Rogue in My Arms: The Runaway Brides

by Celeste Bradley

  With a sigh, she turned her attention to her job. “Come here, Melody. Let’s take Pomme’s feather and make a hat for Gordy Ann.”

  Melody readily climbed into her lap, always willing to shower attention and devotion on the tatty bit of rag that was her doll. Evan sneered. “Why don’t he buy her a nice doll? He can afford it.”

  Melody clutched the knotted thing in her chubby little arms and gave Evan a glare that made even the boy blink. “Don’t want a new doll. Want Gordy Ann.”

  Evan held up both hands in defense. “Cor!” He shook his head. “Don’t let’s be takin’ Princess Melody’s nasty old doll!”

  “I’m not a princess,” Melody informed him absently, her fury already faded as she fussed with the feather. “I’m a lady. Lady Melody.”

  Evan scowled. “You ain’t.”

  “I am so. Uncle Colin said so. And Uncle Aidan. And Grampapa Lord Aldrich. And Lady Blank’ship. And Billy-wick. He calls me ‘little milady.’ ” Melody looked up at Pru seriously. “I like that.” She turned back to her doll, humming happily.

  The feather waved majestically, sticking somewhat sideways from the knot that formed the head. It looked a bit as though it had been impaled through the temple by a very impolite quill pen. “Doesn’t Gordy Ann look nice?”

  “Beau’iful.” Pru smoothed the shining curls thoughtfully. Little milady. She and Evan shared a look, once again united in their feeling of being outsiders.

  There must be complicated doings afoot in Mr. Lambert’s life. Unfortunately, he wasn’t likely to explain himself to a servant girl without the application of due force. Sadly, Pru was short an impolite quill pen of her own.

  As Melody gradually turned limp in her lap, destined for another nap, Pru felt herself wearily following suit. Keeping one arm snug about the round little tummy in case of deeper potholes, she let her head fall back on the seat and closed her eyes. Sleep had come slowly last night after the . . . er, encounter, so now it slipped back upon her uninvited.

  The road, the carriage, Evan, Melody, Mr. Lambert, and even the stolid Hector swirled about in her half-conscious mind, saying and doing outrageous things that made perfect sense in that moment.

  Part of her was aware of Evan sorting through their things and she wanted to remind him not to disturb Mr. Lambert’s things but her mind was too far from her body and the command to speak did not reach her lips. Besides, Evan knew to leave that be.

  Evan knew better . . .

  Up front, in the driver’s seat, Colin was beginning to regret his impulse to dash off after Chantal without more of a rest. To be precise, it was his arse that was regretting it. The bumps and jolts inside were as nothing to the battering his buttocks were getting on the hard, enameled bench seat. He decided that when he returned to take over his own estate—as soon as this current matter was cleared up and, of course, as soon as he had followed up his previous publication with something even more astounding and therefore truly earned his knighthood—he would order all the carriage seats to be upholstered, even the driver’s.

  Especially the driver’s. Thinking on it now, he was ashamed to think how many hours he’d ridden in carriages in his life and never given a single thought to the comfort of those who had driven them. He’d only thought of his own boredom and irritation at the lack of speed compared to a few hours on a swift horse.

  At least there was really only one road to the Scottish border and the village of Gretna Green, where a couple could be married quickly with no questions asked. If he kept them on this country lane, which Bertie had said cut northeast across the farms to the nearest large village, then he was bound to catch up with Lord Ardmore before he connected with the Great North Road.

  He bent forward, urging Hector to more speed. He had to get as many miles under those hooves as he could before—

  The little trapdoor behind his seat opened. Colin ignored it. Come on, Hector!

  “Uncle Colin, I gotta go!”

  When the carriage stopped, both of the children were out of it as if shot from twin cannons. Pru followed Melody dutifully into a field. She spread her skirts wide for Melody’s privacy, then had Melody hold up her shawl for her own.

  She was in no hurry to go back to the carriage, where Mr. Lambert was stamping about in irritation at the delay. Mr. Lambert could fuss all he liked, but he wasn’t the one bottled up in the carriage with two restless youngsters, was he?

  Furthermore, Pru was dead sick of Chantal and Chantal’s many lovers. Mr. Lambert was obsessed, despite the fact that he apparently kissed anyone in reach and then promptly forgot about it!

  It was time to go but Evan was nowhere in sight. With a sigh, Pru set out to look for him.

  She spotted his shock of red hair barely showing above the tall grass and grinned. Dropping low, she stepped carefully, easing her way closer. If she had the rest of her life to play, she would still never be able to pay him back for all the pranks he’d pulled on her in the last few years.

  Seen clearly now, Evan was standing facing away from the carriage, gazing intently at something he held in his cupped hands. Pru would wager that it was something either slimy or with too many legs.

  It must have been fascinating indeed, for his inattention allowed her to completely creep up on him.

  With a sick feeling of horror, Pru gazed down over his shoulder at the diamond ring sparkling in the nest of Evan’s cupped and grubby hands.

  “Where did that come from?”

  He whirled, his gray eyes wide and guilty. “It’s ours! It ain’t right she should have it!”

  “Oh, Evan,” she breathed. “You stole?”

  He flinched at the word but raised his chin defiantly. “Lambert’s goin’ to give it to Chantal. I figure Chantal owes us for treatin’ you so!” His gray eyes flashed in his pale face.

  Nauseated, Pru thought of all the times she’d railed against Chantal in Evan’s hearing. She’d never considered what protective fury she’d been igniting in Evan’s heart.

  And now she’d prompted an act that could destroy Evan’s future. Stealing from a man like Mr. Lambert, especially something so valuable, could land Evan in prison, even at his age! The thought of her sensitive young brother lost to such a place made her head swim with fear.

  She held out a shaking hand. “Give it to me. I’ll find a way to give it back.”

  Evan closed his hands over the ring and held it to his thin chest. “No! We need it!”

  Not even trying to struggle for the ring, Pru reached her hands to his dear little face and brushed away the moisture from his hot eyes. He was so afraid, not just now but always. It tore at her heart. She let her speech return to the world they’d been born to. “My love, you know that it is wrong to steal. You must remember the things Papa would read to us after dinner.”

  She went down on her knees in the dirt and gazed into the eyes so like hers, so like their mother’s. “Don’t you remember how it was? Mama would sit close to the fire and sew while Papa would stand with his elbow on the mantel and read aloud. You and I would snuggle up on the settee and listen. The whole world would go away, remember? It was just us, just our little family, wrapped in Papa’s deep voice like a blanket, safe and warm. Papa had the most wonderful voice.”

  A shudder went through Evan’s thin shoulders. His lips pressed together to keep them from trembling. “I’m forgettin’,” he whispered. “Half the time I don’t know if it’s me remembering or just you telling me.”

  She kissed his smeary cheek. “I know, my darling. Maybe that’s enough, that I can remember for you. Maybe I can remember all the things that Papa said and tell them to you, so that you can be the man he’d want you to be.”

  He looked down at his fists clenched around the ring. “Papa wouldn’t want me to steal.”

  Pru smiled softly. “Of that I’m sure. He’d tell you to cherish your honor and do right.”

  Confusion chased anger through his expressive eyes. “But you worked hard and Chantal cheated you. That’s no
t right.”

  Pru sighed. “No, it isn’t. Chantal took from us. But if we, in turn, take from Mr. Lambert, then we are just like Chantal.”

  He drew back, obviously not liking the sound of that. “I hate Chantal!”

  “So do—” No, that was what got them into this mess. “I hate no one. I only wish to be fairly paid and then to never see Chantal again.” She smiled at him tenderly. “You have a good heart, Evan. What does your heart tell you to do?”

  He looked back down at his hands for a moment, then slowly reached them out to her. “Take it,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, Pru.”

  It wasn’t until the lovely thing dropped warm and heavy into Pru’s palm, shining with luxurious promise, that it occurred to her that Mr. Lambert wasn’t just pining for Chantal.

  He meant to marry her!

  CHAPTER 18

  As Pru walked slowly back to the carriage, she saw that Melody was balancing on the placid Hector’s wide back, her little legs stuck straight out to each side, Gordy Ann riding pillion. Mr. Lambert was halfway into the carriage, pulling their things from it one by one.

  It looked very much like a search. Pru’s heart fell. Any hope of slipping the ring back where Evan had found it died within her. Yet even that would not have satisfied her. She had survived this long while retaining her integrity and she didn’t intend to begin lying now!

  At least, not about anything more vital than her identity.

  Feeling a bit queasy, she wrapped her fingers about the ring in her pocket and stepped forward. “Mr. Lambert, sir . . .”

  He didn’t turn. “In a moment, Miss Filby.”

  She moved closer and put her hand on his arm. “Sir, I must speak with you.”

  He went very still at her touch and looked up from his search. “Miss Filby, I’m afraid I . . .”

  Raising her closed fist, she opened her hand before his eyes.

  “. . . lost something important.” His gaze fixed on the gleaming diamond in her hand. “Oh.”

  He straightened, still gazing at the ring in her hand. “Where did you find this?”

  Pru raised her gaze to his face. He was trying to give her a way out. He was going to let her say she found it rattling about the carriage, or in Melody’s shoe, or some such nonsense. His kindness made it all the more difficult to do the right thing—yet at the same time, it made it easier as well. She had not trusted anyone in so long.

  Perhaps, just perhaps, she could trust him.

  Shaking just a bit, she reached for his hand. He gave it to her unresisting while she raised it, turned it upward, and dropped the ring into it. She closed his fingers around, relieved to see the last of it. “I apologize, sir. Evan took it from your things while I slept in the carriage.”

  His gaze met hers at last. His green eyes were confused, but not angry. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  Pru swallowed. She’d avoided speaking badly of Chantal—or at least she’d tried mightily—but she saw no reason to spare him this truth. “Miss Marchant left Brighton without payin’ me, sir. I’m owed several weeks’ wages. Evan worried that we’d never find her, I think.” She stopped there, further words stuck in her throat as she awaited his reaction.

  Mr. Lambert gazed very intently at her. “I see. I shall correct that oversight at once, of course. You ought to have informed me sooner.”

  “Yes, sir.” Please, don’t let it be a mistake to have told him. Her belly shook with worry. Please let him understand.

  “Well, since the ring has scarcely been gone long enough to be missed, I think we need say no more about it.”

  She couldn’t believe her ears. “Sir?”

  He tucked the ring into his weskit pocket and tilted his head at her. “Miss Filby, I am not a monster, you know. I have spent enough time with Melody to know that children sometimes get very skewed notions. I would never punish Evan for making a mistake.”

  Pru frowned. “Oh, I intend to punish him, sir!”

  He grinned down at her. “You won’t beat him and you know it.”

  “But—” This man was so confusing! “Are you saying I should just let it be?”

  “No. Stealing is wrong, of course. I think an appropriate consequence might be . . . oh, brushing Hector every night until journey’s end.”

  Pru would have laughed if she hadn’t been so near crying with relief. “That’s not a punishment for Evan!”

  “Nonetheless, it is honest work and will give him time to think on what he did. Isn’t that really the point of punishment?”

  It was so much like something Pru’s father might have said that she couldn’t answer at all. She could only nod quickly and gaze at the ground, though it blurred before her eyes. Chantal, you are the luckiest woman in the world.

  “The question remains of course, what am I to do with you?”

  Startled, she looked up to see his eyes—so green they fair to faded the spring day!—gazing at her with a strange solemn expression. “What—what d’ye mean by that, sir?”

  “You were very frightened when you gave me the ring. Did you truly think I would toss you and Evan into the nearest dungeon?”

  She looked down at her hands, twisting her fingers together. “It could happen, sir.”

  Warm fingers cupped her chin and her gaze was lifted to his. She hoped he couldn’t feel the shiver that went through her at his touch.

  His gaze was warm and approving. The corners of his eyes crinkled though he did not smile. “Then, Miss Filby, what you did proved not only that you are honest,” he said softly, “but that you are brave as well. Thank you for trusting me. I give you my absolute trust in return.”

  Then he turned away, moving to the front of the carriage to scoop Melody from Hector’s back. Pru stayed rooted to the ground, for something very, very strange had just happened. The world had changed.

  It was no longer entirely against her.

  She only wished she could truly enjoy the sensation. Shame for something completely new rose within her.

  What would be his reaction if he ever found out she was not who she said she was?

  A group of riders trotted down the country lane. Vast fields stretched out on either side of the road, flat, green, and featureless but for the dotting of white sheep and lines of old stone walls.

  These men did not pass their gazes appreciatively across the pastoral view. Focused and purposeful, they kept their eyes on the road ahead. The sooner they found the wayward woman, the sooner they could get back to business.

  Only one man gazed about him, the one who rode last, just far enough behind the others that their dust did not affect him. His eyes moved constantly, though he seemed still. Watchful and sharp, like the predator he was.

  He could have taken the fore and the other men would not have objected. Simply put, he preferred not to expose his back, even to his own men.

  Perhaps especially not to his own men. They were a rough bunch, prone to violent reactions to the simplest of offenses. A useful trait in business, perhaps, but not likely to make for an enjoyable day of travel.

  The sound of crisply clopping hooves slowed and the last man slowed instantly, alert to signs of disturbance in the dust ahead. A cross-breeze swept the view clean, revealing the group still mounted, their horses standing on the road ahead, clustered around something. A flash of bright fabric, a protesting feminine cry—the last man grimaced. Best let the rotters have their play. It wouldn’t take long.

  The last man turned his horse away from the road and the beast easily took the low stone wall nearest. A hundred yards into the field, the man halted his horse, turned, and waited.

  From this vantage point he could see that there were three women trapped on the road. They were clad in colorful skirts and blouses, but they did not have the sharp-faced wariness of the Gypsy clans. Not farmwives either. Prostitutes, possibly, or perhaps part of a carnival.

  Or both.

  A hint of curiosity tantalized him, but not enough to investigate. He had no time to dawd
le with other women when only one consumed his thoughts. Impatience made him twitch slightly and his horse responded with a start.

  Thunder rolled across the landscape while he soothed his mount. Then, looking up, the man saw that the thunder was nothing more than a rather large horse racing up the road.

  As the horse grew closer to the group ahead of it, it became clear that the horse was in fact gigantic. The illusion was furthered by the fact that the rider was also enormous, making the great white beast look somewhat normal until compared to the other mounts.

  Then the horse hit his own clustered men with such impact that the man could not help but be reminded of a large rock thrown into a duck pond. He watched the resulting turmoil with disgusted dismay. Now there would be a fight. Someone would undoubtedly get himself wounded and then there would be further delay.

  With a flick of his whip, the man raced his horse toward the road. At the last moment he reined to the side, sweeping his men up with him to gallop swiftly away from the temptation of felling the giant who had so rudely knocked them away from their pleasurable harassment of the women.

  This time he kept point, leading his men at a pace too furious to allow them to do anything but keep their seats. No more delays.

  Nothing would keep him from her.

  Big John Bailiwick, the largest bloke on staff at Brown’s Club for Distinguished Gentlemen, was the one everyone called upon whenever something heavy needed putting in the attic—or when Little Milady was underfoot and needing a playmate. He was the fellow who’d never been afraid of anything or anyone—excepting Mr. Wilberforce, of course.

  Big John Bailiwick closed his eyes and prayed for his life.

  It was the horse that was the problem. The gelding was the only one Mr. Wilberforce could find that was big enough to carry Bailiwick, the one the hosteler called Balthazar. “ ‘E’s the best ‘orse in the world, ’e is!” It took a little while, but even Bailiwick eventually figured out that Balthazar meant “demon.”

  He was a monster, he was, like a shining white ghost horse from hell . . . with pink ribbons in his mane. The hosteler’s daughter had put the ribbons in and Bailiwick had left them, thinking that Little Milady might like to see them when he caught up to her and Sir Colin.