Surely they would find her, either already safely back home or at the inn, conferring with the runner. After all, people of quality did not simply disappear, like street corner vagrants. But even as he assured himself that all would soon be well, a nameless terror ate at his gut.
When they found her, he was going to shake her until her teeth rattled.
After halting in Grosvenor Square to determine Clarissa was still missing and at Curzon Street to pick up several sets of pistols, they sprung the horses and headed south. Arriving soon thereafter at the inn, they found in the dining room only a handful of passengers awaiting the next day’s mail coach and a gathering of local boys raising a convivial pint. Neither the barkeep nor any of the serving maids professed to know anything of a woman fitting Clarissa’s description, the servant attending her, or a small mustachioed man from Bow Street.
Hal and Lieutenant Standish were all for hauling the innkeeper into the back alley and offering a bit more persuasion, but urging restraint, Englemere herded them back into the hackney where Maddie and her footman waited.
“Not unexpected that they’d deny all knowledge,” Englemere reasoned. “The bauds couldn’t be working from here without complicity on the part of someone at the inn. Quite probably whoever is backing the whole enterprise has the inn’s employee on the payroll as well.”
“Very true,” Sinjin agreed. “Which means we can’t afford to waste time, when at this moment they are probably already sending word through their network that someone is searching for Clare. We must find her and the others as soon as possible.” He turned to Maddie. “Please, do us one more favor. Lead us to the brothel where they took you.”
Maddie choked on a sob. “Oh, sir, I cannot! I…I dunno how to get there. I was drugged when they took me.”
“Can you find it from Covent Garden Square?” Lieutenant Standish interposed. “The place where we met you that night?”
Tears dripped down the girl’s face. “I dunno, sir! When I got away, I ran and ran. I dunno if I could find my way back or not.”
“Lieutenant Standish will help you, Maddie,” Sinjin said, keeping his voice gentle. “You can do it. I know you can.”
Maddie glanced at Alex, who nodded encouragement. She took a shuddering breath. “I’ll surely try.”
Once more they set the carriage at a reckless pace. Trying to stave off the nightmarish visions the notion of Clarissa’s capture propelled to his brain, Sinjin forced himself to occupy the transit by discussing how best to infiltrate the brothel once they found it. Bowing to his superior military knowledge—and perhaps understanding he must do something or go mad, Englemere and the others fell in with Sinjin’s plans for the assault.
It took two false starts, by which time Sinjin was ready to roar in frenzied frustration, but finally they were able to locate the baud’s establishment.
During six long years of war, Sinjin had lost count of the number of battles in which he’d fought. He’d spent countless nights huddled on rocky ground, trying to snatch a fitful sleep despite the uncertainty of the carnage to come. Never before a battle had fear shredded his nerves like it did this night, contemplating the awful reality that the woman he’d finally come to realize he loved was held captive somewhere, perhaps beaten, raped or…he couldn’t allow himself to think of worse.
Halting the carriage several streets away, they left the footman to guard Maddie and approached quietly on foot. Now at last, Sinjin could turn his anguish into action.
“When we reach the door, Alex distract the guard, and Hal take him out. Englemere, follow me inside. Watch out for any other guards, and shoot anyone who resists. I’ll continue straight through the building and then rejoin you in the front. Everyone ready?”
Pistols cocked, they approached on silent feet. A heavyset man stepped aside from the doorway to allow one obviously inebriated man to leave. At a nod from Sinjin, Alex raised a shout. When the guard turned toward him, Hal barreled into him, the full weight of his massive body slamming the man into the wall. Sinjin, trailed by Englemere, ran past and into the house.
Racing back from the kitchens, where he’d discovered nothing more threatening than a cowering cook and several scantily-clad women, Sinjin skidded to a halt in the main parlor. To his astonishment, along with more weeping, half-naked women, Hal stood guard over Lord John Weston.
Sinjin turned to Englemere and jerked a thumb at Weston. “Customer?”
Englemere shook his head. “Found him in the back office with the charming proprietor, Miss Maisie. If my suppositions are correct, Lord John is the owner of this establishment and the director of the whole operation. In fact, with the lovely Maisie’s cooperation, I’m confident he’ll soon be leaving his native shores for a long residence at Botany Bay.”
Hal grunted and backed Sir John, his nose bleeding and his face cut, against the fireplace wall and held him there with a contemptuous glare, as if daring the man to reach for the poker so Hal would have an excuse to finish him.
“He’ll need a send-off before we deport ’em.” Hal reached out and rubbed one huge fist under Lord John’s already damaged chin. “Call it…a thank you from all those poor girls.”
“Later, Hal.” Sinjin sprinted to the cornered man. Fear and defiance still mingled in his eyes.
“I should have smashed you the first night we met, you miserable worm,” Sinjin said through clenched teeth. “Where is she?”
“Sweeter than I ever expected, she was,” Lord John gasped, struggling in Hal’s grip but still defiant. “You should have seen her open her legs to—” Whatever else he meant to say was lost in the crash of Sinjin’s fist.
“Manage here,” Sinjin snapped to his compatriots. “I’ll find Clarissa.”
He spun on his heel and ran. As his boots pounded up the steps, a harrowing memory recurred of mounting the stairs in a much richer mansion, racing down a hallway three years ago to find the woman he loved unconscious, brutalized by another such villain.
Blood lust hotter than any that had ever seized him in battle blurred his vision. If that swine Lord John had harmed her in any way, there’d be no deportation, no hanging. Sinjin would kill him where he stood.
And if, please merciful God, Sinjin found her unharmed, he would strangle Clarissa for putting him through this.
Methodically, floor by floor, he ran down hallways, jerked open doors. Though he surprised several couples in delicate embrace, he did not find his lady.
Finally, fear swelling his throat so that it was hard to breathe, he reached the narrow, short-ceilinged top floor. Only four doors opened on the hallway, one of which was bolted. He went immediately to that one.
“Clarissa!” he yelled. “Clare, it’s Colonel Sandiford—Sinjin. Are you in there?”
He waited a second, hearing nothing but the echo of his shout. Then bracing himself, he shot out the lock. Although the explosion brought a round of shrieks from the floors below, from behind the door he heard only silence.
Kicking it open, he ran into the room, and his heart nearly stopped. It looked as if a desperate struggle had taken place. The single bed in the room had been nearly dismantled, its straw mattress flung to the floor, the rope supports themselves destroyed, and the bed frame pushed up against the narrow window nearly bare of glass. Wooden planks lay scattered about amid the shreds of a tattered coverlet and shards of glass and broken crockery.
And then he saw, tied in a crude knot to one bedpost, a ragged rope that led from the bed out the window.
His heart commenced to beat again and hope soared aloft, lifting his lips in a fierce smile.
Damn and blast, but she was magnificent.
The window was almost too narrow to accommodate his shoulders, and he had to use strip rags from the coverlet to protect himself from the jagged edges of the broken glass, but he managed to push himself out. The rope ended a full eight feet above the ground. Sinjin’s fear rebounded. Had she managed the drop without injury? If so, where had she fled?
�
��Clare!” he yelled as he descended the rope, leapt lightly to the ground. “Clare, where are you? It’s Sinjin! Come out, love, you are safe now!”
This side alley had no streetlights. Peering into the gloom, he could see several smaller alleyways leading off it. There was no sign of Clarissa.
Hearing his shouts, several members of the small crowd gathered at the entrance of Maisie’s shuffled closer, but he ignored them. He was about to set off exploring the first alleyway when a shaky voice called out.
“S-Sinjin? Is it you?”
From behind a pile of reeking rubbish bins a figure straightened and walked out with clumsy steps. Shoving his pistol back into his belt, he ran toward her.
Gown bedraggled and sooty, half her hair pulled from its pins, and smelling faintly of garbage, Clarissa Beaumont threw her arms around his neck.
Lifting her up, he carried her to the carriage where Maddie and the footman waited. After racing inside to tell Englemere and the others he’d found her and would convey the ladies home immediately, he leapt back in the jarvey and ordered the driver to take them to Grosvenor Square.
He found Maddie weeping over her mistress’s bloody, rope-burned, lacerated palms and face while Clarissa tried to reassure the girl her injuries were minor and would quickly heal. In spite of all the horrors she must have suffered this night, she was still the one giving comfort.
His heart swelled with love and pride. Still, she had much to answer for.
“Let me see your hands,” Sinjin ordered.
For a moment she resisted, but at last she held them out for his inspection. “Worse than last time,” she said gruffly, a wobble in her voice.
He wanted to rage at her for scaring him to death, then seize her in his arms and kiss her senseless, but the presence of an audience deterred him. Best to get rid of it as speedily as possible. And implement his newest plan.
“Definitely worse than last time,” he agree. “These cuts will need tending. We’ll drop your staff at Grosvenor Square, that they may assure everyone you are well, then proceed for some nursing.”
“Like before?”
Not exactly, but she didn’t need to know that yet. He’d done enough fighting for one night. “Like before.”
Except for patting Maddie and whispering soothing words, she remained silent the rest of their journey. At Grosvenor Square he hopped out to escort Maddie and the footman inside, then spoke quietly to the driver before climbing back into the jarvey. Once freed of the necessity of making a show of cheerfulness, Clarissa had slumped back in her seat, looking exhausted.
He let her rest in silence, hoping she might fall asleep, which would make this next phase easier, but evidently—and with good cause—too shaken for that, she remained silent but awake until the carriage slowed once more.
He leaned to lift her in his arms, but she pushed him away. “I can walk.”
“I’m sure. But your appearance is…somewhat alarming. The state of your garments would be less noticeable if I carry you in, claiming you felt faint.”
She must truly be exhausted, for she gave him no further argument, allowing him to exit the carriage and then reach back to lift her in his arms.
Since she’d leaned against his chest, sighing, and closed her eyes, he was able to make it halfway up the steps to his rooms before her eyes opened with a snap. “This isn’t Sarah’s house. Where are we?” she demanded.
“Englemere was with me looking for you. There’s no one to fetch Becky without alarming Sarah, so I thought it better to bring you back to my rooms.” When she stiffened as if in alarm, he quickly added, “I’m quite a competent doctor, I assure you. Once Englemere reaches home and sends me word, I’ll convey you to Sarah’s.”
And so he would—much later. And hopefully after he had the answer he wanted.
But she’d been through a harrowing evening, and seduction would have to wait until her wounds, both physical and mental, had been tended.
He deposited her on the sofa in his sitting room and had his batman, who raised his eyebrows but said nothing further, bring clean water, unguent, bandages and brandy. While he tended her cuts, he encouraged her to sip the warming spirits and tell him what had transpired.
With obvious reluctance she related the story, attributing full blame to herself for her recklessness and lack of foresight. Several times he had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out his rage, and when she related Lord John Weston’s plans for her, he could not restrain an oath. He would see the bastard hung for this.
Not until he assured her Englemere had discovered the runner and her footman, bound but otherwise unharmed, did she relax.
“Should you like to bathe?” he asked, once her hands had been cleaned and her glass drained.
Her eyes, which had been drooping, snapped open. “Here? Now?”
He nodded. “There’s no telling what time Englemere will return. He and Hal must settle the prisoners with the magistrates, tend to the runner and your footman, and settle the, ah, ladies somewhere. I’m sure you cannot be comfortable in that gown.”
She shuddered. “I shall burn it. But to bathe here? It’s quite improper, as you well know. Indeed, I shouldn’t even be here.”
“Given the activities of this evening, it’s a bit late to worry about propriety, don’t you think?”
She sighed. “I should love a bath. But what shall I put on after?”
“I’ll lend you a robe,” he replied, trying to keep his tone nonchalant and brotherly, while entirely unsibling-like excitement shimmered up his nerves and pooled in the pit of his stomach.
Amazingly, she didn’t balk at that.
“I’ll bring you a blanket. Rest a bit while I have Jeffers prepare the bath.”
He hastened to have a now thoroughly disapproving Jeffers drag the hip bath before the fire and fill it with hot water. When all was in readiness, he woke her.
“I’ll leave you to it. If you require anything, call.”
It was all he could do to walk from the room, his senses swimming with the image of her naked body submerged in hot, soft scented water. But soon—soon, he promised himself.
After what seemed an hour of impatient pacing, he finally heard the call he’d been awaiting. “Colonel. I…I can’t seem to reach the towel. Would you be so good as to place it closer?”
He wiped his sweating palms on his trousers. Having her remain here for the night would be enough. She’d just been through a wrenching, traumatic experience that would have reduced most women to screaming hysterics. Without question, this was not the night for seduction. He would wrap her in the towel and leave.
Stand an arm’s length away and wrap her soft, warm, naked body in a towel…and then leave without touching her?
He took a ragged breath. He could do it. When at last they lay joined, it would be at a moment they both fully desired. He would not seduce her into marriage when she was weakened and distraught.
Another night, he vowed. Soon.
Disappointment coursed through his body even as he acknowledged the rightness of the decision. Steeling himself to the torture of it, he walked into the room, picked up the towel in shaking hands and brought it to her. Beneath the suds he caught tantalizing glimpses of a flat belly and rounded hips, while two soft, full globes floated just below the surface of the water.
With a groan he averted his eyes. “The towel,” he gasped, words nearly sticking to the dust-dry roof of his mouth.
“I’m a little unsteady,” she said, her words wobbling in truth. “I fear I must hold on to something in order to stand up. Would you lend me a shoulder, and then wrap the towel around me, please?”
Why hadn’t he sent for her maid before beginning this torture? “Y-yes, of course.” He gulped in a breath, clutched the towel in nerveless fingers and stepped closer. “I’ll close my eyes.”
She smiled. “Certainly.” And placed one passion-damp hand on his shoulder.
As she stood up, he slammed his eyes shut…except for one teeny, t
iny peek, which under the circumstances must surely be justified.
Botticelli’s Venus, arising from the bath. So perfect, so flawlessly perfect was she that he forgot about closing his eyes altogether, staring down in openmouthed wonder at the smooth curve from neck to back to buttocks, the long, long, slender legs. Reverently he wrapped the towel about her shoulders.
He stepped back and saw a rosy glow on her cheeks before belatedly snapping his eyes shut.
“You weren’t supposed to look.” Her tone was reproachful.
“I didn’t.”
“Liar.”
“Well, only a glimpse.”
Bare naked hand still on his shoulder, she shivered.
“Colonel, I fear I’m beginning to suffer a…delayed reaction from my unspeakable experience today.”
“Quite understandable.”
“You were so comforting before. Do you think you could…hold me as you did then?”
“Now?” With only the thin barrier of a towel between her luscious body and his ravenous manhood?
“Now. Please.”
He swallowed hard. Of course he could do it. Small wonder she wanted comfort, and as a gentleman, he would give it to her. Even if it killed him.
Slowly he pulled her against him. But instead of keeping the towel wrapped about her, at the last moment she pulled it back so that he clasped against him only warm, damp skin.
The feel of her burned into his body—heavy round globe of breasts, slight swell of stomach, smooth length of thighs. He forgot how to breathe, and his brain was surely melting.
“Colonel.” Her voice, whisper-soft as a breath over bare skin.
“Y-yes?” he responded, amazed he was still capable of speech.
Dropping the towel altogether, Clarissa pulled his head down to meet her lips.
The only thought remaining in the steamy puddle of his brain was that, brilliantly passionate though she be, this gallant woman who would be his wife was still a virgin, and must be taken gently.
Butterfly kisses, light, soft, he placed on her lips as he carried and laid her gently on the bed. But an urgency shimmering in her heated skin, she pulled him down beside her, tongue delving into his mouth, hands pulling at his waistcoat, his shirt, until she’d freed it from his trousers. Dispensing with buttons, she merely slid one hand under the material, tugging it loose, and then brought her fingers up in a slow spiral across his chest until they found the tight nub of a nipple.
The Proper Wife Page 24