Rogue in My Arms: The Runaway Brides

by Celeste Bradley

  She pointed a chubby finger. “It sinkeded, like the bad pirate ship.”

  Colin cast an appraising look at the remains of the lovely but decidedly deceased Cabriolet. It did possess some of the curve of the bowsprit of a ship. Hmm. Desperate times . . .

  “Yes, Mellie. When you get back to Brown’s, you can tell Uncle Aidan and Aunt Maddie all about how our ship . . . er, sinkeded.”

  She snuggled deeper into his lap, angling for a story. “And Billy-wick?”

  “Yes, you can tell Bailiwick.”

  “And Wibbly-force, too?”

  God help him. If Wilberforce ever learned what a muck he’d made of this journey—it didn’t bear thinking about. Colin smiled tightly. “And Wibbly-force, too.”

  In the elegant if somewhat old-fashioned foyer of Brown’s Club for Distinguished Gentlemen, Wilberforce, the illustrious head of staff, gazed down at the silver tray of letters in his hand. The post included something most interesting this morning.

  In a scrawling hand, a thick envelope that had seen better days was addressed to Sir Colin Lambert, Brown’s Club, St. James Street, London. The heavy paper was stained and scuffed and marked with water, but the lettering was clear. The sender’s identity was indicated by a single looping R.

  R for Redgrave. Lord John Redgrave, the heir to the ailing Marquis of Strickland. Or, as he was known to his friends in London, simply “Jack.”

  Wilberforce was growing very weary of matters not being quite right. His very existence depended upon his ability to make things right.

  Well, then. Without lifting his head, or taking his gaze from the post, Wilberforce called for assistance.

  “Bailiwick!”

  Immediately his ears were assaulted by the galloping strides of his youngest and largest—and most enthusiastic—footman. He didn’t flinch, despite the racket and what those giant shoes were probably doing to the freshly waxed floors.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Wilberforce?”

  Wilberforce raised his gaze—and raised it some more—to meet Bailiwick’s eager one. “I have a most important task for you. This letter must be brought to Sir Colin’s attention at once.”

  Impressed, Bailiwick leaned forward to gaze at the envelope. “Is it that important, then?”

  Wilberforce scowled. “Do you have some reason to think it is not ‘that important,’ Mr. Bailiwick?”

  Bailiwick straightened and swallowed. “No, sir, Mr. Wilberforce.”

  Wilberforce narrowed his eyes at his underling. “Right. Therefore, since we have no way of forwarding this very likely vital communiqué, I can think of no alternative but for you to personally follow Sir Colin’s trail and hand-deliver it to him.”

  “Ah.” Bailiwick brightened with understanding. “Yes, sir! To Sir Colin and Lady Mellie!”

  “You’ll need a horse.”

  The brightness faded slightly. “A . . . horse, sir?”

  “Certainly. You cannot count on being able to find a coach going the same path as Sir Colin in his chaise. No, a horse is necessary. You do ride, do you not, Mr. Bailiwick?”

  “Well, yes . . . a bit.”

  “Excellent. Pack a small bag. You’ll set out at once.” He made as if to hand the letter to Bailiwick, then drew it back at the last moment. “It is imperative that you do not fail to find Sir Colin, lad. I have the feeling that he has bitten off a bit more than he can chew.”

  Bailiwick nodded meaningfully. “Aye, sir. Lady Mellie can be a right handful sometimes.”

  CHAPTER 8

  By the time Cap’n Jack had defeated the enemy (a prolonged and bloody skirmish with a horrifying body count), squelched the mutiny (by dint of three keelhaulings), and the rival ship had surrendered (sending four sailors down the plank), Colin was ready to take a stroll down the plank himself. Melody had apparently found the entire gory tale relaxing, for she was fast asleep in his lap with her bottom lip pooched out and her little belly rising and falling with each breath.

  Colin sat in the shade of a tangled hedge on the side of the road with Melody curled in his lap and Gordy Ann flopped faceup on his knee. The once elegant and fashionable Cabriolet had been hauled to the side of the road like an abandoned farm cart and Hector, having recovered his high-bred nerves like the valiant steed that he was, cropped the high grass on the roadside with relish, tied to the wrong end of the wreckage.

  “We look like Gypsies,” muttered Colin. At the moment, he would be glad of even that company, for no one had passed in the hour since the accident. “I don’t understand it,” he said conversationally to Gordy Ann. “I didn’t think we were so very far out of Brighton.”

  Gordy Ann made no reply, which showed her opinion of his statement of the obvious. They were going to have to abandon the gig and walk it soon.

  Then Hector raised his head and gazed down the road in the direction from which they had come. His ears perked and he gave a soft snort.

  A moment later Colin heard the clopping of hooves and jingling of harness and mingled voices of people. Another moment after that, a procession of three wagons and several smaller carts came over the nearest rise.

  Colin squinted. They looked like Gypsies at first glance, but they were dressed like ordinary common folk for the most part—with the exception of one grand fellow who led the party on a fine but elderly bay horse. This man was dressed like a cross between an English courtier of the last century and a garishly painted peacock.

  First the eye was blinded by a truly brilliant purple coat—velvet, of course. Why wear purple unless one wore it in velvet? Beneath this was a heavily ruffled shirt of the sort fashionable two decades past, all above a pair of parrot-green breeches. The aforementioned did not clash so very nauseatingly until one took in the brilliant orange tricorne hat complete with white plumes sported upon said individual’s bewigged head.

  “I didn’t know hats came in that color,” Colin said in wonder. Gordy Ann did not comment.

  The entire parade was becoming quite loud now and Melody stirred in Colin’s lap. When the outrageous leader came even with Colin and Melody and pulled his horse to a stop with a broad hand signal to his followers, the subsequent cacophony of squeaking axles, questions, and equine snorts of relief managed to penetrate even Melody’s famously deep sleep.

  She sat up and rubbed her eyes. Her baby-blue gaze went wide. “Pirates!”

  The leader bowed regally from horseback, sweeping his hat from his head and bending low. “Only on occasion, milady. I am Pomme.” Then he raised his gaze to meet Colin’s. “Methinks you broke your chariot, sir.”

  “He mucked it!” Melody scrambled up from Colin’s lap, eager to report events. Gordy Ann went along, upside down, knot head dragging on the ground. “He mucked it and then he sinkeded it!”

  The fellow nodded most seriously. “Verily, little milady.”

  “Your hat! I like feathers!”

  Colin stood. “That’s enough, Melody. Go sit in the shade while I speak to the gentleman.”

  Melody went very willingly for once. Colin breathed a sigh of relief and turned to the leader of the group. “Sir, I am S—Mr. Lambert. My young ward and I have indeed had an accident. Is it possible that someone in your group could ride back to the inn there and have them send aid?”

  Pomme shook his head sadly. “No, Mr. Lambert. It is not possible. We never look back.” He turned his head to address his people. “Do we, lads and lassies?”

  “Never look back!” The words came in a hearty chorus, out of dozens of throats.

  Colin blinked. “But . . . you must help us!”

  The man tilted his head. His feathers tilted with it. “Must we? Must we help a man who would desert one of us on the road after promising employment?” He turned his head again. “Must we?”

  “No!” came the chorus again.

  Colin stepped back under the weight of all that disapproval. He gazed at the party in disbelief. “But . . . I didn’t—”

  Then he saw her. Sitting on the side of one of the flat ca
rts, with her booted feet swinging beneath the hem of her skirts and her auburn hair gleaming in the sun, was Miss Prudence Filby, watching the proceedings with a slight smile on her face.

  The vindictive little wench!

  On the other hand, she looked exceedingly well, even better than she had that morning. In fact, to be truthful, at the moment she was in far better form than he was.

  Colin dragged his gaze back to Pomme, who was watching him with narrowed eyes. Colin cleared his throat. “She was ill.”

  Pomme only continued to gaze at him.

  “She really wasn’t up to the journey.” Which was a stupid thing to say, considering that she was journeying even now, in obvious good health. “I—I left money with the innkeeper—”

  Pru hopped lithely down from the cart and sauntered forward. “He pocketed it and ordered me to wash tankards for me keep.” She smiled sweetly at Colin. “I told him where to put his tankards.”

  “Pru!” Melody barreled past Colin and collided with Miss Filby’s legs. “Where’s Evan? Where? Where?”

  Pru knelt and hugged the tiny girl. Then she turned her and pointed at her cart. “There, you see him?”

  “Evan!” Melody took off, Gordy Ann flapping wildly. “Evan, Evan, Evan!”

  Damn. Colin scowled. Deserted by his own troops.

  Pomme smiled beneficently. “Prudence, my lovely, tell your Mr. Lambert who we are. The curiosity is killing him, I can see it.”

  “He ain’t my Mr. Lambert,” she pointed out, then turned to Colin and indicated the group with a toss of her head. “This here’s the Montgomery Aloysius Pomme Theatrical Troupe.”

  Colin gazed at the motley crew. “Actors?”

  “Indeed.” Pomme bowed his plumed head graciously. “Players all, from the tots to the dotards. Lovely Prudence caught our attention with her sauce and spine and we soon realized we had many acquaintances in common.”

  Colin had the feeling that Pomme was using the royal “we.” He could simply hear it in Pomme’s tone.

  “Whereupon she related the sad tale of your desertion—”

  Colin bridled. “I didn’t—”

  Pomme held up one hand. Colin subsided in spite of himself.

  “The sad tale of your desertion. We welcomed our sister with open arms, for we would never desert one of our own in such a culturally arid locale.” He raised his gaze upward. “And we’ve dire need of a seamstress.”

  Pru frowned. “I told you, Monty, I ain’t the best w’ needle—”

  Pomme waved his hand. “Prudence, you are a professional theatrical seamstress, assistant to the great Chantal Marchant. No false modesty is needed.”

  Colin waved his fingers. “Pardon me, but can we get back to my broken gig and how you can possibly justify leaving a man with a small child on the roadside?”

  Pomme narrowed his eyes at Colin once more. “It is not our way to pass judgment on anyone, sir. But when the offended party is one of us and the offender is not, we usually go upon our way with a small but significant act of vengeance. Agreed?”

  “Ah—” That did not sound good. “I don’t think I—”

  “Agreed, then! Prudence, what say you to Mr. Lambert? Will we aid him or leave him in the mess he’s made for himself?”

  Colin held his tongue but sent a white-hot glare at Miss Filby that promised certain vengeance of his own.

  Miss Filby smiled sweetly. Oh, hell. Colin knew what that meant.

  “We must aid him—”

  Colin let his breath out in a whoosh.

  “—but he must sing for his supper!”

  Jeers and laughter erupted from the carts and wagons behind her. Colin looked desperately from Pomme to Miss Filby. “I don’t understand. Sing? Sing what?” Not literally, surely!

  Pomme waved a hand. “Oh, we’ll sort that out later,” he said airily. “Are we agreed then, Mr. Lambert?”

  Colin ran his gaze over the smiling troupe, the flamboyant Pomme and Miss Filby, with that triumphant gleam in her eye—and his poor, beautiful, broken Cabriolet.

  His shoulders sagged. “Agreed.” God help him, he hoped he hadn’t gotten himself into something horrible.

  Unfortunately, by the nasty twist to Miss Filby’s smile, he was fairly certain that he had!

  Once the Troupe de Pomme had laughingly cobbled themselves back together, having hefted the Cabriolet atop the performance wagon and tied a bemused Hector to the back of it, the entire company settled into their places and the caravan began to roll once more. Colin climbed cautiously aboard the same cart that Miss Filby rode on, braving young Evan’s poisonous glare.

  Melody had no idea that their welcome was anything but heartfelt. She immediately snuggled next to Evan on his packing crate and began to relate a long adventure involving broken ships and sinking carriages. Or was it sinking horses and broken drivers?

  Evan rolled his eyes with the affected disinterest of a twelve-year-old, but Colin noticed that the lad didn’t move away or otherwise discourage Melody in the slightest.

  Noticing Miss Filby watching the two, Colin smiled at her. “She didn’t want to leave you two behind.”

  Miss Filby slid him an expressionless look. “Imagine that.”

  Colin cleared his throat. “I am grateful, you know, for the help and—”

  “You’re not gettin’ out of it,” she said flatly. “You’ll sing.”

  Colin rubbed his neck. “Well, that’s just it, you see . . . I can’t. Not a note. I’m hopeless.”

  Miss Filby smiled. “Then you’ll juggle fire.”

  “What?”

  She motioned with her chin. Near her on the cart rode a young man with heavily bandaged hands. “Cam here says he fumbled a burnin’ axe a few days ago.”

  Young Cam saluted him with a white-wrapped paw. Colin gulped. “A burning axe, you say?”

  Miss Filby smiled serenely. “Oh, you’ll catch on straightaway. Nothin’ like a bit o’ fire to teach you quick-like.”

  “I do know one song,” Colin said quickly. “A drinking song, from my younger days.” It was a shouted chant more than a song. He might be able to carry it off.

  Miss Filby shook her head. “This is a family act. Folks won’t like you singin’ that.”

  The way she said it made Colin think of angry farmers with pitchforks and irate wives swinging ladles! He shuddered. Perhaps he could manage a small, smoldering hatchet . . .

  Pru could hardly contain her laughter at the look on Mr. Lambert’s face. He deserved it, the betraying blackguard! The moment when he’d walked away had been one of the worst moments of Pru’s life. To be abandoned in the country with no means of supporting herself and Evan—why, it was her worst nightmare come to life!

  When that innkeeper had told her to scrub tankards, she’d snapped and behaved rather madly. Fortunately for her, the innkeeper had ducked those tankards very deftly. Even more fortunately, Pomme had been in the public room and had stolen her away when the landlord had threatened to call the law down on her.

  None of which would have happened if Mr. Lambert had kept his side of the bargain. So no sympathy for him!

  Still, her gaze slid to the worried frown on his brow again and again. Poor man. One would think she’d told him he was going to have to face his doom!

  Melody spent the next hours crawling from one lap to the next, charming her way through the occupants of the cart like a pint-sized politician. Colin watched her with a smile, realizing that although he might be persona non grata among the players, they had no intention of holding that against Melody.

  As if anyone could.

  At the moment, she was being dandled on the knee of Young Cam—was there a Cam the Elder somewhere?—examining his bandaged hands and peppering him with questions about being on fire.

  Several of Cam’s answers brought Miss Filby to laughter, which dampened some of Colin’s burgeoning sympathy for the handsome young giant. Cam seemed to think that Miss Prudence Filby was a delight for the eyes and Colin had to admi
t that a night of rest and a few good meals had done wonders for her. She was bright-eyed and animated in the company of the players as she had not been with him.

  Of course, he was the Evil Employer, Dastardly Colin the Deserter, the man who had kidnapped her from the sunny shores of Brighton and tossed her aside in the backwater of the Sussex countryside.

  He felt rather sick at the thought himself. Of course, he knew the true circumstances and he knew his own reasons for his decision . . . yet he doubted that if he had the chance he would make the same one again.

  It was Chantal. The thought of finding her again had him in a whirl. She had always been able to spin him about, to make him dizzy and forgetful and lost in thoughts of her.

  Well, that was love . . . wasn’t it?

  His gaze had been absently following Melody’s progress around the cart and now he noticed that she’d settled back into her tiny space next to Evan. The boy sat with his thin arms around his pointy knees, his oversized boots slightly pigeon-toed. He studiously ignored her girlish invasion into his manly brood, of course.

  Melody seemed not to care. She simply snuggled into his side and began to talk to Gordy Ann. The wad of knotted cravat that was the doll was beginning to look pretty dire. Colin wondered idly if he would ever be able to pry it out of her hands long enough to wash it.

  Or perhaps boil it.

  Then he realized that Evan’s gray gaze was fixed upon him. There was a silent storm of resentment and fury in those expressive eyes, though the thin face showed none of it.

  Colin took it as his due. He could see that he had become the perpetrator of all that was unfair in the boy’s world. Sympathy made him smile into the wave of antipathy. He knew what it was like to have one’s world changed drastically at such an age. When his own mother had died, he’d been fostered out to his aunt. Dumped, really.

  His aunt was kind but busy with her own brood, and he’d felt the loss of his gentle mother fiercely. His father he’d professed not to miss at all, and had continued in that pretense well into adulthood.

  For Evan, to be torn from his home in Brighton and dragged along on the road with a stranger—well, the lad was entitled to a few foul looks and a bit of temper, in Colin’s opinion.