My Fair Princess

by Vanessa Kelly

“Good God,” Gillian said, sounding disgusted. “You lot weren’t supposed to be back for at least another hour.”

  “Let me handle this,” Charles gritted out.

  “Handle it, will you?” Jenkins said in a mocking tone as he set a lamp down on the table. “Try anything and you’ll be takin’ a dirt nap sooner than later.”

  “I don’t take kindly to threats,” Charles said. “Your brother understood that. You, unfortunately, don’t appear to be as wise as your brother.”

  “Wise enough to aim a pistol, you bloody arrogant prick,” the man snarled.

  “Actually, that would be very unwise,” Gillian said. “He’s a duke, as you know, and a very powerful one. I imagine the Crown wouldn’t be too happy if you murdered him. They might even send troops into Lincolnshire to search for you.”

  Charles mentally cursed when Jenkins’s gaze darted to Gillian. He prayed to God the smuggler wouldn’t recognize her as the woman who’d both shot and humiliated him in front of his gang.

  “That’s true,” Scunthorpe piped up. “The government would see us hanged. Let’s just tie them up and be on our way.”

  Jenkins threw him a sneer. “I ain’t leavin’ without those casks. Nor without them jewels, neither.” He waved his gun. “Throw the pouch onto the table.”

  Charles considered throwing the pouch into the man’s face, then making a dive for him. But with the other pistols and Gillian in the mix, he couldn’t take the chance.

  Gillian hissed out a regrettable oath when he tossed the pouch on the table. Not that he truly blamed her, under the circumstances.

  “But we don’t have the carts,” Scunthorpe said. “How are we to move the casks without them? It was terrible luck to encounter those riding officers on patrol. They’ve obviously got the wind up.”

  “We’ll just have to wait until the bastards clear out, now won’t we?” Jenkins said. “They can’t go on hangin’ around that old barn forever.”

  Scunthorpe waggled his gun hand, clearly agitated. “But that could take hours. Or they could start searching again and stumble upon this place. Then what would we do?”

  “Happens he’s right, Jenkins,” the third man said. “Them officers heard us take off into the woods, I reckon, and won’t be givin’ up so easily. They’s between us and Preston’s barn for sure.”

  “We’ll wait as long as we have to,” Jenkins snapped. “And stop spillin’ your guts in front of the likes of them.”

  “That explains why you returned so early,” Gillian said. “You ran into the law. How very unfortunate.”

  When she gave Jenkins a taunting smile, it was all Charles could do not to groan. What the hell was she trying to do—deliberately provoke him?

  Then it clicked. It had to be what she was aiming for, in the hope that Jenkins would lose his temper and do something foolish to give them an opening. It was typically reckless—though brave—of her. All Charles could do now was keep on his toes and hope he could react quickly enough to protect her.

  The smuggler moved closer to Gillian, looming over her and making her look like a fragile slip of a girl. “Been spying on us, have you?” Jenkins asked. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

  She lifted a mocking eyebrow. “Why, I’m your worst nightmare, as you’re about to find out.”

  Jenkins peered at her, as if trying to puzzle something out. Then he reached out a beefy hand and yanked off her cap. Her long hair, barely contained by a loose braid, tumbled down to her back. Gillian didn’t even flinch, but it was all Charles could do not to launch himself at the bastard for touching her, despite the two pistols trained on him.

  Jenkins let his gun hand drop to his thigh, and his jaw sagged open. “Bloody hell, I know who you are. You’re the little bitch who shot me.”

  “That’s right,” she said calmly. “Care for a repeat?”

  In the uneven light cast by the lamp, Jenkins’s expression looked nearly demonic. And he was much too interested in the fact that she was a woman, as evidenced by his avid perusal of Gillian’s form in her snug-fitting breeches.

  “It might be best at this point to cooperate rather than provoke,” Charles said. Trying to create an opportunity was one thing, but Gillian might as well be poking a dangerous animal.

  She flashed him a sweet smile. “Thank you for the advice, sir. But I assure you that I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”

  “She can taunt me as much as she wants,” Jenkins said. “In fact, I hope she don’t cooperate. I’d like nothin’ better than to get some payback from what she done to me.” He let out an ugly laugh. “And running around and spyin’ on gents in the middle of the night, I’m thinkin’ you might enjoy some larks. I’m just the man for a wild filly like you.”

  “Listen to me, Jenkins,” Charles said in a low voice. “If you dare to touch her, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.” His fingers started to curl, as if already wrapped around the bastard’s throat.

  “I’ll be doin’ more than touchin’ her,” Jenkins said. He used the barrel of his pistol to flick open Gillian’s coat. “Fancy running around dressed like a boy, do you? You’re obviously a little doxy who won’t mind a good shaggin’ from a real man.”

  Charles heard a guttural sound and realized it was coming from him.

  “Is she your woman?” Jenkins asked. “Maybe I’ll let you watch.”

  “For God’s sake, man,” Scunthorpe burst out. “We need to get out of here right now. If the riding officers don’t discover us, then surely the duke’s men will come looking for him. You’ll get us all killed.”

  Charles turned his coldest smile on his former employee. “In your case, I’ll see to it that you’re deported—after you spend a year or two on a prison hulk.”

  Scunthorpe flinched. “This is insane. I’m leaving.”

  “Suit yourself,” Jenkins said, never taking his hungry gaze off Gillian.

  She, however, simply regarded the thug with a slight upcurve of her lips. With her arms hung loosely by her sides, Gillian looked as relaxed as if she were at a garden party. Actually, she seemed more at ease now than she had at the ton events he’d dragged her to.

  “I’ll go,” Scunthorpe said, “but not until I get what’s coming to me.” He waved his pistol toward the pouch on the table. “Either give me one of the jewels or pay me what I’m owed from tonight’s shipment.”

  Jenkins turned to scowl at his erstwhile partner in crime. “Piss off, Scunthorpe. Them baubles are mine. I earned them when the bitch shot me. My brother gave them to me by right.”

  “Your brother is a thief and a smuggler,” Gillian said in a crisp voice. “And you’re an idiot if you think I’m going to let you keep what belongs to me.”

  Jenkins spun, turning his attention back on her. His henchman also seemed caught up in the little drama, his gaze drifting away from Charles to settle on Gillian and Jenkins, who were engaging in a ridiculous argument over who rightly owned the jewels. Scunthorpe, the fool, had shoved his pistol into the pocket of his greatcoat and was edging toward the pouch.

  While Gillian kept the smugglers occupied, Charles slipped his hand into his pocket. Turning slightly away, he drew out his pistol. Quietly, he cocked it, the click concealed by the raised voices—which included Scunthorpe’s increasingly strident demands for payment. If it weren’t for the weapons involved, it would have been more farce than drama.

  “You need to get it through your incredibly thick skull that you will not be taking my jewels,” Gillian said. She gave a haughty little sniff. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as stupid as you. One wonders about your parents, although I suppose your mother took to an early grave over the grief of raising a son like you.”

  Jenkins’s complexion turned purple. “You leave my mother out of it, you silly cow. You don’t know nothin’ about her. And you shot me. You owes me for that, by God.”

  Gillian scoffed. “No wonder your brother is the leader of the gang. It must be quite a trial for him, having deadweight li
ke you to worry about. He’d probably be happy to give you up to the riding officers.”

  “Enough,” roared Jenkins. When he lunged at her, Gillian dodged and ducked under his arm. Her hand whipped down to her boot, and Charles saw a flash of steel. The smuggler let out an anguished scream. He crashed to the floor, Gillian’s knife stuck in his thigh.

  The sight of Jenkins crashing to his knees finally jarred his stunned henchman into action. When he made a move toward Gillian, Charles brought up his pistol and fired. The henchman yelped and stumbled, clutching his shoulder.

  When Jenkins fumbled to bring up his weapon, Gillian lashed out a foot and kicked him smartly under the chin. He fell back, his head connecting solidly with the stone surround of the fireplace. From what Charles could tell, he was out cold.

  Scunthorpe, with a terrified yelp, bolted for the door and disappeared into the night.

  The henchman was down but not out, and he struggled to aim his pistol at Gillian. But just before Charles reached him, she planted her boot on the man’s wounded shoulder and shoved him back down. He bleached white as old bones and fainted.

  For several long seconds, Charles and Gillian stood frozen in a bizarre tableau, as if waiting for some other villain to burst through the door. Finally, she blew out a long breath and tugged her cuffs back into place. “Well,” she said, glancing around. “It looks like that is that, wouldn’t you say?”

  Charles let out a disbelieving snort. At some point, he would be very angry with her, but right now all he felt was relief—and a degree of awe. Gillian Dryden was the most extraordinary person he’d ever met.

  They heard pounding footsteps from outside, and then Teddy calling out. The lad burst through the door, followed by one of the grooms holding a pistol.

  Charles eyed his out-of-breath groom. “Thank you, Tom, but as you can see, everything is under control.”

  “Coo,” Teddy said, staring wide-eyed at Gillian. “You were right, miss. You can handle anything.”

  She waved a self-deprecating hand. “That’s nice of you to say, Teddy, but I couldn’t have done it without help from His Grace.”

  Charles shook his head, then set about restoring order to Gillian’s mayhem.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Dawn was approaching by the time Gillian and Charles finally made it back to Fenfield Manor. There had been the local constable to send for and riding officers to track down, and then they had to give them detailed explanations of events. Since the constable was a rather ponderous fellow, it took a considerable time before Jenkins and his henchman were bundled up and dispatched into the tender arms of the law.

  As for Scunthorpe, he was in the wind. Gillian could tell that made Charles furious, but she was too tired to give it much thought. In fact, almost as soon as he had pulled her onto the saddle of his horse and settled her in front of him, she’d all but fallen into a doze. That had been as much a self-defense tactic as anything else, since Charles was clearly itching to ring a peal over her head. But he was too much of a gentleman to berate her while she was dead on her feet.

  Any hope she had held that she might slip up to bed without speaking to anyone—including her fiancé—died a quick death. The manor house was lit up as if for a party.

  “Blast,” she muttered.

  “What was that?” Charles drew the horse to a halt before the front steps.

  “I suppose it’s too much to hope that my mother and your sister were not disturbed by the evening’s events.”

  He let out a snort. “The evening’s events? Such a dainty way to characterize it, don’t you think? An epic disaster would be a more appropriate description.”

  She did her best to ignore his sarcasm. “Well, it all turned out fine in the end, didn’t it? We brought the villains to heel and recovered the jewels. I rather think we may have heard the last of smuggling runs across estate lands as well, so hurrah for us.”

  When Charles didn’t respond, Gillian twisted around in the saddle to look at him. He was staring at her like she’d sprouted wings from her temples.

  “You’re demented,” he said.

  That stung, but she made herself shrug it off. “You’re not the first to say that, and I expect you won’t be the last.”

  He muttered a few choice words—rather shocking ones, coming from him. When one of the footmen yanked open the door and ran down the steps to grasp the horse’s bridle, she took the opportunity to slide to the ground.

  “Gillian, wait,” Charles called as she dashed into the house.

  She ignored him and headed for the central staircase. Unfortunately, she was only halfway there when the door to the library flew open and her mother rushed out, Lady Filby in her wake.

  “Gillian, thank God.” Mamma pulled her into her arms. “I’ve been so worried.”

  Gillian returned the embrace gingerly, not wanting to smear mud all over her mother’s wrapper. “I’m fine, Mamma. Just a little dirty.”

  “Goodness me,” said Lady Filby. “You look like a street urchin. Where is my—ah, there you are, Charles. I must say you don’t look much better than Gillian. Have you been rolling about in the dirt?”

  “Actually, yes,” Charles said as he stalked across the hall to join them. “And in a variety of other noxious substances that don’t bear thinking about.”

  “Oh dear,” Gillian said as she gave his tall form a quick perusal. “You are rather a mess.”

  He’d lost his hat somewhere along the way, and his hair was disheveled, flat in some parts and sticking straight up in others. His jaw was rough with stubble, he had a dirt smudge on one cheek, his cravat was askew, and his normally shiny boots were scuffed. He looked rough, dangerous, and as far from Perfect Penley as one could imagine.

  But perfectly wonderful for all that, Gillian couldn’t help thinking. Unfortunately, his eyes had narrowed to irate slits, and his gaze was fastened right on her.

  “Poor Charles,” said Lady Filby, trying not to laugh. “I cannot imagine what your valet will say. He might have an apoplectic fit.”

  “He’ll likely quit on the spot as soon as he sees me. Not that I give a tinker’s damn, at this point. What I do give a damn about is Gillian’s outrageous—”

  Fortunately, the long-case clock in the hall interrupted them, conveniently bonging out the hour.

  Gillian took quick advantage. “I had no idea it was so late. Really, Mamma, you should not have waited up for me. Come, I’ll go up with you right now.”

  Charles’s big hand whipped out and grasped her wrist. “Oh, no you don’t.” He started to drag her toward the library. “You’re not going anywhere until we talk.”

  “But Mamma is exhausted,” she protested.

  “Don’t think I don’t realize you’re trying to avoid me. It won’t work.”

  “Are you calling me a coward?” she demanded.

  He raised an ironic brow. All she could do was scowl back at him because, well, she was being a coward. She wanted to have this conversation as much as she wanted to go to a masquerade ball—which was to say, not at all.

  He hauled her to a chair by the fireplace, then waved her mother and Lady Filby onto the settee across from her. He chose to stand in front of the mantel, legs braced, arms crossed over his chest. He radiated rough power and assurance, along with an inferno of masculine ire.

  Much to her disgust, Gillian found it wildly attractive. In fact, she almost wished they were alone so she could throw herself into his arms and kiss him out of his bad mood. Really, the man had made her go entirely soft in the head.

  “My love,” her mother said, “why would you embark on so dangerous an escapade?”

  Gillian reached into her inner coat pocket and pulled out the cloth pouch. “I recovered our jewels, Mamma, and brought the thieves to justice. I’m sorry you were anxious, but there was never anything to worry about. Leverton and I had everything under control.”

  “Oh, for the love of God,” Charles said, sounding thoroughly disgusted. Gillian deci
ded to take the high road and ignore him.

  “See,” she said, opening the pouch. “Here’s my necklace, and your ring and bracelets. Unfortunately, your gold medallion is still missing. I’m so sorry about that. I know how much it meant to you.”

  Her mother got up and crossed to her. Barely glancing at the pouch, she took it and placed it on the table by the chair. Then she went down on her knees, taking Gillian’s hands. “Darling, you are my most precious jewel. You are what’s important to me, not some silly old baubles.”

  “But my stepfather gave us those necklaces,” Gillian said. “You were so upset when that blackguard took it from you.”

  Mamma let out a sigh laden with regret. “What a terrible mother I’ve been to allow you to think for a moment that a necklace is more important to me than your safety or happiness.”

  Gillian blinked. “How can you say that? I know how much you love me. You’ve been a wonderful mother.”

  Mamma tilted her head to study Gillian. “In what way have I been a wonderful mother?”

  “Well, you kept me, for one thing. Most women in your position would not have done so.”

  “Most women in my position would not have been given the choice. Fortunately, your grandmother lent me her support, even over the objections of your grandfather.”

  Gillian felt her ears begin to flame. How embarrassing to haul out the family skeletons in front of Charles and his sister. The Penleys were paragons of decorum, while the Marburys were anything but.

  She glanced up at Charles with a grimace of apology. He simply regarded her with a thoughtful air, before giving her a slight nod, as if encouraging her.

  “I, for one, think it was exceedingly brave of you to keep Gillian,” Lady Filby said in a stout tone. “Well done, I say.”

  Mamma let out a funny little sigh and patted Gillian’s hands before rising. “I would like to believe that it took an act of courage to keep Gillian with me, but I’m afraid the opposite was true. I loved her too much to part with her, even though I probably should have. Selfishly, I couldn’t bear the thought.”

  Gillian jumped to her feet. “How can you say that? You suffered so much. You were exiled to Sicily, forced to leave behind everything you loved. And you had to put up with Grandfather’s being so beastly about it all.”