“Forgive me,” whispered he, “that was out of order, but God knows, I’ve wanted to do that since setting eyes on you.”
The same sentiment of kissing him had entered the insane part of her mind when he’d stolen her away from the house that first night. Oh Lordy, the insanity of wishful thinking had suddenly become reality, but it couldn’t be anything else but lust, could it? Derby had merely enacted upon a previous lusty thought. It was nothing more than momentary exaltation after a dramatic near dangerous encounter.
“Erica?” whispered he, his right hand cupping her cheek. “Say something, any damn thing that comes to mind, but don’t leave me hanging, wondering if I’ve ruined my chances of advancing greater favour upon you.”
“Greater favour?” blurted she; unwilling to be a temporary distraction to male vanity in winning hearts. “No, you can’t.”
She thence pushed past him and fled to the orchard, his footfalls pounding the camomile path at her rear, but she ran, and ran, until she reached the wall, where Pembrey was sitting astride it awaiting their return. On seeing her and hearing her breathlessness, he asked in a hushed tone. “Are we sprung?”
“I don’t think so,” replied she, handing up the pillow sham.
“Is something the matter?” was Marigold’s response from the other side of the wall, as Pembrey passed the sham to her care.
In silence she clambered up the ladder as Derby drew level, and at the singular moment of his thrusting the carpet bag upward to Pembrey’s waiting hands, a strange voice sounded from the lower garden, “This way. I swear I heard someone running this way.”
“Damnation,” exclaimed Pembrey, in pitching the carpet bag over the wall, “run for it, Goldie, run for it.
With that said; Derby threw the sham over the wall and Pembrey heaved his leg up and over and launched himself away and into the field. She likewise clambered over and down the ladder on the other side, and set off at a run behind Pembrey who was carrying the carpet bag and the second pillow sham. She could just make out Marigold’s ghostlike figure in the distance, her white dress exposed beneath a billowing cloak.
Heart in mouth and fearing the worst she didn’t look back until the report of a gun shattered the stillness of night and echoed across the meadows. Albeit breathing laboured and a sharp pain in her left side, she kept running as Derby had prior insisted she should if things were to go awry and escape was within reach. Even as she approached the hedge, she sensed they may not make good their escape without further encounters with men her father had so obviously hired to guard the house and grounds.
“Quick now,” said Pembrey, his eyes to the field in search of Derby, “go with Marigold and Durston. I’ll wait for Derby and we’ll bring the baggage.”
“Where is he?” asked she, equal in searching the moonlit field for a glimpse of the man who had escorted her, shielded her, and kissed her.
“Go before it’s too late,” said he, but she didn’t, and breath part regained, she fled back toward the orchard, and heard: “Damn women never listen to good sense,” and but a short distance into the field Pembrey sped past her. Just as well, because less than half way across the field he slowed and she near collided with him, for Derby had loomed from the shadow of the wall and came forward at a staggering gait.
“Stay here,” said Pembrey, his tone adamant in brooking no argument, “he’s wounded.”
Heart in mouth she did as bid, aware of loud voices calling, bellowing instructions, and lanterns threading through the upper gardens near to the house; the only part of the gardens visible from the field. Soon the two men, one supporting the other joined with her, and Derby, clutching his left upper arm, said: “This will be for nothing if your father gets to lay his hands on you, and why couldn’t you do as agreed beforehand?”
The curt tone in his voice cut deep, but she said her piece. “Because I couldn’t, simply couldn’t bear to leave without you. Not after all that you’ve done for us.” And so they hastened onward with him cursing under his breath as Pembrey handed him to her care and thence dashed ahead. “Is it bad?” asked she.
“I think it’s merely a flesh wound to the arm, but my head is throbbing something cruel.”
“But we only heard one shot?”
“The damn shot to the arm knocked me off balance just as I hauled the ladder up and over the wall, thus it and I tumbled over. I must have clouted my head on a stone. Part stunned I realised the man with the gun was in close proximity to the wall so I was better off in the shadows, which afforded time to recover my senses. There was much talk of fetching ladders, and I think it must have been Farnley who arrived and cursed somewhat. Thence he ordered someone to go with him and saddle two horses. Besides, I figured if you’d made good your escape, then the pain was worth it. Now here you are, and Marigold too, and those bastards will be coming along that lane on horseback very soon.”
“Not soon enough,” said Pembrey, as they hastened through the field gateway. “Get up with Marigold, Erica, and Durston will away with the pair of you, and I’ll see to Derby.”
There was no time to argue and she did as bid, and as soon as she was safe in Pembrey’s gig, Durston chivvied the horse and off it trotted with her and Marigold to the seat, and Durston standing like a charioteer. The horse was soon at the canter along the moonlit lane, and the very fact they were travelling in the opposite direction to the village and the gateway at Frampton, she concluded they were taking a circuitous route back to Brook House.
Marigold in clutching her hand tight, said: “He would not be on his feet if the injury was too, too terrible.”
“He banged his head, Marigold, and his gait was sluggish.”
“He’ll be fine, Erica, just fine.”
“I do hope so, but I can’t help remembering what happened to Charlie Harris when he fell from the ladder resting against father’s carriage whilst washing the roof. He was stunned for a moment, walked all the way home to his cottage, and then fell dead at the garden gate.”
“Yes, but Charlie was not as young as Derby.”
“Head injuries are unpredictable, and no telling of unseen damage.”
“Hold on ladies,” said Durston, whilst reining back Pembrey’s horse. “Steady now, Prince, steady boy.”
Thus before them lay a T-junction, and to the left they turned and Prince again picked up his stride. “Where are we going,” asked Marigold, for this is not the long way back to Brook House.”
“To a quite little inn five miles distant, Miss. No need to worry, a room is booked. It was all arranged beforehand.”
Pembrey’s secondary safe haven. Clever Pembrey.
Five
~
On reaching the inn it was plain to see Pembrey had a good rapport with the innkeeper and his wife, for the couple were well prepared for their female guests, but hadn’t expected a wounded man, a man whom they considered was in dire need of a doctor. Despite the caring concern Derby’s protests to the contrary won the moment, and he was extremely obstinate in a heroic manner. Thus he was escorted by Pembrey up to a bedchamber and there settled into a bed. When she joined with them, hot water and spirit had been brought aloft by the innkeeper’s wife in readiness to cleanse the wound, thus Pembrey removed the shirt. It being vital to bare Derby’s arm and make sure his wound was but a graze and no shot lodged within. Pembrey soon declared it was a deep fissure cut and clean of shot, and it fell to her to bathe the wound and bind it with spotlessly clean rags also provided by the innkeeper’s wife. Whilst inspecting his right temple where his head had collided with a stone, his hair encrusted with blood and a sizable swelling, she feared he had suffered more damage than was good for him.
So caught up in the moment, it was not until she stepped back she noticed within the glow of candlelight the glimmer of scar tissue, a knife-edged scar running from his upper right chest to a mere inch or so above the waistline. It would be impolite to ask, but he caught her gaze and said: “I doubt there’s a hussar out there that doesn’
t have a battle scar or two.”
“Were you at Waterloo?”
“I was, though gained this battle scar at Orthe in eighteen fourteen, the very battle in which Wellesley was unseated from his horse. Like me he was injured and lucky to survive. Sheer fluke in his case, for canister shot slammed to the hilt of his sword and otherwise would have sliced through him.”
It was not so much the scar as Derby’s unclothed torso that had for the moment stolen her attention, for he was not as lean as his dark coats implied. He was solid muscle from head to toe, and as their eyes met, he said: “Damn good job it was me who landed the shot, else it would be you lying here, on this bed.”
She sensed a rosy flush flooding her cheeks, for the thought of having him tending to her set her pulse racing. She should leave, should not be there, for the charming smile he bestowed and the glint of devilment to eyes suggested his thoughts matched hers. “What are we to do now?” she queried; whilst Pembrey stepped away to the window and peered out into the darkness.
Reaching for her hand, Derby said: “A few hours of rest and we carry-on as planned.”
“Perhaps not,” intoned Pembrey, quick with drawing drapes across the window as the sound of horses’ hooves clattering on cobbles was unmistakable. “Two horsemen have arrived with a dog at heel, and at this time of night their happening along is hardly a coincidence.”
“Damnation,” exclaimed Derby. “We were so sure we made it here and no one following our tails.”
Pembrey lunged to centre room. “I’ll away down below, and tell Lawrence, the innkeeper, those men bode ill for us. On my say so he’ll offer up Marigold’s and Erica’s bedchamber at the far end of the corridor.” Turning to her, he furthered: “Whilst I’m gone, Erica, it’s down to you to tell Marigold to hide in my chamber, and you must hide back in here and lock the door. I hasten to add, both Derby and I have pistols. Now go, and be as quick as you can.”
There was no time to think, only time to act. Pembrey thus opened the door and she hastened away to hers and Marigold’s chamber, where she discovered her sister peeping between the window drapes. “It’s Farnley,” whispered Marigold, frantic in tone, “and another man I don’t recognise. He has a large hound with him.”
“No matter, for you are to hide in Pembrey’s bedchamber, so be quick and gather your belongings.”
“I haven’t unpacked anything, as yet,” said Marigold snatching up her carpet bag. “I was waiting for news on Derby, and wondering why you were gone so long.”
“Good, neither have I, so that makes the exchange of chambers all the easier. Blow out the candle, go now, and shut the door to Pembrey’s room. He’ll join with you shortly.”
“Where are you going?”
“To sit with Derby.”
In haste they departed the chamber, each to their appointed tasks.
If anyone should hear of her and Marigold, separated one from the other, and each sharing a bedchamber with a gentleman, there would be no escaping a dreadful scandal. But what else could they do, and how were they to escape the close proximity of Farnley? Barely had she closed the door to Derby’s chamber and turned the key in the lock, than heavy footfalls drew near, thence passed onward and the next door along was opened and closed again. Pembrey had returned to his room, and as she placed her pillow shams to the floor, Derby whispered: “This is a cosy arrangement, and if I didn’t know better, I would be given to thoughts of improper deceit on Pembrey’s part.”
She hadn’t thought of that, though doubted such had entered Pembrey’s mind, and when it did, he would be mortally embarrassed, thus she spoke her mind: “Lordy be; poor Pembrey.”
“Indeed, for your sister is far from slow in stepping forward a year or two more than she should, and Pembrey is overtly sweet on the lass.”
Moving closer to the bed and drawing a chair forward from beside the window, it suddenly struck her that the Earl of Epsom was older than Pembrey, when she had supposed they were of similar age. “He’s only twenty-two, and you cannot be more than a year or two older.”
“Twenty-six, to be precise.”
“As old as that?”
“Well that’s telling me,” said he, in whispered tones, “that I’m too old for the likes of Miss Erica Townsend.”
“That is not what I meant, and you know it,” said she, standing over him and inspecting his arm, because she really did wish to see no evidence of blood seeping through the wound dressing. “Besides, I am the same age as Pembrey. Almost on the unwed shelf.”
“You’re not near as forward as your sister, and that may well be the why of your being unwed as yet,” said he, catching her hand as she withdrew it from his upper arm. “Erica, I wouldn’t have kissed you had I not thought there was semblance of mutual attraction between us.”
“Even if there was, or is recognisable attraction, such feelings don’t help when there is no hope of anything worthwhile to come from it all.”
Still keeping a hold on her hand, he said: “If you are worried I play fast and loose with young ladies at will, I can assure you I do not. Whilst I’ll not deny there have been one or two ladies whom I thought were attracted to me, I soon discovered it was my title and not I that had indeed drawn their eye to my estate. Nor am I subject to a father breathing down my neck and pressing for marriage to a titled lady. Besides, my mother would be sorely disappointed if I married another aristocrat’s chit of a daughter, one merely hell-bent on becoming Countess of Epsom, and I thence little more than her benefactor.”
His touch alone set her mind awhirl, no doubt her words seeming as though a mask to inner feelings and desires. “And what of I, merely the daughter of a knight, and you already my benefactor, albeit it a kindly and charitable gesture for your part. Could that not be construed as unseemly, that perhaps I harbour secret desires and pertain to deluded notions of ensnaring you, more so since we are alone in this bedchamber?”
She wished he would relent in holding her hand, but he didn’t and instead raised it to his lips. “Do you have secret desires? Is that the reason for your running away from me earlier?”
“We should not venture to talk such as we are.”
“Why not?” said he, kissing the inner side of her wrist. “Give me good reasons why we shouldn’t engage as we are; why I shouldn’t kiss you as I did in the arbour.”
Oh dear God, if he did that again there was no telling where it might lead.
“Erica, I am not asking you to leap on the bed and make love to me, though God knows, I would make love to you in a heartbeat if granted that honour. Can you not see I am being earnest in affection for you; that I want to progress from friendship to a loving relationship? Crazy as it may seem, and somewhat unconventional, I’m asking you to become my wife, because as I see it, Farnley will have no means at his disposal to remove you from my care once we are wed. And clearly he’s a dogged individual.”
Whispered engagement was akin to madness, but she had to express her concerns despite his seeming sincerity. “Should Farnley demand to see me, and he very well could, what am I to tell him, that we are married, when that would be a blatant lie? And if he sends for father, how am I to convince him we are indeed married? Furthermore, where did this imaginary wedding take place?”
“Bath, Cheltenham, any damn place will suffice.”
“Father will demand to see proof of the marriage, of that you can be sure.”
“Then we’ll provide all the proof he needs in due course, whilst for now we can pertain to marriage by acting the part of a newly-wed couple.”
“How?”
“By sleeping together, and by taking breakfast together in this room.”
The mere thought of sleeping alongside a naked Derby was too much to expect of her, and too much to bear, for she would want to touch, caress, and kiss him. “We can’t. It wouldn’t be right.”
“For whom?”
“For me, for you, and—”
“You misunderstand.” He squeezed her hand, a gentle squeeze
. “I had it mind we would place the bolster between us, so that we don’t, well; touch one another.”
“Oh.”
“Or not, if you feel you can trust me.”
“But you have not a stitch of clothing about your person.”
“You do have night attire in one of those pillow shams, do you not?”
“Of course I have, but there’s nowhere I can change my clothes.”
“Find what you need whilst I put the bolster in the middle of the bed. Place your night attire where you can feel it, blow out the candle, do what you must, and clamber in to the bed. What can be simpler than that? You cannot sleep sitting up in that ladder-back chair, and I am not going to. So what will it be, Erica?”
The Earl's Captive Bride Page 5