A Notorious Love

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Oddly enough, his words reassured her. His hands were heavy on her waist. She could feel their heat through her muslin gown. Their heat and, yes, their strength. She had seen his muscles for herself yesterday. If anyone could lift her into a saddle, he could.

  Besides, the longer she hesitated, the more likely he was to guess she was lying about her ability to ride.

  “All right,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

  The words had scarcely left her lips when she found herself soaring, held aloft by the sheer might of two brawny arms that set her upon the horse’s back as easily as a swallow alights on a windowsill. To her vast surprise and satisfaction, old instincts took over, prodding her to complete the rest in one easy motion—hooking her right leg over the crutch at the knee and balancing her weight in the saddle.

  When she had her limbs and skirts arranged and all that remained was to have him adjust the left stirrup so she could put her foot into it, she glanced down at him, shocked and elated. Triumphant.

  He smiled approvingly up at her as he reached for the stirrup. “Well, well, how about that? You do ride. Or at the very least you sit a horse properly.”

  The compliment swirled about her like a heady fragrance. She did, didn’t she? Why, she was seated as well as she’d ever been before she’d lost full use of her leg. As that realization sank in, Helena trembled from sheer exhilaration. She’d mounted a horse! With help, of course, and she didn’t know what might happen once the gelding started to move, but nonetheless she’d done it! And she’d soon be riding, truly riding!

  Her excitement was apparently infectious, for he smiled at her as he adjusted the stirrup. His eyes twinkled the way they had at Swan Park last summer whenever he’d teased her. Then he concentrated on fitting her booted foot into the stirrup and his smile faded, replaced by a dark intensity.

  He clasped her ankle. “I s’pose I should have warned you about the riding so you could wear a proper skirt,” he murmured in a husky tone. “This one’s a mite short.”

  Indeed, she felt cool air creep through her wool stocking to chill her leg, which was partly exposed below her hiked-up gown, She tried futilely to jerk her skirt down, but it wouldn’t cover all her calf. A good six inches showed above her boot.

  Six inches that seemed enormously captivating to Mr. Brennan, who slid his hand slowly from her ankle to her calf as if measuring the strength in her leg. His rough hand encircled her lower calf.

  “Are you sure about this, lass? Are you sure your leg won’t be worked too hard?”

  She cringed to think of what lay beneath his fingers—the withered muscles barely concealed beneath her thin stockings. Yet she was acutely aware of his intimate touch, the gentle, near caress he feathered over her lower calf.

  His outspread fingers felt hot where they grazed her skin. What if he slid them higher, behind her knee and up her stocking under her skirts, the way he probably did with his strumpets? What if he brushed her thigh as tenderly as he did her calf now, all the way up to her garter and above, where he could curve his fingers around…

  Her face flamed. Oh, dear, how could she even think of him in this scandalous manner! Mama was right. She’d always said that once a lady ignored one rule of propriety, the rest eroded away like the banks of a river.

  “I’ll…I’ll be fine,” she murmured. “And now if you will kindly release my leg and mount your horse, we can get on with this. You do know the matter requires haste.”

  His slow, sensual grin as he drew his hand back showed he took no offense at her admonishment. “I know too well. But even in a hurry, a man doesn’t waste the chance to explore beneath a pretty woman’s skirts.”

  With a wink, the bold wretch strode off toward his own giant mount. What a shocking thing to say! As if taunting her with her own wicked thoughts. He truly was the most outrageous rascal she’d ever met, and unrepentant besides.

  Explore beneath a pretty woman’s skirts, indeed!

  And why must the phrase evoke such…interesting…pictures in her mind? Why must they grow more elaborate when he mounted his mare, the muscles in his buckskin breeches flexing as he threw his leg over? Her mouth went dry to watch him fit his bottom into the saddle as comfortably as he probably fit a fancy woman into his lap.

  She must not think such things. It was ridiculous, unwise…naughty. Very naughty. The way he would be if he ever dared explore beneath her skirts.

  Her skin still burned where he’d caressed it.

  The groom approached Mr. Brennan and showed him some articles left over from her bag. From where she sat it looked like mostly inconsequential items. Still, it irritated her to see Mr. Brennan cast them a cursory glance and order the man to bring them into the house. He was such a tyrant.

  Abruptly, he said, “Wait,” took something from among them, and shoved it into his coat pocket. She couldn’t see what it was, but her curiosity was piqued.

  “Ready, m’lady?” he called back to her as he took up his reins.

  That drove her curiosity right out of her head. She hurried to grasp her own reins, a new concern suddenly taking precedence.

  Now she must prove she could ride. And she wasn’t at all sure she could manage it.

  Chapter 6

  Then she got up on the noble brown

  And he on the dappled gray

  And they rode till they came to a broad waterside

  Two long hours before it was day.

  “Lady Isobel and the Elf-Knight,”

  anonymous Scottish ballad

  It took them an hour to escape London’s tentacles. Midday the streets were choked with carts and carriages, vendors and victuallers. Daniel thanked God for the chaos that kept his attention on maneuvering his mare and away from the woman at his side.

  But once they were cantering along the highway, he could no longer prevent his thoughts from settling on her. Lady Helena rode better than he’d expected. He’d have sworn she was lying about the riding just to bedevil him. That’s why he’d set up that little test for her. He’d been sure she’d balk at the horses, and then he’d be rid of her. He’d even hoped she might see how outrageously improper the trip would be and refuse to go without a maid.

  Only she hadn’t balked or refused. He’d realized she truly meant to go on with it when she’d insisted on mounting the gelding.

  Mad impulse, that—lifting her into that contraption they called a woman’s saddle. He should’ve had a groom help her or sent one to fetch the mounting block she’d asked for. But the truth was, he’d been itching to lay his hands on her ever since they’d met.

  He’d have thought a woman with her rigid ideas would wear a corset, but to his surprise, the delicate waist—which he’d easily spanned with his hands—had been all hers. And when she’d trembled, he’d wanted to do more than grasp her waist; he’d wanted to smooth out her anxious frown, whisper reassurances, hold her close enough to feel her heart pounding. Having her in his arms had been pure pleasure. Pure foolish pleasure.

  Not to mention the delight of touching her leg. That was an enjoyment he wouldn’t mind repeating.

  Which was why when they stopped again, he’d best have somebody else help her mount and dismount. Many more encounters like that, and he’d have to find a cold stream to dunk his St. Peter in. Apparently there was a reason for all those tedious society rules: it wasn’t at all wise for a man of his sort to travel alone with a woman, no matter what the circumstances. Especially when the woman turned him randy as the very devil.

  A tin horn blared loudly behind them. They both slowed to a walk and pulled to the right as a mail coach thundered up. The wheels flashed scarlet as it passed in a clatter of hooves and jingle of harnesses, its black-and-maroon frame crammed full of parcels and passengers. After it left them in a cloud of dust, Lady Helena spurred her horse forward until she was abreast of Daniel.

  “Why are we heading to Tunbridge?” she called over to him.

  Ah, so she’d noticed the road they’d taken.
“’Cause that’s where Morgan and your sister were headed last time anybody saw them.”

  “But that’s south.”

  He nodded. South, toward Sussex, which worried him. Sussex was where Crouch’s band of smugglers dwelt. But that meant nothing—Sussex was lousy with free-trader gangs who led the excisemen a merry dance the whole year long.

  “A good many free traders hide their cutters along the coasts of Sussex and Kent,” he explained, “so Morgan may have one there. That might be why they headed south.”

  She looked unconvinced. Come to think of it, she looked downright ill, her cheeks pale and her lips pinched up tight.

  “I don’t think it’s anything to worry yourself about,” he added, trying to soften her distress. “It just means they’re headed a different way than I’d expect.”

  “I know. It’s not that.” She flashed him a wan smile that was as false as a lady’s bum roll. “I’m only, a little hungry. I breakfasted early.”

  And he hadn’t breakfasted at all. “I thought we’d stop to eat and rest the horses in Bromley, but that’ll be another hour. Can you manage?”

  If he hadn’t been watching, he wouldn’t have seen panic flit over her face. Then she covered it up and he wasn’t sure he’d seen it after all.

  “I’ll be fine. But at this rate, it’ll take us more than an hour.”

  He chuckled. Her and her tart reminders. She was right, however, they needed to get on more quickly. Clicking his tongue to his mare, he brought her back up to a trot, then a canter. A quick glance behind him showed that Lady Helena was keeping up.

  The sun heated the road ahead, baking out the remnants of the last rain and warming him clear through to his insides. They passed a wheat field where threshers labored, rode along a thicket where they startled some quail, and then up a hill to where a windmill reigned over the rolling landscape.

  Perhaps this fool’s errand wasn’t so bad. It cheered him to be in the open air, to see clear sky marred only by the swoop of a peregrine. Sometimes London’s soot and fog dragged his spirits down, making him wish he didn’t have to make his living there. It didn’t happen often—he would get bloody bored in the country. But occasionally he tired of being boxed up with gentlemen who tolerated him only for his connection to Griff or for the money he made them.

  From time to time he liked an adventure, and he suspected this would turn out to be one, provided Pryce and Juliet didn’t outpace them. If the couple boarded a cutter as soon as they reached the coast, it would be nigh on impossible to do anything about it, but if they had to wait for a ship, he might catch them.

  He certainly hoped so. Although Lady Helena annoyed him at times, he hated seeing her so distraught. If they reached the coast only to find that her sister was headed to Scotland aboard a cutter…

  She’d probably swim after it, the plucky lass. A faint smile touched his lips. Much as he hated to admit it, he admired her perseverance. To come all the way to London on her own, stopping in inns and enduring the condescension of strangers, must have taxed her strength and her pride. One thing he had to say for her—the lass was determined to save her sister. A pity that Lady Juliet didn’t seem to want saving.

  Over an hour passed before they reached the thatched-roof cottages signaling the outskirts of Bromley. Lady Helena followed his lead as he slowed his mare to a walk, due to the village children playing quoits beside the road.

  “Mr. Brennan?” she called over to him.

  “Yes?”

  “What am I to call you when we reach the inn?”

  The question flummoxed him. “What’s wrong with my name?”

  At her prolonged silence, he glanced over. Her face was turned toward him, and he saw the creases about her eyes. She held her shoulders so rigidly straight he wondered how she didn’t get the backache from it.

  “I mean, are we…that is…how will you…” She gripped the reins in hands that trembled. “What will you tell them about why we’re traveling together?”

  Ah, so that’s what was worrying her—his threat to have her pretend to be his wife. The proud wench looked bloody alarmed at the thought, too. He ought to let her invent an explanation, since she’d insisted on coming along. “What do you want me to tell them?”

  “I don’t know. I…” She trailed off, facing forward so he could no longer see her eyes behind the rim of her bonnet. “I suppose you don’t have many choices, do you?”

  “I’ll think on it and let you know.”

  The trouble was, she was right—they had few plausible choices. The only men ladies of rank traveled with were their fathers, their brothers…

  Or their husbands.

  For a fleeting moment, he wondered what it would be like to be her real husband. He saw her slipping down onto a bed beside him, smiling for once, all soft and languid the way he suspected she could be if she wanted. And her hair…

  He imagined her hair a thousand different ways, all more erotic than a bawdy painting. Hanging down loose about her bared shoulders. Twined about his fingers, the silk of it tickling his palm. Draped over one naked breast, with the strands teasing him to draw them aside and touch the pert fullness…

  He swore under his breath. He had some imagination if he could put Lady Helena into any bed with him, and especially naked.

  But it did tell him one thing—they couldn’t share a room. No indeed. He wouldn’t get an instant’s sleep for thinking of how she’d look bare-breasted, with her hair her only gown.

  Thankfully they reached the Blue Boar as the mail coach that had passed them earlier was leaving, which meant they could avoid the crowd in the common room and have a quiet meal. He could use a meal just now. Perhaps sating one hunger would make him forget the other.

  Helena, too, was relieved to see the timber-framed building. Her bad leg throbbed from the hip joint down, and her good one ached only a trifle less. Her bottom was simply numb. It might as well have been made of leather, for all the feeling she had in it.

  She desperately needed time off the horse to gather her strength for the rest of the journey. Truth be told, she didn’t know how she’d make it any farther.

  As they pulled up in front, the stableboys and ostler came running. Although Mr. Brennan dismounted, he didn’t come to her side at once, but instead spoke to the ostler about the horses. When a stableman approached and offered to help her dismount, she accepted eagerly, grateful that Mr. Brennan would not be putting his warm, unsettling hands on her again. Grateful…and a tiny bit disappointed.

  She explained to the stableman about her leg and asked for a mounting block, but he was tall and rather broad, so he had no difficulty lifting her down. The moment her feet touched the ground, however, she realized she was in trouble, for her legs buckled. She had to grab the stableman to keep from collapsing. Dear Lord, she couldn’t walk unaided, even with the cane that the man quickly withdrew from the saddle for her.

  “You seem to be havin’ trouble, miss,” the stableman said. “You want I should carry you inside?”

  “No!” She glanced over to Mr. Brennan, relieved he hadn’t yet noticed her clinging to the stableman for dear life. “I merely need a little help.”

  “More than a little, I’d say,” he responded.

  She lowered her voice and jerked her head in Mr. Brennan’s direction. “Please, I don’t wish him to know I’m having a bad time of it. Do you mind letting me lean on you? There’s a shilling in it for you if you keep him from finding out.”

  Merciful heavens, how far she’d strayed from Mrs. N’s path. Now she was paying innocent servants to lie for her.

  But the stableman didn’t bat an eyelash, and clasped her tightly. Thankfully, between her cane and his arm she managed to stumble into the inn. The blessedly warm common room was deserted and Mr. Brennan was preoccupied with ordering them food, so by the time he joined her at the oak table, she was seated, confident that he hadn’t guessed at her difficulties.

  Still, she could hardly move without groaning, without
feeling the impact in every muscle. And must the wretch look so utterly untaxed by their ride? Great lout of a man, she grumbled to herself. He probably had a bottom of iron.

  Indeed, he looked quite cheerful as he dropped his heavy frame into the chair opposite her. “They’ve only a joint of beef and some boiled carrots, as well as bread and cheese and a pigeon pie. It isn’t much, but it’ll do until evening.”

  “Only two days’ worth of food,” she said dryly. “Couldn’t they spare a ham and a leg of mutton? How will we ever survive?”

  Looking faintly surprised, he cocked his head at her. “You laugh, but it takes a great deal to fill the belly of a man like me.” His eyes twinkled. “Lots of good English beef is what gives me the strength to lift ladies like you onto sidesaddles.”

  His good humor when she ached from head to foot was too much to bear. “I suppose we have good English beef to thank for your bullish manners, too,” she retorted.

  “No, for that you can thank the lack of beef in the workhouse, or any kind of meat, for that matter. When a boy’s hungry, he’ll sell his mother for a bowl of good stew. He doesn’t care about manners.”

  He said it matter-of-factly, as if boys raised in the workhouse who grew up to be successful men of business were commonplace.

  “But surely you learned better once you were older and moving in…refined circles—”

  “Refined circles?” He laughed. “The smugglers? Or after I left them, when Griff gave me the job as his man of affairs, when I acted as go-between for him and the smugglers?” His eyes narrowed. “Ah, but I think I know what you mean—my current business associates, men like the new Duke of Montfort at my office. Now, that’s a refined circle for you—his grace and all his lightskirts. He likes them low and dirty, he does. Where the devil do you think I met him? He might have lordly manners when he’s near a lass like you, but you can be sure they vanish when he’s with Mrs. Beard’s girls.”

  “Who is Mrs. Beard?” she asked, then realized what sort of woman she must be.