He delved deeper into his emotions and discovered he suffered from a degree of guilt. As a lad, he had been helpless to defend his delicate mother against his father’s violent wrath. Might that be the reason he wanted to help Lady Brookwood?
With a shake of his head to clear the annoying thoughts, he rode his horse into the mews behind his townhouse. Spot’s welcome bark greeted him in the warm, hay-strewn stables with the familiar smells of hot horseflesh, dry feed, and manure. He handed the horse over to the groom, then bent to greet his dog.
Flynn shrugged the tightness from his shoulders as he crossed the lane to his house, relieved to have come to some understanding of his confusing emotions. Now his thoughts were clear. He understood what plagued him and knew what he must do. Rescue the lady and move on with his life. What remained unclear, was how.
*
Althea had spent most of the afternoon pacing the drawing room. Her thoughts dwelt on Montsimon and his word of warning more often than she cared for. Life with Brookwood had been grim, but nothing of late brought her much joy either. She fiddled with the top button on her bodice, wondering when she would hear from her solicitor. Not until then would she know what action would be available to her. She was determined to continue to live as she had planned while keeping her distance from Sir Horace Crowthorne. She had read in the newspaper that Crowthorne had berated Lord Canning in Parliament over some bill. Reassured that he would not be invited, she had accepted the Canning’s invitation to their dinner party. It would prove a perfect distraction.
For the occasion, she dressed in a flattering celestial blue silk gown with a deep scooped neckline. White satin and lace decorated the hem and sleeves, the same edging on the tight bodice was a perfect foil for her pearls. Her pearl and diamond earrings adorned her ears, the matching bracelet on her wrist. Her hair was dressed in loose curls with pearl ornaments and ostrich feathers. She picked up her beaded reticule, pulled the sable-lined hood of her cape carefully over her hair, smoothed her gloves, and ventured outdoors.
The crisp air greeted her. Wisps of clouds shrouded the moon in a star-studded sky. Assisted into the hackney coach, Althea pulled her cloak closer, glad of the heated brick at her feet. The carriage lurched forward, and she watched the shadowy streets pass by.
They were nearing the exclusive square in which the Cannings resided when a horseman rode past them. Moments later, the carriage rocked violently and shuddered to a stop.
A broken axle? More vexed than alarmed, Althea pulled down the window. “What has happened?” she called to the jarvie.
A man appeared from the front of the vehicle leading his horse, muffled against the cold, his hat obscuring his face. He stood in the shadows. “I’m afraid your jarvie is indisposed, madam,” he said in a low gruff voice. “A malaise of some description.”
“Poor man,” Althea said briskly, hiding her misgivings. They could hardly accost her here in St. Audley Street, a hare’s breath from Grosvenor Square. “Please put down the steps; I may be able to help.”
She leant forward to open the door.
“No need for that,” he said. “I have offered to drive you to your destination.”
Althea struggled with the handle. “This door appears to be stuck. Open it, if you please, and I shall see for myself.”
She spluttered in outrage as the man coolly dismissed her request. He relinquished the reins of his horse to another fellow before disappearing out of sight. The carriage rocked as he mounted the box. They set off again, passing the jarvie who, looking well enough, stood on the pavement studying something in his hand.
With the crack of a whip, the carriage juddered as it gained speed. Althea gasped. They were traveling away from the Canning’s home.
“Go back! That’s not the right way!” Panic strangling her breath, Althea banged on the carriage roof.
No one answered, nor did the driver slow the horses. Who was he? Althea shivered, her stomach churning. Was Sir Horace behind this abduction? Where were they taking her?
The coach traveled on. They soon reached the outskirts of the city, continuing at a harrowing pace. Althea sniffed, tears clinging to her eyelashes. She was unable to do anything other than listen to the drum of horses’ hooves on the road and hang on to the strap as the carriage rocked. London’s lighted streets disappeared behind them.
They drove through the deep purple darkness of the countryside. The clouds drifted away to expose a luminous pearl of a moon which cast violet shadows over the landscape. Althea still had no clue as to where they were going.
Another hour passed. She’d fallen back against the squabs exhausted, considering her fate, when the carriage stopped. “Where on earth are we?” She peered from the window, her body tense as a harp string. No lighted buildings in sight, only the silhouette of a copse of trees growing close to the road.
She felt around on the floor and grasped the wrapped brick, which had cooled long before. She held the reassuring weight on her lap under her cloak and waited. A man moved beyond her sight and lit the carriage lamps, which formed an arc of light over the ground, beyond which was impenetrable blackness.
In the distance, the thunder of hooves erupted into the still air. The carriage rocked as the driver jumped down, the horses stamping and whickering.
A lone horseman galloped up to the carriage. He passed Althea’s window. Althea opened the window and a blast of cold air rushed in. She blinked and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head while trying to decipher their low voices. “Who are you?” she yelled with little expectation of a response. “Show yourselves, you cowards!”
The door suddenly whipped open, and the man with the scarf climbed inside. Althea raised the brick, hoping to strike him before he gained his balance. But it was heavy and made a difficult weapon to wield. And he was so tall.
Lightning fast, he wrestled the brick from her grasp before she could get it high enough to bring it down on his head. He tossed it out of the open door. “I think not, my lady,” he said in a genial tone.
She knew of only one mellow-voiced Irishman. “Lord Montsimon?” she shrieked, disbelieving her own ears.
He unraveled the scarf and smiled. “We must continue our journey, Lady Brookwood. Allow me to assist you from the carriage.”
“I’ll go nowhere with you… you…” Further words deserted her when her breath seemed caught in her throat. She glared at him, drawing gulps of air.
Her apparent distress failed to move him. “Will you consent to come with me peaceably?” he asked in a cool tone, nodding toward the door. “Or shall it be necessary to remove you by force?”
“I declare you should be incarcerated,” she yelled. “Go where?” She squinted at him in the gloom. She couldn’t smell drink. “You must be mad.” What on earth did he want with her? Surely, he wouldn’t go to all this trouble just to have his way with her. She doubted he wanted to, the way he looked at her was anything but lover like. She admitted to being a little relieved that he wasn’t Crowthorne. “If you take me back to London at once, we shall keep your outrageous behavior between us.”
“If I appear mad, Lady Brookwood, it’s you who has driven me to it,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I’ve an appointment in Canterbury. I would like you to join me. Never fear, I shall return you to your home afterward, safe and sound.”
“Why take me there?” She stared into his handsome face. He might have been asking her to take a turn around the room at a soiree! She glared at him. If Montsimon wished to carry her off to Gretna Green, he might ask her first. Even though she would refuse him. Though why he should wish to take her anywhere against her will eluded her. “I demand to know why you abducted me in this fashion.”
“I told you to leave London, Lady Brookwood. And you would not listen.”
She stared at him. “So you chose to remove me without my consent.”
“There was no alternative. You would not have agreed to go.”
“You’re certainly right about that!” She folded
her arms. “Tell me why you consider this necessary.”
“To keep you safe.”
“I was safer in London than I am now.”
He sighed. “You’re wrong about that. Did I not make it clear to you how dangerous Horace Crowthorne is?”
“So you say. But how do I know you’re not a murderer? You might have killed poor Lord Churton. You seemed to know of his death before anyone else.”
“You shall have to take my word that I didn’t kill him. Shall we alight?”
His gray eyes bored into hers. He was certainly very determined. It was perhaps best to agree to his demands and take him by surprise at the earliest opportunity.
“Very well.” She scooted to the edge of the seat.
He hesitated and eyed her. “I become suspicious when you give in so easily.”
“I feel it best to humor you,” she said, her tone brisk.
“Then please continue to do so.” He jumped down from the carriage, turned, and held up his arms.
That’s what you think! She leaned into his warm hands, and he lifted her from the coach. Once on the ground, she pulled away from him and fussed with her cloak, allowing time for her heart to stop its infernal fluttering. The moon chose that moment to slip behind a cloud. Beyond the dim gloom of the carriage lanterns, the night was as black as a coal chute. “Where on earth are we?”
“Some miles from Canterbury I’m afraid. You’ll have to ride with me.”
“You shall recompense me for this gown.” She looked around. “Where’s my horse?”
“It stands before you.”
“What? We ride together on the same horse?” The idea stripped her of breath. She backed away and shook her head. “No. Oh no.”
“We have only the one. The hackney coach must be returned to its owner.”
“Preposterous.” She put her hands on her hips. “I shall return to London in this coach, but first, I demand you explain.”
A chuckle erupted from the box.
“Take them away, Ben,” Montsimon ordered.
“Right you are.” The man snapped the whip, and the horses leapt forward.
“No, wait!” Althea cried, turning to run after the carriage. It was useless. She was ruining her evening slippers and could only watch as the swinging lamps faded into the dark. Her chance to return to London gone with it. She spun around and glared at Montsimon. “How dare you!” She aimed a slap at his face but could only see his shadowy outline as he darted back. She squealed with frustration as her hand met thin air. He was so annoyingly tall.
The horse whickered. “Temper, my lady.” His amused voice came out of the dark. “You are frightening our only mode of transport. I assure you I have an excellent reason to take you with me.”
She fought to control her temper. It wouldn’t do to lose the horse. “As I can’t think of a single reason, kindly enlighten me.”
“I decided it best not to leave you in London.”
“That’s a poor answer. Why not?”
“You are in danger. As I have already told you.” He made the whole affair sound reasonable. How did he manage to do that? It was entirely irrational. His diplomatic skills she supposed. Well he’d have to work harder than this to convince her. And she was cold, her evening slippers did little to protect her feet.
The moon sailed clear from the clouds again and revealed him in the act of throwing a leg over the saddle. He removed his foot from the stirrup and leaned down. “Will you join me?”
Still seething, she ignored his hand. “Might this be your way of showing your affection?” she asked, her tone brittle.
“No. It has more to do with your stubbornness.” He edged the horse closer.
She sidestepped him. “My refusal to bow to your insane wishes?”
“You might have gone to stay with your brother as I suggested.”
She sighed. “Because I refused your officious order, you deemed it perfectly acceptable to remove me forcibly. You are beyond the pale!”
Montsimon gave an exasperated sigh. “We can’t stay here all night arguing. They’ll find our frozen corpses in the morning. I apologize in advance for the uncomfortable mode of travel. But we must get to Canterbury.” His apologetic tone was so deceitful; she put her hands on her hips and huffed at him.
“I can’t leave you here, now can I? Will it become necessary for me to throw you over the saddle? You’ll find that far less comfortable, I can assure you.” A thread of steely determination lowered his voice.
Althea sensed his threat was real, and before an undignified struggle ensued, she hurried forward and eyed the stirrup. Impossible to mount the horse gracefully in this slim skirt. How annoying it was to be small. Once she put her foot in the stirrup, the dress would ride up and reveal her stockings up to her garters and heaven knew what else. “You like to control women, I see,” she said bitterly. “And you don’t wish to be thwarted. Very well. I shall pander to your outrageous request, I see I’ve no option. But please adjust the stirrup!”
Before she could say another word, Montsimon reached down and, with a fluid motion, swung her up before him. Sudden contact with a large, hard body so intimately close to hers brought an audible gasp from her lips. His arms pinioned her, one big hand grasping the reins, the other settling somewhere close to her derriere. She twisted to eye that hand suspiciously, then caught sight of the ground. It would be painful to fall from the sixteen-hand black stallion as it danced around, impatient to be gone.
He lowered his head close to hers. “We’ve quite a ride ahead.” His warm breath tickled her nape before he settled the hood of her cape back over her head. “I hope that you won’t find it too uncomfortable.”
“How considerate of you,” she muttered grimly as they took off and a rush of numbing, icy air hit her face.
Chapter Ten
Althea had never been this tired in all her life. They had been riding along the road for almost two hours. At least the clouds had dispersed. In an effort to distract herself from Montsimon’s proximity, she raised her head to admire the night sky, which looked as if a giant’s hand had strewn diamonds across an immense dark lake.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Montsimon said.
“Indeed, if only I could view it from my window in Mayfair.”
“Embrace the adventure, Lady Brookwood.”
“You are shockingly loose in the haft, my lord.”
He chuckled. “Such language from a lady.”
“I am trying to come up with something better,” she said bitterly.
She fought to hold herself away from him, but it was impossible. His hard thigh cradled her derriere in the most embarrassing fashion. She grew too tired to care and slumped back against him. “How much longer?”
“A while yet.”
Was there a hint of mirth in his voice? He was enjoying this! How dare he! She attempted to find a more discreet position, then froze. Was that what she suspected it was?
Montsimon gave a soft laugh. “My gun is in my pocket, but if you wriggle your bottom against me what do you expect?”
“Stop! I’ll walk.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We are miles from the inn.”
“What inn?”
He sighed. “The Old Gate in Canterbury. I’ll arrange for a bedchamber. You can rest while I conduct my business.”
“What business might you have in such a place?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you are a remarkably inquisitive woman?”
She huffed. “I believe I have a right.”
“I daresay you do.”
He sounded as weary as she was, but she straightened her spine. It would not do to feel too sorry for him.
“Why Canterbury?” She tried to turn her head to gauge his expression but gave up, fearing it would bring her face too close to his. “An inn in Kent seems an unusual venue for a diplomatic meeting. Diplomats mix in exalted circles. This is hardly the Congress of Vienna.”
“I could have traveled to Canterbury in cons
iderable comfort, Lady Brookwood, but I had to make sure you weren’t followed.”
“It appears you have overdone it somewhat.”
“I did not intend this to happen.”
He sounded despondent. She felt a pang of sympathy for him. “The best laid plans, Montsimon?”
“Hastily made, because of an unforeseen problem.”
“I am that problem?”
“Not precisely, Lady Brookwood.”
Their intimate position made his use of her title seem odd. She wondered how her given name would sound on his Irish tongue. “I don’t wish to seem ungrateful, but why on earth would anyone wish to follow me?”
“You are most definitely ungrateful,” he said wearily. “They’d follow because they wish to get you alone.”
“Crowthorne?” She swallowed. “I will not give him another chance.”
“That depends on how determined he is in his pursuit of you.” He yawned. “I’ll be happy to be proved wrong. I intend to find out what’s driving him. It can’t merely be your allure or your humble cottage.”
“Thank you for the compliment,” she said with a touch of irony. “I see you are resting your diplomatic skills along with the horse. As I have told you, Sir Horace wants to put a road through my land.”
“Mmm. I like your perfume. Is it roses?” He yawned again.
“It’s called Attar of Roses. You’re not falling asleep, are you?”
“With a lovely bundle in my arms?” He chuckled. “What sort of man would I be?”
“A tired one I imagine.” Her own lids were threatening to close. She sat up suddenly at a flicker of light glowing in the dark.
“Careful!” One big hand flattened against her stomach as the horse’s gait faltered.
She shifted away from his warm hand. “There’s a light over there, through those trees.”
The Viscount’s Widowed Lady Page 9