Ignoring him, Wickenden urged Jett past the horses to the carriage door. Bending, he wrenched it open, not even sure what he would say to her—and found himself staring at two complete strangers, wide-eyed and frightened. One was a pretty young woman, the other an older gentleman with a slightly furtive air who clutched her arm tightly.
“Who the devil are you?” Wickenden blurted.
“I might ask you the same question!” the furtive man retorted. “Because you’re clearly not her father.”
Wickenden groaned. He’d stumbled across another eloping couple. The road to Gretna Green must be thick with them. He slammed the door again, then on second thought, pulled it open again and glared at the young woman.
“Do you want to be here with him?” he demanded.
“Of course she does,” blustered the furtive man. “Not that it’s any of your business!”
“I wasn’t speaking to you,” Wickenden snapped, without taking eyes from the girl who suddenly sobbed and lunged for the door.
“No! No, I want to go home! I want my mother! Oh please, sir, take me home!”
The furtive man grabbed her by the arm. “Jenny,” he expostulated. “We have an agreement, remember? Now sit still and let the gentleman—” He broke off at the screech of steel as Wickenden drew the sword he’d almost forgotten he was wearing and pointed it at the man’s throat until he slithered back and back against the opposite wall of the carriage.
“Step down,” Wickenden said to the girl who, released, scuttled out of the carriage and into the road. Wickenden withdrew his sword and slammed the door. “Drive on,” he commanded the coachman. “And don’t stop until you reach Carlisle.”
The coach drew away with alacrity, leaving Wickenden frowning down at a very young lady in a fur-lined cloak, gripping a carpet bag in both hands. “Now, what the devil am I to do with you?”
“You will take me home?”
“Where is home?”
“Near Kendal, sir.”
“Well, that’s not so far. You won’t get there tonight, though. I’ve something I need to do, first. Up you come.”
The girl grasped his hand willingly enough and he pulled her up behind him. She squeaked with alarm, trying to arrange her skirts decorously—a difficulty Wickenden hadn’t thought of and found it hard to care about right now.
“Pull your cloak around you,” he said impatiently. “There’s no one around to see in any case. Tell me, did you pass another carriage on the road in the last hour?”
“There was a post chaise,” the girl said after a moment. “At least I thought it was, but there were no postillions.”
“How far back?” Wickenden demanded. He’d no desire to waste time chasing back the way if his true quarry was ahead.
“Only ten minutes or so. He said they would be another eloping couple if they were travelling at night, and I felt sorry for her…”
“Well why on earth were you eloping in the first place?” Wickenden demanded.
“I thought it might be fun,” the girl said gloomily. “And he did seem like a perfect gentleman until we got underway and he tried to kiss me and it was disgusting and I realized I’d made a terrible mistake. And then you came and we were sure you were a highwayman.” She pressed forward, trying to peer into his face. “You’re not a highwayman, are you?”
“No, but I am likely to stop at least one more carriage. I’m looking for someone.”
His ears had picked up the sound of another approaching carriage and horses, travelling at quite a sedate speed. Why, after all, would they travel any faster? No one should have known of their departure until morning. By which time, with a change of horses, they could already be at Gretna.
“Hold on,” he said grimly. “Don’t jerk or scream, whatever happens.”
This time, he rode straight at the oncoming pair of horses, turning at the last minute to ride beside them and seizing the near horse’s bridle.
“Woah, whoa,” he said gently, while from the corner of his eye, he saw the indignant driver raise his whip. “Don’t even think about it,” Wickenden snapped at him. “Hold there or you will be arrested.”
Complete nonsense though the threat was, the legality of the word arrest seemed to impress the coachman, who made no further effort to drive on. Wickenden dismounted, but kept hold of the reins as he strode to the chaise door and wrenched it open—and looked into the barrel of a pistol.
Behind it, by the light of one tiny candle lamp, were Kit Grantham’s determined face, and Gillie’s shocked one as she recognized him. In that one instant, his carefully planned speech, and all the calm, curt instructions he’d meant to issue, flew off into the wind.
“By God,” he said hoarsely, “you will not marry him. You’ll marry me.”
Her turbulent eyes widened impossibly, her lips parted—and then the pistol reported and his arm jerked.
Gillie cried out. The unknown girl on his horse screamed, despite what he’s told her, and while he glanced at his arm, which began to sting like hell, Gillie launched herself out of the carriage.
“What have you done?” she cried, falling into his arms. “Oh God, don’t you dare be dead!”
And suddenly there was no question about what to do next. He simply bent his head and kissed her mouth soundly and thoroughly.
*
It wasn’t normal, Gillie felt, for dead and dying men to kiss with quite such…fervor. Not that she could understand why such a kiss should wipe out misery and fear with one swoop. Because there was no need of it. None at all.
“Not dead,” she gasped against his lips.
“Don’t harp on about death,” he commanded, releasing her. “Do I look dead to you?”
“Well, no, but he – you’re shot!”
“He winged me,” Wickenden acknowledged, releasing her to examine his sleeve.
From the sluggishly spreading stain, the bullet had hit the fleshy part of his arm. He flexed it and shrugged.
Slowly, he raised his gaze to Kit, who stood bent in the carriage doorway, his lips thin, his face white.
“Not a very fair shot,” Wickenden pointed out. “Did you think to save yourself the trouble of tomorrow’s duel?”
“He thought you were a highwayman,” Gillie said hastily.
Wickenden blinked. “How many highwaymen want to marry you?”
A sound very like a laugh issued from her throat before she hastily choked it off. Then, for the first time she became aware of the still figure on Wickenden’s horse.
“Who is she?” Gillie asked blankly.
“No idea,” Wickenden said without obvious interest. His gaze was now on Kit, who jumped down into the road. “You want to do this now?”
“You’re wounded,” Kit said stiffly. “And for what it’s worth, a letter should reach you in the morning with my formal apology. I misunderstood, as Miss Muir has explained to me.”
Wordlessly, Wickenden passed the reins to Gillie. “Then why did you shoot me?”
“Temper,” Kit confessed. “I fired without really meaning to.”
“Not a great trait for a seasoned soldier,” Wickenden observed. “Did you force her to this? To elope for an apology?”
Kit lifted his chin. “Yes,” he said defiantly.
“Then it’s fortunate you wear that sword,” Wickenden said softly, drawing his.
“Oh for the love of –” Gillie began, clutching her head with both hands. “What is the matter with men?”
Without a word, Kit drew his own sword. They backed behind the chaise, which gave them more space in the road, as well as the light from the chaise lamps. As one, they gave the fencer’s salute and began to circle each other.
“Are they fighting over you?” the girl on Lord Wickenden’s horse asked in awe.
“God knows,” Gillie said furiously. “Once, maybe.”
Kit lunged first, easily parried by Wickenden who drove him back almost immediately with a series of thrusts and cuts that Kit only just avoided. He stumbled, f
inding his feet and attacking in return.
“How romantic,” breathed the unknown girl. “Which one do you favor?”
“Neither,” Gillie said savagely. “Take your pick.”
“Well, the darker one did rescue me from Mr. Tamms. I think he must be very heroic.”
Gillie’s breath caught. “Well, you can’t have him,” she said perversely and releasing the reins, she strode off to the fighters. She’d had enough.
They didn’t see her coming, and in her fury, she didn’t care. She just knew they had to stop this. And so she walked straight in between them. Kit pulled back so quickly that he fell over. Wickenden, his eyes sparkling still with cold rage, desperately tried to change the direction of his blade and sliced into her cloak instead.
“Enough!” Gillie shouted. “There will be no more of this! No more, do you understand?”
Neither of them said anything, only stared at her in shock. For the first time ever, she was sure she saw fear in the wicked baron’s eyes. Because he’d so nearly cut her.
“Kit?” she said furiously, rounding on her old friend. “Do you understand?”
He nodded. “Yes,” he said hoarsely.
“My lord?” She turned back to Wickenden who, by way of answer, re-sheathed his sword. She frowned, “Why are you even wearing a sword with civilian dress?”
“It’s a long story,” Wickenden said vaguely. His eyes were searching her face. “It wasn’t his idea, was it? It was yours, just as I thought.”
She said nothing, merely turned away.
“So,” Wickenden said mildly, leading the way back to the side of the road where the unknown girl still sat upon his horse. “Let us sort out this mess.”
“I’ll take her home,” Kit said quietly. “We can be there before morning. No one will know she’s gone.”
“Actually, her family knows, but they’re unlikely to tell.” Wickenden gazed thoughtfully at the girl on his horse. “I have a better idea. Down you come.”
Without ceremony, he lifted the girl off the horse. “This young lady wishes to return to her parents in Kendall. This is Captain Grantham, who will take you to his mother at the Blackhaven Hotel for the night and in the morning, will escort you to Kendal.”
Kit closed his mouth. “I will? You expect me to conduct your fl –.”
“I said young lady,” Wickenden interrupted, handing the girl into the coach. “She too made a mistake in eloping. You should get on famously.”
“And Gillie?” Kit demanded, glowering.
“I’m going to marry Gillie,” Wickenden said, catching the reins as his horse finally got bored and began to walk along the side of the road.
“No, you’re not,” Gillie said shakily.
Kit gazed at her and swallowed. “You choose,” he said. “Will you travel back with me in the chaise? Or with Lord Wickenden.”
Gillie bit her lip. For all sorts of reasons she would be safer in the carriage with Kit and the unknown girl. But Aunt Margaret and Bernard knew she’d left. The quicker she returned, the kinder it would be. On horseback they could save an hour, maybe.
“Please, hand me out my bag. I’ll go with Lord Wickenden.”
*
Ten minutes later, she rode away with Lord Wickenden, held before him in the saddle too closely for decorum.
It was Wickenden who had made the chaise drivers turn their vehicle, under threat of doing it himself if they weren’t capable of such a simple operation. After which, he bowed civilly to Miss Smallwood—it was Gillie rather than Wickenden himself who’d discovered her name – and turned to help Gillie into the saddle.
After mounting the bank and riding into the wooded area, the horse slowed to a walk.
Abruptly, Wickenden said, “Why did you think I would kill him?”
She shook her head. “I knew you wouldn’t mean to. I just…couldn’t bear it if it happened by accident. And talking of accidents, your arm must be seen to!”
“It’s a flesh wound, barely touched me,” Wickenden said impatiently. “Don’t change the subject. Did I misunderstand everything so badly? Do you actually love Grantham that you couldn’t bear me to hurt him?”
Involuntarily, she jerked against him, “I couldn’t bear… It was just…” Suddenly it was all too much for her. A silent sob wracked her body and she couldn’t prevent the tears escaping and trailing down her cheeks. She couldn’t even wipe them with her sleeve, without drawing attention to them.
But he’d seen or felt something.
“Gillie,” he whispered, “Gillie, don’t.” His fingers brushed against her cheek, the corner of her eye. “Please don’t cry. I’ll take you back to him if that’s what you truly want.”
“It isn’t!” she said, half turning to pound one clenched fist on his chest. “Don’t you understand? I could not bear you to suffer more. What you’ve done, why ever you do it, it hurts you! I saw something when you told me about the man who might yet die from your last duel and I didn’t want…I couldn’t let you do it!”
He stared at her, a frown twitching on his brow. “Me,” he said blankly. A strange wonder filled his quiet voice. “You did this for me?”
The tears flowed unchecked now. “Kit is like another, much stupider brother to me,” she said, aiming for lightness. “I would always look after him if I could. But it was your soul I feared for.” She tried to laugh and only managed a sob. “How ridiculous is that?”
“Oh Gillie, Gillie,” he whispered. The horse had come to a halt, and both Wickenden’s arms closed around her. His cheek pressed against hers, warm and soothing. “You care for me. I don’t deserve such care.”
“I love you,” she said, because she had to say it once. “But it doesn’t matter.”
His cheek left hers. “Doesn’t matter?”
She didn’t know if it was laughter or tears in her throat and it didn’t seem to matter. The world was already hazy when he dismounted and lifted her down. He looped the reins around a thick tree branch and turned to her.
“It makes everything right,” he said softly. Taking her face between his hands, he kissed her long and sweetly, and when the kiss ended naturally, he began another, and another with increasing passion that swept her along in its wake. Her hands trembled as she gripped his wrists, and yet when he released her, she could only reach up and take back his mouth.
His arms closed around her, pressing her so closely into his body that she felt every hard inch of it. Excitement soared, intensified by the emotion she could no longer hide. She did love him. She was proud to love him. No one would ever kiss her, caress her like this again…
He lifted her, burying his lips in her throat, between her breasts, and then the world seemed to dive. Somehow, she was lying on her back, his cloak and hers covering the soft ground. Cool air brushed against her naked breasts and yet she’d never known such exquisite heat.
She threw her arms around him, feeling only the soft linen of his shirt under her grasping fingers, and then his skin, warm and velvet. His back rippled in response to her every caress. His mouth closed on her nipple and kissed in one long, tender stream. She closed her eyes in bliss, holding his head with her fingers threaded in his short, soft hair.
She no longer knew if she wore any clothes at all, for his hands caressed her everywhere, her waist, her hips, her legs, and then, most shockingly of all, in the secret place between her thighs. He lingered there, his fingers stroking while he kissed her breasts and teased her nipples with his tongue. And when he raised his head, his eyes were hot and clouded, his breath heaving as he took her mouth and settled his weight, so excitingly heavy between her hips.
Although he held her face between his hands, he still, somehow, seemed to caress the aching tenderness between her legs. In the very moment she realized exactly what it was that stroked her, he entered her body, and her mouth opened wide in shock.
He lay still and kissed her mouth.
“What are you doing?” she whispered against his lips.
; “You know. I’m making you mine.”
“I’ve always been yours,” she confessed brokenly, and he moved, pushing deeper within her and beginning to rock gently.
She had some vague idea from Dulcie’s obscure remarks and overheard whispers of married women and maids, that this should hurt more. Perhaps it would have if she hadn’t wanted this so much; if she hadn’t been so awed by his face above hers, moving with the easy, tender strokes of his body. He watched her avidly by the light of the stars, his lips parted, his eyes intense. He undulated beneath her hands, which caressed and scraped against his skin in rising wonder, instinctively grasping his hips and drawing him into her.
Without conscious volition, she moved with him, sensing with her eyes and her body the pleasure it gave him, even as she learned how it intensified her own. His whole being seemed to tremble as if he were holding back with more effort than she could ever understand. And yet, he never stopped and never hurt her, just rocked relentlessly within her, caressed her, kissed her, until she exploded into joy.
He muttered something incomprehensible, covering her mouth with his as the rapture shook her. She clung to him, her one anchor in a world that would never be steady again.
When she could pry her eyes open, she slid her mouth free and smiled at him in unutterable wonder.
His lips stretched in response. His eyes were bright with triumph. “Again,” he whispered, and began to move once more. She met him eagerly this time, catching the echoes of her pleasure and reaching. But this time was faster, just a little wilder, and with awe, she learned the power of a man’s passion when he finally lost control and fell upon her, groaning with agonized joy and emptied himself inside her.
As she held him, she wanted to weep again, but this time from pure, unfettered happiness.
*
“I wish we could stay here forever,” she murmured into his shoulder.
They lay together in a close embrace. Beneath the cloaks which wrapped them like a binding, what clothes they still wore were in utter disarray. Gillie waited for shame or even embarrassment to seep into her happiness, but it never did. Nothing in the world had ever been sweeter than lying here with him, her whole body still languid from what they’d done. She’d never expected such beauty, such utter…gladness.
Barons, Brides, and Spies: Regency Series Starter Collection Volume Two Page 19