Victoria heaved an annoyed sigh at his logical arguments. Blast it all, she would not allow him to expose himself to such danger. “I do not want you staying here alone,” she said in tones that warned him she would not budge.
A rather worrisome smile played about his mouth before he gave a slow nod of his head. “Very well. I will have the groom remain with me.”
“And you will be careful,” she demanded.
“I will take the utmost care.” Holding her worried gaze, he bent his head downward.
Victoria knew he was about to kiss her. She also knew that he was allowing her ample opportunity to halt his advance.
But she made no effort to avoid the lips that softly covered her own, not even when they deepened the kiss to reveal a rigidly restrained hunger that was echoed deep within her.
For long, dizzying moments, they both became lost in the swift, relentless need that burned to sudden life.
The cramped carriage, the rain peppering against the windows, the nearby servants all faded as wicked temptation swirled through the air. It was at last the shout of a coachman as a carriage entered the yard that intruded upon their spell of bewitchment.
Reluctantly pulling back, Claredon silently considered her flushed features for a long moment before ruefully dropping a soft kiss upon her nose and reaching for his coat.
With swift movements, he stepped out of the carriage and gave his commands to the waiting coachman. “Take Lady Claredon home, and then return and await me beyond the blacksmith’s.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“Peter will remain here with me.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a moment’s pause as the groom climbed from the carriage. Then, at a nod from Claredon, the waiting horses were set into motion.
Victoria barely noted as they swept from the yard and turned onto the road that eventually led to Longmeade. Instead she lingered in the fog of sensations that Claredon’s touch had so easily seduced to life. With a hesitant movement, her fingers lifted to touch the lips that still throbbed from his kiss.
No, it was much more than a mere kiss, she grudgingly conceded. Thomas had kissed her, wet seeking lips that had only made her wish for the moment to be done. Claredon had bewitched her.
His lips created magic, his touch utter pleasure. Most worrying of all, however, was the tenderness that called to her wary heart. Against her will, his words of the evening before floated through her mind.
I vowed to be faithful the day we wed . . .
Was it possible he did intend to be true to her? That he was genuinely determined to build a relationship between them? Or were his promises the words of a practiced seducer who knew best how to tempt her?
Did she trust him?
Did she desire to trust him?
A faint frown marred her brow. She was far from certain she was prepared to consider the questions. It implied she was prepared to accept Claredon as a part of her life, and that she had forgiven him for ruining her plans for a marriage with Thomas.
Her hand dropped back into her lap as she heaved a sigh. Perhaps it would be better to consider such weighty matters when she was not still tingling with the pleasurable heat of his caresses, she acknowledged wryly.
The carriage slowed and, with a faint frown, Victoria peered out the window to discover they had just passed the small church and were entering the vast woods that framed Longmeade’s parkland.
Opening the window she watched as the coachman climbed down from his seat.
“What is it, Johnson?” she demanded.
“There is a branch across the road, my lady. I shall have it cleared in a moment.”
Closing the window, she settled back into the leather squabs. She knew better than to offer her services to the proud Johnson. He would be deeply shocked at the mere thought of her dampening her soft kid half boots. The staff had a very peculiar notion of what was proper for Lady Claredon, despite the fact she had often pitched in wherever needed at her own estate.
She had barely managed to rearrange her skirts when the door to the carriage was abruptly pulled open. Presuming Johnson had reluctantly overcome his qualms to request her help, Victoria leaned forward, only to come to a startled halt when a large form abruptly blocked the opening.
This was not her servant, she instantly recognized, although she noted little more than a black hat pulled low over a thin countenance nearly hidden by a black scarf. Her attention was riveted upon the deadly pistol the stranger had pointed straight at her heart.
Feeling as if she had stumbled into some horrid nightmare, Victoria could do no more than gape in shock as the man leaned toward her.
“You have my jewels,” he rasped in a low whisper. “Bring them to the church at midnight tonight. Come alone or die.”
“Jewels?” she managed to croak, but it was too late. The stranger abruptly whirled about, his cape billowing like a shadow behind him.
Shaken by the unexpected encounter, Victoria desperately attempted to gather her wits.
Blast! The villain was getting away and she had done nothing to halt him or even to discover his identity.
Cursing her ridiculous flare of fear, she bent forward, intent on at least discovering the direction the villain was fleeing. Her view, however, was swiftly blocked as Johnson came puffing to the door, his expression concerned.
“My lady, are you harmed?” he demanded in broken tones.
“No, I am fine,” she swiftly assured the coachman.
“I did not realize . . . I am sorry, my lady. I should not have left you on your own.”
Realizing that the faithful servant was swiftly working himself into a torrent of self-incrimination, Victoria forced a calmness to her countenance that she was far from feeling. “Do not be absurd. You could not have known the scoundrel was lurking about,” she said in firm tones. “I believe, however, we should continue to Longmeade so that you can return and warn Lord Claredon of the danger.”
“Yes, my lady. At once.”
Clearly relieved to have tangible duties to take his thoughts off his failure to protect her, Johnson closed the door to the carriage and clambered back onto his seat.
With a crack of the whip, they were off, and Victoria drew in a shaky breath.
The stranger was obviously a madman, she acknowledged, as a chill crept down her spine. To actually have stopped the carriage in broad daylight and pointed a gun at her heart . . .
Yes, most definitely a madman.
And a dangerous one at that.
* * *
Sprawled in a dark corner of the public room, from beneath the lowered rim of his hat, Claredon kept a careful eye upon the various guests streaming into the room. He had ordered his groom to lounge about the stables to ensure the man did not attempt to slip to his rooms through the servants’ entrance.
When the thief returned to the inn he would have him, Claredon thought with a flare of satisfaction.
A good thing, too, since his unruly mind was determined to stray back to those moments in the carriage rather than concentrating upon the matters at hand.
Claredon shifted uneasily on the hard wooden chair. Good God, now was not the time to be thinking of skin like the richest silk or lips that could tempt a saint to sin.
Unfortunately, his wayward body still shimmered with a wicked heat, and that ball of frustration in the pit of his stomach had hardened to a near unbearable pain.
He did not want to be chasing mysterious strangers in this crowded, damp inn. He wanted to be at Longmeade with his wife.
The realization sent a vague sense of alarm through him.
Desiring a mistress had always been a transitory, fleeting emotion. Desiring the woman who would be at his side for eternity seemed to smack of a commitment perilously close to love.
Claredon shifted again. Then his thoughts were abruptly distracted as a pretty barmaid appeared at his side.
“Another ale, my lord?” she demanded with a smile that invited far more pl
easures than mere ale could provide.
He gave a shake of his head, barely noting her overripe charms. “Thank you, no.”
“There’s some shepherd’s pie that might tempt yer appetite.”
“I have all that I need.”
“Yer sure?” the maid demanded, leaning until her exposed cleavage was at eye level. “We aim to please at the King’s Arms.”
Startled, Claredon experienced no more than irritation at the woman’s blatant invitation. What he desired could not be found in this common posting inn. “Quite sure.”
“If you change yer mind, you have only to call. My name is Peg.” With a flirtatious toss of her raven curls, the maid sauntered away.
Claredon did not bother to watch the seductive sway of her hips or her backward glance. His attention had already returned to the crowd spilling in and out of the room.
More long minutes passed before the sight of his coachman standing in the doorway had Claredon on his feet and rapidly making his way across the room. With a frown, he grasped the servant’s arm and maneuvered him into an empty parlor. Shutting the door, he regarded the older man with an impatient gaze. “Johnson, I told you to await me beyond the blacksmith.”
“Yes, sir.” The servant shifted his feet in a nervous manner. “I fear there has been a bit of trouble.”
A terror more sharp and utterly painful than he had ever experienced before stabbed through his heart. “Lady Claredon?” he whispered between stiff lips.
“She is well.” Johnson was swift to reassure him. “But we were set upon by a ruffian on the way home.”
A dark, lethal fury hardened his countenance. “Tell me from the beginning.”
The coachman blanched at the sizzle of danger in the air. “Yes . . . um ... we had just passed the church when I was halted by a large branch in the road. I got down to pull it aside, and when I turned about, I realized that some scoundrel had opened the door to the carriage. I called out, and he took off across the graveyard. I thought it best to get Lady Claredon to safety rather than to chase after the dastard.”
With an effort, Claredon sought to clear his fog of fury. As much as he longed to have his fingers about the unknown villain’s neck, it was far more important he see and touch Victoria to reassure himself that she was unharmed.
“You did right,” he said in clipped tones. “Gather Peter from the stables, and I will meet you at the carriage.”
“Yes, sir.”
Leaving his servant, Claredon went in search of the innkeep. He would go to his wife, but first he intended to ensure the stranger did not vanish. It took little time to discover the portly innkeep just leaving the kitchens. With a gesture from Claredon, the man hurried to his side.
“Yes, my lord?”
“I must leave for Longmeade at once, but there is five pounds for you if you send word to me the moment Mr. Smith returns.”
A gleam of pure greed entered the man’s pale blue eyes, assuring Claredon the innkeeper would hand over his own mother if need be for such a handsome reward. “Yes, sir. You shall know at once.”
Confident Mr. Smith could not slip easily away, Claredon turned on his heel and left the inn. His carriage was waiting at the door and, with a meaningful glance at Johnson that silently told him to race with all speed, he climbed into the coach.
He had barely settled onto the seat when they were off. In a blur of passing landscape they traveled the short distance to Longmeade.
Not bothering to wait for the carriage to halt before the sweeping steps, Claredon vaulted out and hurried into the house. The startled butler moved forward with raised brows. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
“Where is Lady Claredon?”
“I believe she is in her chambers.”
Claredon brushed past the servant and took the stairs two at a time. His burning fear would not be settled until he had seen his wife with his own eyes. Moving down the hall, he came to her door and pushed it open without bothering to knock. Victoria rose from the window seat at his entrance, and he crossed to grasp her hands tightly in his own.
“Victoria, are you harmed?” he rasped in unsteady tones.
“No, I am fine,” she assured him with a startled expression.
He briefly closed his eyes as a wave of pure relief rushed through him. “Thank God. I did not think . . . I never should have allowed you to travel without a groom.”
Her brows drew together at the edge of self-disgust in his voice. “Nonsense. You could not know that villain was lying in wait.”
Claredon gave a shake of his head, his gut twisting at the mere thought of this beautiful, fragile woman in danger. He would never forgive himself if something were to happen to her. “I should have suspected.”
“Nothing happened,” she retorted in firm tones. “Beyond giving me a sad fright.”
Thrusting aside his anger at having exposed her to danger, Claredon turned his thoughts to the villain. “What occurred?”
“Johnson halted the carriage to remove a branch from the road, and suddenly there was a man at the door pointing a pistol at me.”
Claredon’s heart came to a full halt. “He was armed?”
“Yes.”
“I will kill him,” he swore in deadly tones. “What did he want?”
She gave a slow shake of her head. “It was all very odd. He said I possessed his jewels and I was to bring them to the church at midnight tonight.”
“Jewels?” he muttered. “What jewels?”
“I haven’t the least notion. I have no jewels beyond the pearl necklace that belonged to my mother. No one could possibly believe I had stolen it.”
“Bloody hell.” Claredon dropped her hands to run his fingers impatiently through his dark hair. “I do not like this.”
“I cannot say that I particularly care for it myself,” she retorted dryly.
“Did you recognize the man?”
“No. He had a scarf about his lower face and his hat was pulled low upon his brow.” She suddenly paused. “Oh.”
“What?”
“He had a black cape. Just as the intruder had last night.”
Claredon gave a nod of his head. He had already concluded the intruder had been the same dastard who had dared to accost his wife.
What he didn’t know was why. Was it a matter of mistaken identity? Had he confused Victoria with some other woman who had his jewels? Or was the man merely mad?
In either case, he intended to put a swift end to this unpleasant business. A very swift end. “Do not worry, my dear. I shall settle this matter.”
A hint of concern darkened her eyes. “What will you do?”
“What anyone would do with a rat,” he retorted in harsh tones. “I will trap him and then exterminate him.”
Seven
Victoria had a very bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Pacing across the salon for what seemed to be the hundredth time, she thought of Claredon sitting in the dark graveyard awaiting the appearance of the mysterious Mr. Smith.
She had adamantly argued against his plot to ambush the stranger when he approached the church. What did it matter that he had taken several servants along to surround the area? Or that he had promised not to take foolish chances?
Mr. Smith was obviously a crazed lunatic. If he sensed a trap, there was no telling what might occur.
Reaching the fireplace, Victoria turned on her heel and headed back toward the door. She barely noted the vicar patiently sitting upon the sofa until he heaved a deep sigh.
“My dear Victoria, you are exhausting me,” he complained in faintly teasing tones.
Coming to a reluctant halt, Victoria regarded her guest with a rueful grimace. “I cannot seem to help myself, Mr. Humbly,” she admitted as she wrapped her arms about her waist. “I never should have allowed Claredon to convince me of this absurd scheme.”
The older gentleman lifted his brow at her fierce words. “He did seem rather set upon the notion.”
Set upon the not
ion? He had been positively unrelenting, she thought with a flare of annoyance. “It could be dangerous.”
“Surely you desire this scoundrel to be caught?” Humbly demanded.
She gave a restless shrug. The capture of Mr. Smith was not worth her husband’s life. “It is the duty of the magistrate. Or if Claredon is truly concerned, we could send to London for a Runner.”
“I believe he wished the matter to be settled with all possible speed.”
Victoria was not appeased by the argument. “’This stranger is clearly deranged. He could be capable of anything.”
“All the more reason to capture him swiftly, my dear.”
She shook her head. For some reason, the thought of Claredon facing the madman made it difficult to breathe.
“I dislike this waiting. I should have gone with them.”
The vicar gave an unexpected laugh. “Good heavens, Lord Claredon never would have agreed to your presence.”
Victoria abruptly frowned. She might possess a startlingly fierce concern for Claredon, but she did not bow to his whims. Her independent spirit rebelled at the mere thought. “Lord Claredon may be my husband, but he does not dictate what I may or may not do.”
“Oh no, certainly not,” Humbly hastily agreed. “I merely meant that there is little either of us could offer tonight. It is far better he has the company of servants who are capable of offering protection.”
“I suppose,” she reluctantly conceded.
“And besides, Lord Claredon strikes me as a very capable gentleman,” he was swift to add. “I am certain he will have the situation well in hand.”
“He is not always capable,” she corrected, as she recalled his impulsive decision to succumb to the wiles of Lady Westfield. “He can do remarkably foolish things upon occasion.”
“Ah.” The word held a wealth of meaning, and she blushed as she realized the vicar had easily followed her train of thought. “Tell me, Victoria, do you blame Lord Claredon for forcing the two of you to wed?”
Caught off guard by the abrupt question, Victoria felt her blush deepen. “I ... in some ways, I suppose,” she stammered, unable to baldly lie beneath that piercing gaze.
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