My Runaway Heart

by Miriam Minger

  "Shouldn't we do something? Say something?" Lindsay began to rise, but Jared stopped her, his hand at her arm.

  "Why? I've always admired anyone who can survive by his wits. Let them be."

  The singsong abruptly ending couldn't have been more jarring to Lindsay than the harshness in Jared's voice, his expression grown hard, too. As different as night and day from the charming gentleman at the Oglethorpe ball. She stared at him, stunned. But in the next instant he was smiling at her, wry amusement in his deep blue eyes, leaving Lindsay to wonder if perhaps the ale was tampering with her perception.

  "It's all part of an evening's entertainment, wouldn't you say? Look over there."

  Lindsay did, following Jared's gaze to an opposite box where a noisy group of four gentlemen appeared to be poking fun at a fifth companion, a sullen old fellow who sat slumped against the wall with a mug balanced upon his prodigious belly.

  "By Jove, have you ever seen such a sour face?" exclaimed one of the men, mimicking a dour expression. "If I was a new babe born into the honorable Dr. Foote's hands, I'd take one look at that frightful puss and turn 'round to climb right back into my mother's womb!"

  Uproarious laughter erupted, although the old doctor appeared unconcerned that he was the butt of the joke, his expression not lightening a whit. He yawned and closed his eyes, in fact, as if to take a short snooze right there in the box, and therein lay his mistake. Lindsay watched fascinated as the doctor's comrades appeared to conspire among themselves in whispers and choked glee; then one of the men rose and disappeared into the crowd.

  "Jared, what—"

  She was silenced as Jared raised a finger to his lips and inclined his head toward the opposite box. The men there were elbowing one another and grinning as they saw their companion returning. And with the fellow was as robust a woman as any Lindsay had seen, a grin on her plain face, too, until she stopped at the table and gave the smirking gentlemen a broad wink. Then she spread her feet wide and propped her big fists on her hips, her indignant voice filling the cellar.

  "Well, well, Arthur Foote, did you think you could hide from me forever? Spread me legs and left me nine months later with a bawlin' babe, you did, and now I've bloody well found you!"

  "A babe? Me? What?" blustered the hapless doctor, fully awake and struggling to his feet while his companions could barely contain their mirth around him. "I say, young woman, you've got the wrong—"

  "Don't be speakin' to me like a child, you rummy bastard! Deny it if you will, but you're the father sure as I'm standin' here! The poor thing even looks like you!"

  "But that cannot be, dear lady. I've never seen you before!"

  "Wot, now? You're calling me a liar?"

  Lindsay gasped, the woman's outraged shriek hanging in the air.

  "No, no—well, yes, yes, I am—God in heaven! Fend her off me! Fend her off!"

  Lindsay watched the wild melee in amazement. The woman shook her fists and tried to reach the doctor cowering across the table, and the poor man's friends appeared to be doing their best to hold her back. Finally a cry went up from one of the gentlemen for the doctor to give the woman a half guinea to appease her, which the stricken fellow did at once, although he dared only to flip the coin onto the floor. The woman swept up the silver with a triumphant laugh, and again perched her hands on her broad hips.

  "Aye, well, mayhap 'twas a mistake and you're not the man I'm seekin'. Here, I'll give you a kiss and be gone."

  Under much protestation the doctor was made to come forward, the woman catching him by his protruding ears and planting her lips upon his cheek in a noisy smack that sent everyone near into howls of laughter. But another howl joined theirs, the doctor's eyes grown wide with horror.

  "She bit me! The wench bit me! Good God, what shall I do? She's mad, surely, like a rabid beast! I'm going to die! I'm going to sicken and die!"

  "I say, Foote, a red-hot poker could be used to cleanse the wound," cried one of the conspirators.

  "No, no, I'll use the point of my sword to cut out the affected part—Dr. Foote? Dr. Foote?"

  Lindsay felt a pang for the poor man as he fled from his company, a pudgy hand pressed to his cheek, his pitiful complaints drowned out as revelers all around burst into another bawdy song.

  "I'm sorry. I pointed them out to you only because I thought you would be amused."

  Lindsay turned to find Jared studying her, and she quickly smiled, although she didn't feel quite as enthusiastic about Tom's Cellar as she had a few moments ago. "It was amusing, in a way . . ."

  She fell silent, a flicker of something in Jared's eyes making her stop.

  Oh, dear, she didn't want him to think she was having a dreadful time, and she wasn't, truly. Her outing thus far had been so much more interesting than another insufferable ball, and, of course, she wouldn't rather be anywhere else than with him.

  "Actually, I found their prank very clever, although I'm sure that unlucky doctor doesn't think so." A delicious thought struck her, making her grin. "I could see using such a ruse on my stepmother, but with a bit of a twist—perhaps someone claiming to be her bastard son or daughter. Now, that would straighten her sausage curls."

  Jared found himself chuckling, mesmerized by the mischievous glint in Lindsay's eyes. Yet in the next instant he felt his exasperation return, for nothing seemed to be upsetting her.

  He had thought that he'd seen some measure of distress on her face a moment ago, which had made him hopeful that she might wish to return home, having stomached enough of Tom's Cellar. But now she couldn't appear more merry, as if being in such a raucous place was as common as teatime in the afternoon. Obviously a more drastic course of action was needed; dammit, the chit was having too much fun. He lifted his mug and drained it, which gave him a sudden idea.

  "Drink up and I'll order us another."

  Chapter 6

  "Drink up?" Lindsay glanced at her mug, still brimming with dark amber ale, as she had taken only a few sips.

  "You said you liked it, didn't you?"

  "Oh, yes, it's quite good," she fibbed, not wanting to offend. Lifting her mug, she took a healthy swallow just to prove how much she enjoyed it and, surprisingly enough, found she had grown slightly more accustomed to the tangy, somewhat bitter taste. She took another deep swallow, a pleasant warmth working all the way down to her toes even before she had set the half-empty mug upon the table.

  Either that or it was the disconcerting sensation of Jared sitting so close to her, Lindsay thought, his hard thigh still pressed against her leg. Yet he stood in the next instant to beckon a serving woman and the warmth remained, making her reach for the embroidered silk frogs of her cloak. It was growing quite stuffy down here, so many people, the smelly tobacco smoke, the noise, her cheeks feeling as flushed as the rest of her.

  Lindsay started as strong fingers covered hers, gently pulling her hands from the frog at her throat. She met Jared's eyes, not aware until now that he had sat back down beside her.

  "I'm sorry, Lindsay, you'll have to keep your cloak on, remember? We can't risk anyone recognizing—"

  "Oh, please, it's grown so warm. I just want to loosen it a bit, not take it off."

  She smiled with sheer gratitude as he nodded, but once more he caught her hands when she started to lift them.

  "Let me."

  The rich baritone of his voice catching her breath, Lindsay could only stare at him. She tilted her chin a notch as his hands moved to the fastening at her throat; when his fingers grazed her flesh, she began to tremble.

  He undid the first frog and slid his hand along the inside of her cloak to the next, his fingers skimming the curve of her breast and making her wonder if he could feel how wildly her heart was beating. By the third she was more than ready for the fresh mug of ale plunked down in front of her, anything to cool the searing flame in her cheeks.

  "That's fine—thank you," she somehow managed to whisper when Jared unfastened the fourth and last frog, certain he couldn't have heard h
er for the thunderous voices raised in song. It seemed in the past moments that Tom's Cellar had grown even rowdier. Patrons slammed their mugs upon tables to keep time with the bawdy tumble of verses. Women squealed as they were drawn by drunken gentlemen into the center of the room to dance.

  Lindsay barely waited for Jared to move away from her before she lifted her full mug and drank deeply, hoping the ale might calm her reeling senses. He seemed to be studying her again, and she noticed he wasn't touching his fresh mug, while she had nearly emptied hers. Chagrin overwhelmed her. At once she lowered the mug from her mouth, and so quickly that ale dribbled down her chin. It made her giggle—how ridiculous she must look—and she lifted her hand to swipe the stuff away.

  "Let me, Lindsay."

  His warm fingers were cupping her chin before she could blink, his thumb caressing away the spill.

  He leaned closer. She sucked in her breath, mesmerized by the indescribable blue of his eyes.

  Mesmerized by his angular features, any one of them enough to call a man handsome . . . broad cheekbones; a straight, almost hawkish nose; a boldly curved mouth . . . all combined to forge a countenance of devastating masculinity unlike any she'd seen.

  Oh, Lord, mesmerized by the wondrous sensation of his thumb gliding from her chin to gently trace her lower lip, then the curve of her cheek. His hand cradling her face, she inclined her head as if fitting herself to his palm, not a smooth, aristocrat's palm, but one roughened and callused as a working man's might be.

  And he was a working man after all, a spy who had no doubt risked his life countless times for his country—the thought suddenly hitting her like a bolt that she really knew so little about him. And she so desperately wanted to know him, to know everything about him . . .

  "Oh, Jared, tell me—" Her eyes widened, a most unladylike belch bursting from her throat that shattered the breathless spell that gripped her. Mortified to her toes she looked away, but Jared's gentle fingers at her chin drew her gaze back to his face, his eyes, to her relief, filled with studied humor.

  "It's the ale, Lindsay, nothing more. And do you know the best way to stop it from happening again?"

  She shook her head, the crowded room around her still moving when she grew still and tried to focus upon his face.

  "You must drink some more."

  "More?" This time a loud hiccup erupted, Lindsay clapping her hand over her mouth to repeat in a muffled voice, "Truly, Jared? More?"

  "Truly. Finish your ale; then you must have mine."

  "Yours, too?"

  In answer he placed his brimming mug in Lindsay's hand; she looked doubtfully at the frothy brew, but another noisy hiccup made her take a long draught, so long and deep that it was Jared who finally coaxed the mug away from her.

  "I think that should do it."

  "Really?" Suddenly feeling quite woozy, Lindsay gripped the edge of the table, which seemed to be moving as well. She held very still for a moment, waiting, waiting, a self-satisfied smirk breaking over her face when no further hiccups were heard. "Ha! You were right! I feel so much—"

  Lindsay gaped at Jared, her second belch so loud that he broke into a laugh. She giggled, too, shrugging her shoulders and spreading her hands wide, which proved a grave mistake as she let go of the table.

  Suddenly she felt herself falling backward and she would have tumbled altogether from the bench if Jared hadn't caught her around the waist. Throwing her arms around his neck as he drew her back up beside him, Lindsay couldn't seem to stop giggling even as she fought to catch her breath.

  "I . . . I guess I'll just have to drink some more ale—"

  "No, I think instead it's time I take you home."

  "Home?" She shook her head vigorously, so vigorously that the cellar spun around her and she held onto Jared for dear life. "Oh, dear, why is everything moving?"

  "Yes, Miss Somerset, I'd say it's well past your bedtime."

  Lindsay gasped as she felt herself being lifted in the air, a fresh burst of giggles overwhelming her. "Oh, Jared, let's waltz, shall we? Just like last night—it was so wonderful, like a dream—whoops!"

  The world had suddenly become topsy-turvy. Lindsay was aware in a foggy corner of her mind that she had been thrown over Jared's shoulder, but she couldn't see a thing, her ample hood covering her face. Hiccuping in between giggles, she began to swing her dangling arms in time with the ribald song resonating around her, doing her best to sing along with the lively tune:

  What shall we do with a drunken sailor?

  What shall we do with a drunken sailor?

  What shall we do with a drunken sailor,

  Early in the morning?

  Shave him on the belly with a rusty razor,

  Shave him on the belly with a rusty razor,

  Shave him on the belly with a rusty razor,

  Early in the morning!

  She even went so far as to drum upon something lean and hard until a gentleman's voice startled her.

  "I say, man, will you look at that? There's a fellow due for some spirited sport tonight, the lucky bastard."

  "Oh, yes, the lucky bastard!" she roared, sputtering at the blond hair in her mouth. In the next moment she was jounced so soundly that she lost her breath, Jared's shoulder digging into her stomach.

  "Dammit, woman, be still!"

  "Shhh, Lindsay, he says be still," she admonished herself, inhaling deeply of the clear, cool air seeping under her hood.

  It had grown very dark, too, the boisterous singing becoming dim, other sounds cutting through the blurry cobwebs cluttering her mind. The sharp clip-clop of hooves, the clatter of carriage wheels, Jared's deep voice calling out for a coach to be brought 'round. Then she felt herself being dumped gently onto something soft and velvet, Lindsay grinning as a strong hiccup rocked her.

  "You better . . . order more ale for me, Jared. I can't . . . stop."

  "So I see," Jared muttered, wondering how he was ever going to get Lindsay tucked into her bed without her waking the entire household.

  It appeared his idea to get her soused had worked too well; he could imagine the wretched headache she would suffer come morning. But if that would keep the reckless chit from venturing out again late at night, then it had been worth it, and he hoped she would be so sick, she wouldn't wish to see him again, either. Not when she realized he had lied to her, encouraging her to drink to quiet her hiccups, no less.

  Jared drew Lindsay under his arm as the coach jolted around a corner, a pang of regret hitting him as she snuggled blearily against him, her cheek pressed against his overcoat, her breath smelling like a drunken sailor's. But he suppressed the rare feeling and drew back her hood, that stifling black hood which she had endured without complaint and which had so completely hidden the exquisite riot of blond hair that spilled out over his lap.

  He fingered a silken strand, the unusual shade a striking mix of platinum and spun silver. He hadn't realized how long it was until tonight, down to her waist; she had worn it wound in a fashionable chignon last evening. She had looked so lovely, as brilliant as a sunny day in her yellow gown, her magnificent hair coiled by a creamy strand of seed pearls. But he much preferred it streaming loose around her as it was now—

  Jared cursed. "Blast it, man, what the hell does it matter if the stuff is loose or the wench is bald?" he bit out, turning to stare through the window.

  "Jared? Did you say something?"

  Her voice was as silky-soft as her hair; nonetheless, he steeled himself against its bewitching effect and ignored her. Yet that did not prevent him from recalling how smooth her skin had been beneath his fingers when he'd unfastened her cloak, his hand grazing the tender ripeness of her breasts, her heart beating crazily beneath his fingertips, the delicate scent of her perfume—lily of the valley—growing headier from the warmth of her body.

  Dammit, his own physical reaction at that moment had been anything but gentlemanly, his thoughts straying now as with a will of their own to how close he had come earlier that night
to ravaging her. Even knowing of her innocence did not ease the sudden tightness in his lower body and he groaned, dropping his head back against the cushion and shutting his eyes.

  At least her hiccups had ceased, which would aid him in getting her into the house. But if she—by God, had a woman ever looked so beautiful even in belching?

  "Jared?"

  He glanced down to find her staring up at him, her sleepy eyes luminous in the glow from passing lamplights. If she had been dizzy before, he imagined now she was simply exhausted, the ale having taken its toll. But still she gazed at him as if waiting for him to speak.

  "Go to sleep, Lindsay," he bade her, but she stubbornly shook her head.

  "No, no, tell me things."

  "Things?"

  She snuggled closer, one hand dropping into his lap, making Jared groan again.

  "Places . . . where you've been . . . so lucky . . ."

  He threw his head back, his jaw growing tight. Lucky? If the chit only knew. Yet he couldn't blame her for an innocent request, or for the tension coiling like a poisonous snake in his gut. Why not indulge her? She wouldn't remember a thing come morning.

  "Very well. I once called India my home."

  She made no sound, her fingers curled in his coat, and he imagined when he saw her lashes droop that she might have even fallen asleep.

  "We lived in Calcutta, in a huge house with so many servants I couldn't name them." Yet that wasn't true; he had known all the servants, even considered most his friends, never imagining that . . .

  Jared grimaced as the snake inside him sank its fangs into his flesh, a deep chill coming over him.

  Was he a bloody fool? Did he think for a moment that the past had eased its death grip enough to permit him to talk casually of the life he had known?

  "Calcutta . . . India. More, Jared."

  More? His bitter laugh made Lindsay start, her eyes fluttering open to stare once more into his. Just as he stared down at her, suddenly feeling cruel and even more a fool for taking this reckless little bird under his wing.