken immediately to the situation. It was a risky one, leaving familiar territory with a man they didn’t know. Still, what else was to be done?

  She sighed. Somewhere inside Evan was the sweet boy who’d lived his life with a clever curiosity and a boisterous affection for everyone he’d met. She saw it still, sometimes, when they were alone. Less and less every day, it seemed.

  Melody bounced brightly and leaned out of the circle of Pru’s arms to peer into Evan’s face, an inviting smile upon her chubby little features. Evan only shot a scornful look at the flirtatious baby and turned his gray eyes to the view of the surrounding countryside.

  Then Pru noticed something that made her smirk. Evan might be disdainful of the little girl and wary around Mr. Lambert, but he was also currently mimicking Mr. Lambert’s manly bearing perfectly—straight in the seat, shoulders square, hands on knees. Pru stifled her smile at once, but Evan must have realized what she was looking at, for he slumped back in the seat with his arms crossed resentfully.

  Mr. Lambert hadn’t noticed, of course. Pru couldn’t resist letting her gaze slide curiously over him, her lashes lowered. There was something about him that didn’t quite fit. He was no peacock—in fact, she found his attire a bit mature and somber, considering that he was young and handsome.

  So very handsome. Could a man be so good-looking that one could feel his handsomeness radiating from him, even when one wasn’t looking directly at him?

  For all that, Pru couldn’t imagine that Chantal would have been interested in him for long—not enough flash, not enough status. Handsome only held Chantal’s attention for so long. Money and power held it longer. No wonder he lost her favor.

  Best thing that could have happened to him, in Pru’s opinion.

  The chaise hit another pothole and Pru was tossed hard against Mr. Lambert’s shoulder. He glanced at her, brow raised.

  “All right?”

  She jerked away and settled herself again with an apologetic nod, though heaven knew what she should apologize for. She wasn’t driving, after all!

  Unfortunately, the road continued to batter at her. Her body ached and her head was beginning to swim a bit. It was too bad she hadn’t had time to spend a little of her new coin on some bread and cheese before setting out on the way. Typical disregard of the gentry. Mr. Lambert wasn’t hungry—so no one else must be, either.

  Swallowing grimly, Pru gritted her jaw and tried very hard to think of something else.

  Her mind drifted back, before Chantal and the theater, before the years of hard work and little pay. She’d ridden like this in her father’s curricle, her mother at her side and Evan in her lap. Sunday drives in the park, visits to the museum, to shop in the High Street.

  Then, of course, her mind inevitably turned to that terrible day and those four terrible words. “Your parents have perished.”

  CHAPTER 4

  In a single moment everything changed. Pru and Evan were taken to the home of their new guardians, Mr. and Mrs. Trotter. Mr. Trotter had been Papa’s business partner and most trusted friend.

  Prudence had been comforted by the Trotters’ presence. She’d spent little time with them in the past but she’d known them all her life. When she’d woken that first night in tears she’d found Evan’s little body tucked next to her in bed. She’d taken him by the hand and led him downstairs, certain that their new parents would reassure them.

  The sight of them sitting by the fire in their parlor, Mrs. Trotter knitting and Mr. Trotter smoking his pipe, had made Prudence pause at the door. She simply wanted to fix the moment in her mind, for she’d missed so many opportunities to pay attention to the little moments with her parents.

  As they watched, Mrs. Trotter looked up from her knitting and peered at her husband over her spectacles. “Why can’t we get the money now?” Her tone was petulant, unlike her kindly voice earlier.

  Mr. Trotter blew a casual smoke ring. “Not until he’s eighteen, my dear.”

  “But then he’ll keep it! He’ll never simply give it to us.”

  Mr. Trotter grunted and smiled. It was not a nice smile. “He will when I get through with him. He’ll be too terrified to do anything else. By the time ten years have passed he will be entirely my creature.”

  Mrs. Trotter sniffed. “Prudence will object if you abuse him.”

  “Prudence will find herself shipped off to a school if she gets in my way. That or an asylum. Those places are full of ungrateful girls who overstep themselves.”

  Mrs. Trotter narrowed her eyes. “Send her away now,” she challenged her husband.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve seen your eyes on her.”

  He glanced away and sucked on his pipe. “Nonsense.”

  “Do it. Do it at once! Tomorrow!” Her knuckles were white with fury, her knitting trembling in her hands. “You’ll do as I say! Don’t you forget that it is my money that buys your cigars and brandy!”

  Another long pull on the pipe. He snapped his paper open. “Very well, my dear. She’ll be gone tomorrow. An asylum, do you think? She might be able to break away from a school.”

  Mrs. Trotter smiled and her needles clicked rhythmically once more. “That’ll do nicely.”

  The scene was so tranquil, so domestic, that standing outside the door in the darkened hallway, Prudence could scarcely credit what she’d just heard.

  They weren’t
simply greedy, they were evil.

  And her parents had left them to this horrible fate, Evan beaten into submission and Prudence a Bedlamite! For the first time in her fifteen years, Prudence understood the meaning of rage.

  Standing next to her, little eight-year-old Evan shrank back, pulling Pru into the darkness. “I’m scared, Pru,” he whispered.

  Yes, rage . . . and terror. Swiftly, Prudence returned them to their rooms, dressed them both, and managed to slip out the back door with no one the wiser. It took them hours to reach the home of the only other person Prudence trusted, her father’s solicitor, Mr. Henry.

  Mr. Henry listened carefully to her tale, then he ordered his carriage. Sure that the hand of justice was about to land upon the evil Trotters, Prudence and Evan accompanied him back to the house.

  When Mr. Henry merely stood there in the parlor and turned them over to their guardians, Prudence was open-mouthed with shock. “But—but I told you! They are going to beat Evan! They want his inheritance!”

  She gazed at the ring of adults around her, the regretful Mr. Henry and the Trotters, who projected nothing but kindly confusion.

  “Her parents’ deaths have unhinged her,” Mr. Henry noted sadly.

  “Such delusions.” Mrs. Trotter made worried noises.

  “I worry about her influence on her brother,” Mr. Trotter pointed out.

  Prudence backed away, her hand tight around Evan’s. “No . . .”

  “What if her madness affects him?” Mrs. Trotter was the picture of motherly concern.

  Mr. Henry sighed. “Perhaps she ought to be separated from him.”

  Mrs. Trotter narrowed her eyes, but not before Prudence saw the flash of triumph in them. “Well . . .” the woman said, her tone reluctant, “if you think that’s best.”

  Prudence tightened her grip on Evan and they ran. Through the house, as fast as his short little legs could carry him. The adults clattered behind them, but the Trotters were not small people and there was some confusion over who should pass through narrow doorways first. Prudence had the presence of mind to make a grab at a silver vase and a mother-of-pearl box on the hall table before they flung themselves out the front door at a run to disappear into the morning crowds.