Ripe for Scandal

by Isobel Carr

  Nowlin stepped heavily onto her wrist, boot smearing her with mud, and wrenched the pottery shard out of her hand. He jerked her up, fingers digging into the flesh of her arm.

  “Would you really rather be dead? That’s not the plan, and I’d be hard pressed to explain it, but you’re begging for a beating the likes of which you’ve clearly never had. We’re leaving now, and you’re going to behave yourself on the way to the coach or I truly will make you regret it, lass. Do you understand?”

  Beau met his gaze. He didn’t even look angry, just grimly determined. The taste of blood in her mouth made her stomach lurch painfully against her broken busk. She turned her head and spat.

  “I see that you do understand.” His smile returned in full force. “Good.”

  The mist had thickened, not quite turning to rain but heavy enough to coat everything with a damp layer of droplets every bit as cold and slippery. Gareth turned up the collar of his greatcoat and gave Mountebank his head. The gelding picked up the pace, breaking into a trot, as eager as Gareth to reach a warm, dry inn.

  A few miles on, clear signs of habitation began. He was nowhere near St. Neots and the Swan and Bell, but whatever village this was would undoubtedly have an inn of some kind. He’d settle for a spot in the taproom if he had to at this point.

  As he entered the village proper, it wasn’t hard to spot the inn. A mail coach was just departing and a somewhat battered private carriage was drawn up outside, its groom in the process of checking the harness on what looked to be a fresh team. Gareth reined in. Monty shook like a dog beneath him, flinging droplets of water in all directions.

  “I know, boy. It’s high time we both found ourselves a…” His ability to speak deserted him.

  A woman’s head of curls broke through the mist, her hair so dark it seemed to bleed right through the gray. Her head was uncharacteristically bowed, but her height was unmistakable. A man ushered her along, hands familiarly at her arm and waist. Not her father. Not either of her brothers. Certainly not one of the handful of men whom her family might accept as a suitor. Gareth knew them all.

  Lady Boudicea Vaughn was eloping.

  A red fog filled his head. His vision tunneled out. Monty gave an impatient crow hop, and Gareth forced himself to loosen the reins and relax in the saddle.

  The man bundled her into the coach and leapt in after her. The door shut and it rolled into motion. Gareth watched it go. The coach’s wheels sprayed mud in their wake. It disappeared into the heavy mist in moments.

  Monty was cantering after them before Gareth even realized that he’d made a decision.

  CHAPTER 4

  The crack of a gunshot resounded like a clap of thunder. Beau leapt for the door, only to be dragged back by her hair. The coach skidded to a stop, sliding in the mud with a sickening, sideways lurch. A few shouts, muffled by the rain and the walls of the coach, and then the door was wrenched open and the wide-eyed groom slid hurriedly out of the way.

  “Out, everyone out.” The command came from some distance away, muffled but loud enough to be heard nonetheless.

  Nowlin swore under his breath, let go of her hair, and stepped out. He attempted to keep Beau inside, but she squeezed past him. This might be her best chance. Her only chance. Highwaymen were, after all, seeking money. And if there was one thing her family had in abundance, it was money.

  Rain droplets spattered across her skin, large but infrequent. A man on a huge dappled horse held a gun pointed at them, the barrel nearly the same smoky blue as the mist that swirled around their feet.

  His mouth and nose were hidden in his cravat and the turned-up collar of his coat, but she’d know that horse anywhere. Lord knew she’d ridden him often enough before her brother had sold him. She didn’t need the corroboration of Sandison’s silvery queue and narrowed blue eyes, but she was relieved to see them all the same.

  Beau bit her lips and tried to keep from smiling. Nowlin wasn’t going to get a chance to follow through with any of his threats. Not today. Not ever. He’d be lucky to continue drawing breath.

  “Your purse, sir.”

  Nowlin glared and tossed his wallet onto the ground at the horse’s feet. Monty took a step back, clearly not happy about having things tossed at him in such a fashion.

  Sandison’s eyes met hers and narrowed, as though he were accessing the situation still. Beau lifted her chin and stared right back. What was he waiting for?

  “If the lady would be so kind as to retrieve it for me.”

  Beau stepped toward him, but Nowlin blocked her with his arm, doing quite the impression of a man bravely guarding his own. “Get it yourself, bridle-cull.”

  “Ah-ah-ah. You were so hasty as to toss it to the ground. And I’m not fool enough to dismount. The lady seems the safest choice.”

  When Nowlin didn’t remove his arm, Sandison trained the gun directly at him. “I suppose I could simply shoot you and then retrieve it myself. In fact, if you persist in this nonsense, I might take pleasure in doing just that.”

  Nowlin’s arm sagged away from her, and Beau stepped around him, trying desperately not to appear too eager. Why didn’t Sandison just shoot him? He had a clear shot. Was he choosing this moment in life to become squeamish?

  She picked her way through the mud and bent carefully to pick up the wallet, hissing as her stays dug deeper into her flesh. She thrust the wallet into her pocket as Monty pivoted, swinging his hindquarters about, putting himself between her, Nowlin, and the coach.

  Nowlin’s shout of protest was lost in the loud report of Sandison’s pistol and the splintering of wood. Beau grabbed Sandison’s arm, fingers gouging into the wet wool of his coat. He swung her up in a flurry of skirts, and Monty sprang away, long legs eating up ground at a thunderous pace.

  Gareth wrapped one arm around Lady Boudicea and gave Mountebank his head. The gelding flew through the trees. Small branches snatched at Gareth’s hair. One struck his cheek hard enough that he was sure to have a welt.

  Beau clutched at his coat, and he tightened his grip. He’d been lucky to get hold of her at all. Retaining her would prove difficult if she fought him. He didn’t ever want to explain that he’d had to hurt Leo’s sister in any way, for any reason.

  “Did you shoot him?” Her question rattled through him, bringing a twinge of conscience in its wake. Lord knew that he’d wanted to in the moment, but he understood what might prompt a man to go to such lengths.

  If he hadn’t been friends with her brother, he might have done the same himself. Now that she was shivering in his arms, the urge to keep her for himself was nearly irresistible. It burned beneath his skin, live and hot and wicked.

  “No, I’ll leave that to your brothers. Rescuing you from yourself is effort enough for me.”

  She moved impatiently in his arms. “Can we stop for a moment?”

  Gareth grinned. Get him to stop, give her swain a chance to catch up, give her a chance to slip away and run back to him. Cunning, conniving, and unstoppable. That was Beau. “Not just yet, brat. I’d like a bit more distance between us and them before I do.”

  “Agreed, but my busk broke when he kicked me, and it hurts like the devil. Monty’s jostling is killing me.”

  He straightened in the saddle, stiffening his seat, and Monty planted his hooves and skidded to a halt. “He what?”

  Gareth swung his leg over Monty’s neck and took them both down to the ground in a single motion. That didn’t sound like one of her tricks, and the thought of it brought the red haze back to the edge of his vision.

  “What do you mean he kicked you?”

  Beau swayed unsteadily as she got her feet beneath her. Gareth gripped her shoulders and looked her over. Her hair was a tumbled riot, and there was what looked like a bruise waxing across one cheekbone. She looked exhausted. The hollows beneath her eyes were deep and shadowed, the skin almost papery.

  “He didn’t take it at all kindly when I hit him with a chamber pot.” Her fingers popped the hooks that held her ja
cket closed. “Now help me, please.”

  Gareth sucked in a breath and did as directed. That might have been the first please he’d ever had from her. He tugged off her jacket, stripping the damp silk from her with difficulty. She dragged her trailing hair over one shoulder, and he jerked loose the knot that held her stays laced tightly shut.

  “Are you telling me I should have shot him?”

  “Yes!”

  The venom in that single word took him aback. “My apologies, bantling. Next time I’ll try to do better.”

  He took a deep breath and whipped the cord free with sharp, deliberate movements, trying not to think about the fact that Lady Boudicea Vaughn was about to stand before him, one damp layer from naked. Trying not to compare the reality of it to the daydreams he so often used to while away the time.

  Damnation. The reality was so much better… and infinitely worse. The cord swung free of the last hole and she ripped her stays away from her body, flinging them to the ground as though she despised them as much as she did her abductor.

  Her head was bent forward, exposing the nape of her neck, the visible trail of her spine leading downward into her shift. He traced it with his finger, stopping only when he reached the tie that held her petticoats in place.

  Gareth stared at her back, at the sheer linen clinging damply to her skin, at the ties to her petticoats, lying quiescent beneath his fingertips.

  Heaven help him.

  She shivered and stepped away, and he told himself firmly that it was just the rain. That shiver hadn’t been for him, because of him.

  She retrieved her jacket from where he’d laid it across the saddle and turned to face him, fabric clutched to her chest. “You said rescuing me from myself.” Her brow furrowed. “You thought I was eloping?” Anger and annoyance flared in her voice, bringing it down an octave.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  She blinked, drawing a clearly affronted breath. “Leo wouldn’t have told you that. Never.”

  “I was with him when your father came to fetch him. It was impossible not to put the facts together and come to the obvious conclusion.”

  She set her mouth in a mulish line and shoved her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. “Well, you put it together as badly then as you did just now. I have never eloped.”

  Abducted. The flash of rage returned. That any man should presume to touch her, to force her. “You’re right. I should have shot the bastard.”

  He stooped to retrieve her stays, his brain clearly picturing the sway of her breasts, the rosy shadow of her nipples, the way that the damp fabric clung to every luscious curve.

  It was so clear in his mind that he might as well have looked his fill. Instead, he rolled the stays tightly and bound them with their cord and then jammed them into his saddlebag. When he turned back, she was nearly done refastening her jacket, though it gapped and pulled across the swell of her unrestrained breasts.

  Chivalry withered in his chest, burnt to a crisp by the flare of desire, of lust and covetousness. He really was no better than the men who’d taken her. Or if he was, it was only because her brother was his friend. That single fact was the only thing allowing him to cling to honor even now.

  “I think you’ve missed a few hooks, but you’ll do.” He remounted and held out his hand. She took it, and using his foot as her stirrup, leveraged herself into his lap.

  Gareth unbuttoned his greatcoat and pulled her inside it, warding off as much of the rain as he could. She sat stiffly in the circle of his arms, clearly still affronted.

  Rescuer or fellow villain, which was he? Which did he want to be? He’d told himself all these years he was a good man, but with every passing second it felt more and more like a lie.

  CHAPTER 5

  Padrig Nowlin watched the rump of the highwayman’s gray mount disappear into the rain and the mist with horror and sickening disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. They’d planned everything so carefully. He’d planned everything so carefully.

  Whoever heard of a highwayman acting as this one had? And what kind of woman threw herself into the arms of an unknown criminal? She hadn’t done it because she was scared of him either. Lady Boudicea had proved to be everything he’d been warned she was: fickle, fast with her favors, and too cunning by far. A lady in name only. Not that it mattered. Padrig would have served up the Virgin herself if it meant saving his sister.

  Panic welled up, flooding his chest, freezing his limbs. This couldn’t be happening. She’d stranded him in the middle of nowhere with no means of paying the coachman or returning to London. The queasy feeling deepened, threatening to bring his lunch back up.

  All he’d been asked to do was deliver Lady Boudicea Vaughn to Gretna. One simple thing. One simple damn thing and his debts would be cleared. He’d have the title to his family’s estate back in his possession, and his little sister would never hear from Mr. George Granby again. The world would never learn that Maeve had spent the better part of three months as Mr. Granby’s mistress in London in some ill-conceived plan of her own to clear Padrig’s debts.

  Padrig had just wanted Granby gone. Him and all the trouble he’d brought. And if someone had to pay the price, better it was a stranger than Maeve. A duke would have the means to sugarcoat his daughter’s disgrace. Padrig didn’t have any such luxury, and neither did his sister.

  What the hell was he going to do now?

  CHAPTER 6

  Beau eyed the façade of The Pig and Whistle with trepidation. The sign swung in the wind, threatening to come free of its mooring at any second. The half-timbered walls appeared to be slowly sagging out from under the thatched roof, spreading like a warm pudding freshly loosed from the mould.

  “They won’t ask questions, and that’s all that matters.” Sandison’s breath caressed her ear. His jaw brushed hers, the abrasive touch racing through her, making her tighten and pulse.

  It was indecent the way he made her feel. The gossips could label her wanton, and they’d be right. Oh, so very right… She’d been all too aware of him since she’d turned and found him watching her like she was a Boxing Day feast.

  He’d been calling her brat and bantling, as though she were still a child, but he certainly wasn’t looking at her as if she were one. Finally. She’d wanted him to look at her in exactly that manner for nearly as long as she could remember, since before she’d even really comprehended what it meant… and now that he had, she had no idea what to do next.

  Or rather, she had a very good idea—she had a sister-in-law who had been a courtesan, after all—but the odds of her brother’s friend doing anything as suicidal as seducing her were nil. Only he didn’t know the truth. She was already ruined. Nothing he did from this point forward could hurt her.

  But it could hurt him.

  She breathed in the scent of him: sandalwood and amber. He swung her down from the saddle, and her eyes pricked with heat. She could see her path out, her chance to stay in England with her family, to avoid exile, to salvage something of the life that she’d planned and wanted. But it was only possible if she sacrificed Sandison. And it would leave her at his mercy after she’d done so.

  He leapt from the saddle, the skirt of his greatcoat flying out, shedding water like a bird’s wing. Together they led Monty into what passed for the Pig and Whistle’s stable. Sandison rousted the stable boy with his foot and handed over the gelding’s reins.

  “There’ll be a shilling for you in the morning if he’s seen to properly. Rub him down, give him fresh water, and feed him.”

  Sandison tossed his saddlebags over his shoulder and led her into the inn. Beau’s knees nearly gave out as they mounted the steps. She was really going to do this. There was no other choice. Sandison propped her up and pushed her forward into the nearly empty taproom.

  A greasy man in a leather apron rounded the bar. “A room,” Sandison said, a hand nestled at her waist as though it belonged there. Heat pulsed through the wet fabric, radiating into her skin. “And di
nner. Whatever the ordinary is will be fine, so long as it’s hot and it’s served in our room.”

  “Of course, sir. Such a nasty night to be out. Would you be wanting ale or wine with supper?”

  “Wine if it’s drinkable. Ale if the wine’s going to strip my innards raw and leave me crying for my mother.”

  The innkeeper nodded. “Martha will show you to your room. Martha!” A stumpy girl appeared, wiping her hands on her drab skirts. She motioned to them and headed up the stairs without looking back.

  Beau clutched her sopping wet petticoats in both hands and followed the girl up the dank staircase. The room they were led to was as dark and cold as the stairs, but Martha lit the coal that lay waiting in the grate and the candle stubs that sat upon the mantle.

  “I’ll be back with your supper quick as I can,” the girl said as she clomped out of the room.

  Sandison shoved Beau toward the slowly growing fire. She flexed her hands over the coals, wishing for the crackling warmth of wood. There was something a bit dismal about coal. He hung up his greatcoat and tossed his hat onto the table. His silvery hair was rumpled, strands falling loose from his queue to frame his face.

  He looked wild. Like some creature out of a fairy tale. Her very own Tam Lin. He’d certainly abducted her in a forest. He even had a white—or nearly white—steed.

  Beau bit her lip and shut her eyes. It didn’t seem fair that under normal circumstances the world would never have let her keep him, that her family wouldn’t have either. And there was nothing fair about what she had planned for him.

  It was ruin or marriage. When Sandison discovered that merely retrieving her from Nowlin wouldn’t be enough to salvage her reputation, would he baulk? Could she afford to leave him the option? Wasn’t her mother always saying that the key to managing a man was letting him think everything was his idea?