Edwin grabbed one of Rosalinde’s breasts and gave it a hard squeeze. She cried out in pain, but his other hand at her throat kept her from struggling. Aidan’s vision hazed over with red.
“Stay where you are, Aidan. I mean it.” Edwin’s eyes danced with madness, then his face went eerily calm. “Honestly, how could Peg expect me to let her get away with that?”
“Let Rosalinde go,” Aidan said quietly, wishing with all his heart he hadn’t knacked the man in his garden earlier that evening. If ever there was a time to be blessed by his gift it was now, but if he lifted his hand to Edwin, he knew no power would issue forth. He’d squandered it out of jealousy and the viscount would be impervious to the Knack until tomorrow at least. “You don’t want to hurt her.”
Edwin smiled. “No, I don’t, because she’s my ticket out of here.” Then he tightened his grip on her neck. Gasping, she clawed at his hand, but he was too strong for her. “But I will if you try to stop me.”
Then he pulled Rosalinde into the secret entrance behind him and stomped the paver that slid the stone closed.
Chapter 12
If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber’d here
While these visions did appear.
—SHAKESPEARE, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
“Edwin, stop!” Rosalinde shouted as he hauled her through the subterranean pathway. Edwin extended the torch before him, but blocked so much of the light with his broad shoulders, darkness sucked at her heels as she scrambled after him. His grip manacled her wrist and once when she lost her footing, he dragged her across the uneven stones. “Please, stop.”
“When we get to Gretna Green, we’ll stop,” he snarled.
Gretna Green? Surely he didn’t imagine he could smooth this over with an elopement. She found her feet and scrambled back upright, still forced to lope along after him. “I won’t marry you, Edwin.”
“Yes, you will. Or you’ll be ruined. Besides, your great-aunt has already agreed to a more than generous dowry.”
“She’ll rescind it when I tell her the truth.”
He rounded on her and brought her nose to nose with him. “You won’t do that. A wife cannot testify against her husband.” His eyes glittered wildly. “Cross me and I’ll sell you to a brothel in Cheapside. You’ll die chained to a bed, but not nearly as soon as you’d wish.”
The thought of her debasement seemed to rouse him, for he clamped her body to his, twisting her arm behind her painfully. Then he shoved her back, still keeping his grip on her wrist.
“You’re trying to tempt me, you little minx. Trying to slow me down.” His lips curved in a terrifying smile. “I’ll make you pay for that later. Discipline. That’s the ticket, my love. You’ll like it, I promise.”
“Edwin, think for a moment. Aidan and George both know what happened. You can’t escape. If you surrender willingly, perhaps you can . . .” She didn’t know what the authorities would do to him. Since he was a viscount, prison was unlikely, but Bedlam was a real possibility. He was clearly mad.
“No one will believe Aidan or George,” he said, as if to reassure himself. “They both have too many reasons to lie.”
Her belly lurched. His madness had a twisted kind of logic.
All she could think to do was slow him down. She kicked off a slipper and began to hobble. “Oh, please stop. I lost a shoe.”
He stopped and flashed the torch around, illuminating the tunnel behind them.
“I don’t see it. We need to go back a bit,” she said, trying to pull him back down the corridor. He jerked her up short.
“I’ll buy you new ones in Scotland.” Edwin bent double and threw her over his shoulder. Then he gave her bum a vicious whack that vibrated up her spine and made her teeth rattle. “Try something else, my pet, and I’ll wring your neck and leave you to rot in the dark.”
“Fetch some help, George,” Aidan shouted as he scooped up the bow and arrow and started running back through the maze. “We’ll catch them at the old tower.”
“It’s too far. You’ll never make it,” George called after him.
Aidan poured on more speed as he sprinted for the stable. All the horses startled when he burst through the doors, stamping and snorting their displeasure.
His groom stumbled out of his room at the back dressed in only his drawers. “What the—shall I saddle Camlan for ye, gov? By gum, he’s gone.”
“Even if he was here, there’s no time for a saddle.” Aidan threw open Balor’s stall, grasped a handful of his black mane and swung himself onto the demon’s back. He extended his hand toward the horse’s head and sent every drop of the Knack he possessed. “Now fly, you big bastard.”
The gelding’s eyes rolled as the Celtic magic settled over him like a shimmering mantle. Then he leaped forward and shot out of the stable as if the cry of the Banshee rang in his ears and the hounds of Hell nipped his heels.
Pound. Pound. Pound. Balor’s hooves dug into the turf and propelled them across the meadow in time with Aidan’s shuddering breaths. If Edwin hurt Rose . . .
Aidan leaned over Balor’s neck, crooning curses and urging him to more speed. The gelding sailed over the hedgerow and Aidan could have sworn the hooves never quite settled back to earth. They skimmed the surface of the ground, fast as Aidan’s desperately beating heart.
Carrying her forced Edwin to slow down. And when they reached the point in the tunnel that was partially collapsed, he had to put her down. By then, he’d reverted to his usual courtly, tightly controlled self.
“You’ll enjoy Scotland, I should think. Lovely countryside,” he said as he led her around the obstruction of stone and detritus. “If it wasn’t full of Scots, it would be heaven on earth.”
“My mother was Scottish,” she said stiffly.
“Well, no one’s perfect,” he said as he hoisted her back over his shoulder as if she were a sack of meal. “In a way, it means we start this marriage on a more even footing. We both have things to overlook in each other. You don’t hold Peg Bass against me and I won’t hold your Scottish mother against you.” Then he laughed uproariously and she knew the madman was back.
The sound reverberated along the corridor, sending a shower of stone sloughing from the low ceiling. He picked up his pace, grunting with effort as he scaled the uneven stone steps that led to the tower ruins.
When he reached the top, he set her down. Aidan’s gelding, Camlan, was hobbled near the entrance, his welcoming whicker strangely comforting.
“I wasn’t expecting to need two horses, so we’ll have to share, sweeting.”
“Not likely, Musgrave,” Aidan’s voice came from the dark. “Ye may have gotten away with murder, but ye’ll not add horse thievery or abduction to your list of sins.”
Edwin yanked Rosalinde in front of his body again. In the deep shadows and spatters of moonlight, she made out the form of a dark horse and a man astride, arrow nocked, like an avenging angel.
“Back away, Stonemere, or I’ll kill her.”
“Last chance, Edwin.” Aidan’s voice was strangely calm.
“No!”
The arrow whirred past Rosalind’s crown and struck Viscount Musgrave squarely in the right eye. His grip turned to whey and she leaped away from him. He sank to his knees and then fell forward, dead before his forehead smacked the stone pavers.
Her whole body shook in delayed tremors, but Aidan was suddenly there, enfolding her in his arms. Sobbing with relief, she sagged into his strength.
“Don’t look, love,” he urged. “It’s over now and he’ll never harm anyone again.”
Her insides shook. Another person was dead at Stonehaven and Aidan was right in the thick of things. Depending on the view the magistrate took of these dark matters, Edwin could still harm them.
He could harm them very badly.
Three months later
Autumn frost kissed the English countryside and a riot of color burst
forth, a final dance of glory before the coming bleak winter. Lady Chudderley braved the cool air for a turn around Lord Stonemere’s garden and found her great-niece under the dry brown leaves of the grape arbor. Marriage obviously agreed with her, for her cheeks were ruddier than the weather warranted.
Lady Chudderley stopped her afternoon constitutional to chat with Rosalinde, whose broad skirts were spread around her on the stone bench. She seemed to be contemplating the dentils ridging the tall manor house, so Lady Chudderley took a moment to study the imposing edifice as well.
“A magnificent home. I must congratulate you, child. Even though he seemed unconventional at the outset, Lord Stonemere has proved to be, in every instance, the very sort of well-connected gentleman I required you to wed.”
“I’m sure Father is . . . gratified that you are pleased.”
“And well he should be!” True to her word, Lady Chudderley had bequeathed all her unentailed property and a goodly sum to her only nephew. Loromer Burke was set for the rest of his indulgent life. Rosalinde had refused the dowry she’d offered, since her new husband had no need of the funds. Lady Chudderley was mildly annoyed at that. It was difficult to control those over whom one wielded no monetary power.
“In the end, I suppose we must thank your husband’s cousin George.” She narrowed her eyes at her great niece, wondering at her distracted expression. Ordinarily, Rosalinde would never remain seated while her elder stood.
Honestly, one would think the girl would have the goodness to slide over and offer an old woman a seat!
“After all,” Lady Chudderly went on, “George had the most to gain if Lord Stonemere found himself in difficulty with the law again.”
Rosalinde smiled and drew a shuddering breath. “Yes, but fortunately George backed Aidan’s account of the viscount’s confession to Peg Bass’s murder at every point.”
Lady Chudderley frowned at her great-niece. “Dear me, you’re flushed, child. Are you quite all right?”
Rosalinde’s lips twitched.
Was the girl panting a little? It certainly wasn’t a warm day.
“I’m . . . fine,” she said. “I believe Mrs. Fitz has tea laid on the terrace. I’ll join you later.”
“You’re not coming?”
“Not . . . yet.” Rosalinde sputtered as if she’d choked on something. “Soon, auntie. I’ll come soon.”
“Hmph. Well, if you see that scamp of a husband of yours tell him I’d like him to join us for tea, too. The pair of you have been married a month now and come to think of it, this is the first time I’ve managed to catch you alone. It’s simply not the done thing to be so besotted with one’s spouse. All this mooning about is . . . well, most improper.”
Lady Chudderley turned back to the garden path and headed toward the terrace, vaguely disconcerted by the exchange. There was something afoot, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
“She’s gone,” Rosalinde whispered.
Beneath her broad skirt, Aidan’s mouth found the slit in her pantalets again and resumed his sensual rhythm. She closed her eyes. He’d tormented her with his wicked fingers while her aunt stood not three feet away, bringing her so near to a jerking release, she feared she’d explode. The man was beyond incorrigible.
Thank God.
Her insides coiled and then snapped, her climax shuddering through her in pounding waves. Aidan placed a final kiss on the lips of her sex and climbed out from under her skirt.
He sat down next to her, a smug smile on his handsome face. “Well, is Lady Chudderley right? Are ye besotted with your husband, madam?”
Rosalinde sighed. “I’m afraid so. Most improperly besotted.”
“Good,” he said. “It’ll be my pleasure to keep you that way.”
She smiled up at him. “And now we must do something about your pleasure, sir.”
“Before tea?” His green eyes glinted with wicked delight.
“If we’re quick about it. Come.” She stood and offered him her hand.
“Where are we bound?”
“The library,” she said as she led him past the jasmine and into a side door. “I’ve been wondering if that desk is as sturdy as it looks.”
Aidan chuckled. “Seems I’ve corrupted you thoroughly.”
“That you have, my love,” she said as he swung her into a snug embrace. “And may I never repent.”
“Not sorry ye didn’t wed a proper fellow?”
“You said it yourself. I’d have been wasted on one.” She kissed him, nipping at his bottom lip. “Besides, who’d ever want a proper fellow when she can have an improper gentleman?”
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MY FAIR HIGHLANDER,
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“Tell me you did not tell the barbarian Scot that he could court me.”
Jemma Ramsden was a beautiful woman, even when her lips were pinched into a frown. She glared at her brother, uncaring of the fact that most of the men in England wouldn’t have dared to use the same tone with Curan Ramsden, Lord Ryppon.
Jemma didn’t appreciate the way her brother held his silence. He was brooding, deciding just how much to tell her. She had seen such before, watched her brother hold command of the border property that was his by royal decree with his iron-strong personality. Knights waited on his words and that made her impatient.
“Well, I will not have it.”
“Then what will you have, Sister?” Curan kept his voice controlled, which doubled her frustration with him. It was not right that he could find the topic so mild when it was something that meant so much to her.
But that was a man for you. They controlled the world and didn’t quibble over the fact that women often had to bend beneath their whims.
Curan watched her, his eyes narrowing. “Your temper is misplaced, Jemma.”
“I would expect you to think so. Men do not have to suffer having their futures decided without any concern for their wishes as women do.”
Her brother’s eyes narrowed. She drew in her breath because it was a truth that she was being shrewish. She was well past the age for marriage and many would accuse her brother of being remiss in his duty if he did not arrange a match for her. Such was being said of her father for certain.
Curan pointed at the chair behind her. There was hard authority etched into his face. She could see that his temper was being tested. She sat down, not out of fear. No, something much worse than that. Jemma did as her brother indicated because she knew that she was behaving poorly.
Like a brat.
It was harsh yet true. Guilt rained down on her without any mercy, bringing to mind how many times she had staged such arguments since her father died. It was a hard thing to recall now that he was gone.
Her brother watched her sit and maintained his silence for a long moment. That was Curan’s way. He was every inch a hardened knight. The barony he held had been earned in battle, not inherited. He was not a man who allowed emotion to rule him, and that made them night and day unto each other.
“Lord Barras went to a great deal of effort to ask me for permission to court you, Jemma.”
“Your bride ran into his hands. That is not effort; it is a stroke of luck.”
Her brother’s eyes glittered with his rising temper. She should leave well enough alone, but having always spoken her mind, it seemed very difficult to begin holding her tongue.
“Barras could have kept Bridget locked behind his walls if that was his objective. He came outside to meet me because of you.”
“But—”
Curan held up a singled finger to silence her. “And to speak to me of possible coordinated efforts beween us, yes but an offer from the man should not raise your ire so much sister.”
The reprimand was swift and solid, delivered in a hard tone that made her fight off the urge to flinch. Her brother was used to being in command. His tone was one that not a single one of his men would argue with even if she often did. But that trait was not enhanci
ng her reputation. She noticed the way his knights looked at her, with disgust in their eyes. When they didn’t think she could hear them, they called her a shrew. She would like to say it did not matter to her, but it did leave tracks like claw marks down the back of her pride. Knowing that she had earned that slur against her name made her stomach twist this morning. Somehow, she’d not noticed until now, not really taken the time to recognize how often she quarreled with her brother. He was a just man.
“You are right, brother.”
Curan grunted. “You admit it, but you make no apology.”
Her chin rose and her hands tightened on the arms of the chair as the impulse to rise took command of her.
“Remain in that chair, Jemma.”
Her brother’s voice cracked like a leather whip. She had never heard such a tone directed at her before. It shocked her into compliance, wounding the trust she had in her brother allowing her to do anything that she wished. The guilt returned, this time thick and clogging in her throat.
“Has Bridget complained of me?” Her voice was quiet, but she needed to know if her brother’s wife was behind her sibling’s lack of tolerance.
“She has not, but I am finished having my morning meal ruined by your abrasive comments on matters concerning your future. You may thank the fact that my wife has been at this table every day for the past six months as the reason for this conversation not happening before this.”
Bridget, her new sister-in-law, had taken one look at the morning meal and turned as white as snow. No doubt her brother was on edge with concern for the wife who had told him to leave her alone in one of the very rare times Bridget raised her voice in public to her husband. Curan had slumped back down in his chair, chewing on his need to follow his bride when Jemma had begun to berate him.
Her timing could not have been worse.
But hindsight was always far clearer.
Improper Gentlemen Page 28