A Gentleman's Honor bc-2

by Stephanie Laurens

  The relief that surged through her nearly brought her to her knees. The weight on her shoulders evaporated. She was free—free to deal with Sir Freddie as she wished, with only her own life at stake. A life she was willing to risk to secure her future—what choice did she have? She fought to keep any hint of her upwelling resolve from her face. She glared at Sir Freddie, then swung on her heel and walked on.

  Trusting to his overweening confidence to keep him from wondering at her continued acquiescence for just a few steps more…

  From behind, she heard a faint chuckle, then his footsteps as he followed. Up ahead to her right lay the wooden spar. Just a little farther; she needed the greater steepness, the change in their relative heights…

  Again she stopped dead, swung to face him.

  At the last second let her contempt show. “You bastard!”

  She slapped him. With the full force of her arm as she delivered the blow, with him lower than she, his face at the right height to take the full brunt of her momentum.

  He had no chance to duck; the blow landed perfectly. Her palm stung; he staggered.

  She didn’t pause but turned and raced, scrambling up the few steps to the spar. She heard him swear foully, heard his boots scrabble on the path. Bending, she locked both hands on the spar, hefted it, and swung around. Driven by resolution laced with very real fear, she put every ounce of strength she possessed behind her swing.

  He didn’t see it coming.

  She wielded the spar like a rounders bat. He was still lower on the path than she; the spar hit him across the side of the head.

  The spar cracked, broke, fell from her hands.

  He slumped to his knees, groggy, dazed, but not unconscious. He weaved. Desperate, she glanced around.

  There were no other spars.

  She grabbed up her skirts, stepped around him, and ran. Fled like a fury down the path, leaping down from the workings and streaking across the moor to plunge into the dark wood.

  Chest heaving, she forced herself to slow. The roots were treacherous; she couldn’t afford to fall. If she could get to the cottages and raise the alarm, she’d be safe. She didn’t even have to worry about Matthew anymore.

  From behind her came a roar; the thud of heavy footsteps reached her, rapidly gaining.

  Fighting down panic, she kept her eyes down, locked on the path, feet dancing over the tree roots—

  She ran into a black wall.

  She shrieked, then stilled as the familiar scent, the familiar feel of Tony’s body against hers, of his arms wrapping about her sank into her senses. She nearly fainted with relief.

  He was looking beyond her, over her head. “Where is he?”

  His words were a lethal whisper.

  “On the path leading up to a disused mine.”

  He nodded. “I know it. Stay here.”

  With that he was gone. He moved so swiftly, so silently, surefooted in the darkness, that by the time, dazed, she turned, she’d nearly lost him.

  She followed, but carefully, as quiet as he. She’d expected him to wait in the shadows and let Sir Freddie blunder into him as she had, but instead, he paused, waited until Sir Freddie was nearly to the trees, then calmly, determinedly, walked out of the wood.

  Sir Freddie saw him. Pure horror crossed his face. He skidded to a halt, turned, and fled.

  Back up the path.

  Tony was at his heels almost immediately. Following as fast as her skirts would allow, she could see that he could have overhauled Sir Freddie anywhere along the upward slope. Instead, he waited until Sir Freddie gained the level stretch beside the gaping mine shaft before he reached out, spun Sir Freddie around, and plowed his fist into his face.

  She heard the sickening thud all the way down the path where she was laboring upward. The first thud was followed by more; she couldn’t see either man but felt sure Sir Freddie was on the receiving end. She hoped every blow hurt as badly as they sounded. Gaining the level stretch, she looked, just in time to see Tony slam his fist into Sir Freddie’s jaw.

  Something cracked. Sir Freddie fell back, onto a pile of rubble. He slumped, winded, but quick as a flash he grabbed a rock and flung it at Tony’s head.

  She screamed, but Tony hadn’t taken his eye from Sir Freddie. He ducked the missile, then, lips curling in a snarl, bent, grabbed Sir Freddie, hauled him to his feet, punched him once in the face, grabbed him again, shook him—and flung him backward into the mine shaft.

  There was a huge splash; water sprayed out.

  Tony stood where he was, chest heaving until he’d regained his breath, then he stepped forward and looked down just as Alicia joined him.

  She cast one brief look at Sir Freddie, spluttering, desperately searching for handholds on the slippery shaft wall, then looked at him. Reached out with both hands and touched him. “Are you all right?”

  He looked into her eyes, searched her face—saw she was far more concerned for his well-being than hers— and felt something inside him give. “Yes.” He briefly closed his eyes. If she was all right, he was, too.

  Opening his eyes, he reached for her, drew her to him. Wrapped her in his arms and gloried in the reality of her warmth against him. Cheek against the silk of her hair, he sent a heartfelt thank-you to fate and the gods, then, easing his hold on her, looked down at Sir Freddie, fighting to hold his head above the dank water. “What do you want to do with him?”

  She looked down. Her eyes narrowed. “He told me he’d killed Ellicot, and he was going to kill me. I say we let him drown—poetic justice.”

  “No!” The protest dissolved into a gurgle as Sir Freddie’s terror made his fingers slip. “No,” came again as he scrabbled back to the surface. “Torrington,” he gasped,

  “you can’t leave me here. What will you tell your masters?”

  Tony looked down at him. “That you’d sunk before I reached you?”

  Folding her arms, Alicia scowled. “I say we leave him—a hemlocklike taste of his own medicine.”

  “Hmm.” Tony glanced at her. “How about a trial for treason and murder?”

  “Trials and executions cost money. Much better just to leave him to drown. We know he’s guilty, and just think—who forced him to come here from London? Did I make him spin me a tale about kidnapping Matthew?”

  Tony stiffened. “He told you that?”

  Lips tight, she nodded. “And just think of all the brave sailors he’s sent to watery graves! He’s a disgusting and debauched worm.” She tugged Tony’s arm. “Come on— let’s go.”

  She didn’t mean it, but she was more than furious with Sir Freddie, and saw no reason not to torture him.

  “Wait! Please…”Sir Freddie coughed water. “I know someone else.”

  Tony stilled, then, releasing her, he stepped closer to the edge and crouched down to peer at Sir Freddie. “What did you say?”

  “Someone else.” Sir Freddie was breathing shallowly; the water in the shaft would be freezing. “Another traitor.”

  “Who?”

  “Get me out of here, and we can talk.”

  Tony rose; stepping back, he drew Alicia to him, pressed a kiss to her temple, whispered, “Play along.” More loudly, he said, “You’re right, let’s just leave him.” His arm around her, he turned them away.

  “No!” Spluttering curses floated out of the shaft.

  “Damm it—I’m not making this up. There is someone else.”

  “Don’t listen,” Alicia advised. “He’s always making things up—just think of his tale about Matthew.”

  “That was for a reason!”

  She glanced over the edge. “And saving your life isn’t a reason? Huh!” She stepped back. “Come on, I’m getting cold.”

  They started walking, taking tiny steps so Sir Freddie could hear.

  “Wait! All right, damm it—it’s someone in the Foreign Office. I don’t know who—I tried to find out, but he’s wilier than I. He’s very careful, and he’s someone very senior.”

  Tony
sighed; he moved back to crouch at the edge. “Keep talking. I’m listening, but she’s not convinced.”

  In gasps and pants, Sir Freddie talked, answering Tony’s questions, revealing how he’d stumbled on the other traitor’s trail. Eventually, Tony rose. He nodded at Alicia. “Stand back—I’m going to haul him out.”

  Tony had to lie full length on the ground to do it, but eventually Sir Freddie lay like a beached whale, shivering, coughing, and convulsing. Neither Alicia nor Tony felt the least bit sympathetic. Yanking Sir Freddie’s cravat free, Tony used it to bind his hands before hauling him to his feet and, with a push, starting him back along the path.

  Alicia’s hand in his, Tony followed his quarry back through the wood and out onto the road. Maggs was waiting beside Sir Freddie’s coach.

  Alicia looked up at the box. “He had a coachman—he told him to wait.”

  “Oh, aye. He’s waiting right enough, inside the coach.” Maggs held out Alicia’s cloak and reticule. “Found these when I shoved him in.”

  “Thank you.”

  Maggs nodded at Tony. “I was thinking we’d best leave ’em in the cellars at the George. I’ve had a word to Jim— he’s opening up the hatch.”

  “Excellent idea.” Tony prodded Sir Freddie along the road toward the nearby inn. “Bring the coachman.”

  Maggs had to lug him, for the coachman was unconscious. After a brief discussion with the landlord of the George, they left their prisoners in the cellars under lock and key.

  Jim came out and led Sir Freddie’s carriage away. Alicia was on the seat of Tony’s curricle and he was about to join her when they heard the unmistakable rumble of a carriage heading their way.

  Tony exchanged a glance with Maggs, then reached for Alicia. “Just in case, get back down here.”

  He had her on the ground behind him when the carriage rocked around the corner. The driver saw them and slowed.

  “Thank God!” Geoffrey pulled the horses to a halt beside them.

  Tony caught the leader’s head, quieted the team. “What the devil—?”

  In answer the doors of the carriage burst open and Adriana, David, Harry, and Matthew came tumbling out.

  They rushed to Alicia, hugged her wildly, a cacophony of questions raining down. They waited for no answers, but danced and jigged, cavorted around Tony, too, but then returned to hug and hang on to their elder sister.

  Geoffrey climbed down from the box; he stretched, then came to stand beside Tony. “Don’t say I should have stopped them—it was impossible. It’s my belief once they take an idea into their heads, Pevenseys are unstoppable.” He smiled. “At least Alicia’s a Carrington—she’s been tamed.”

  “Hmm,” was all Tony said.

  Both he and Geoffrey were only children. The performance enacted before them left them both bemused and a trifle envious. They exchanged a glance, for once had no doubt what each other was thinking… planning.

  “Come on,” Tony said. “We’d better get them moving, or we’ll be here for the rest of the night.”

  They rounded up their charges. With joy in their faces, still asking questions, the triumphant Pevenseys eventually climbed back into the carriage. Climbing up to the box, Geoffrey looked at Tony. “The Chase?”

  Tony turned from handing Alicia into his curricle. “Where else?” Taking the reins, he climbed up. “It’s the only thing Sir Freddie got right.”

  The comment puzzled Alicia. She waited until they were rolling along, heading farther up the road not back toward town with the heavy carriage rumbling behind. “Where are we going?”

  “Home,” Tony replied, and whipped up his horses.

  She was determined to speak with him, to address the subject of marriage, but no opportunity came her way that night. They traveled for nearly an hour, steadily northward along the country road, then Tony checked the horses and turned in through a pair of tall gateposts with huge wrought-iron gates propped wide.

  He’d refused to tell her more about where he was taking her, but she guessed when she saw the house. A large Palladian mansion in pale brown and grey stone with both double-and single-story wings, it sat peacefully in the moonlight, perfectly proportioned, comfortable, and settled within its park.

  Tony drew the horses to a halt in the wide gravel forecourt. He leapt down, scanned the house with fond satisfaction, then turned and held out his hand. “Welcome to Torrington Chase.”

  The next hour went in pleasurable chaos. Servants tumbled from their beds and came rushing, their eagerness a comment on how they viewed their master. Tony flung orders this way and that; in the midst of the flurry, a calm, feminine voice was heard inquiring what her son was up to now.

  In the drawing room, Tony exchanged a glance with Geoffrey, then looked at Alicia. Briefly, he lifted her hand to his lips. “Don’t panic.”

  Releasing her, he went out; a moment later, he reappeared with his mother on his arm.

  There could never be any doubt of the relationship; the viscountess’s dark, dramatic, rather bold beauty was the feminine version of Tony’s. Before Alicia could do more than assimilate that, she was enveloped in a warm embrace, then the viscountess—“You will call me Marie, if you please”—was asking questions, meeting the boys, exclaiming over Adriana, all with an understanding that made it clear she was excellently well served by correspondents in London.

  Hot milk arrived for the three flagging boys, then they were bundled upstairs to bed. Maggs said he’d stay with them; he lumbered off. The housekeeper—Alicia felt sure the woman must be Mrs. Swithins’s sister—came to say that chambers had been prepared for Alicia, Adriana, and Mr. Geoffrey, and that, as usual, the master’s apartments lay ready and waiting.

  With a recommendation that they all get some sleep, saying she would speak with them all in the morning, the viscountess graciously retired.

  Tony asked Mrs. Larkins, the housekeeper, to show Adriana and Geoffrey their rooms. Taking Alicia’s hand, he led her up the stairs in their wake, but then turned down another corridor off the main gallery.

  He opened a door at the end of the wing and drew her into a large room. It was a private sitting room overlooking the gardens; she got barely a glimpse as he led her through a doorway into a large bedchamber.

  She glanced around, taking in the heavy dark blue hangings, the richly carved mahogany furniture, none of it delicate. Her gaze stopped on the huge four-poster bed.

  Tony drew her into his arms; she met his gaze. “This is your room.”

  His eyes held hers for an instant, then he murmured, “I know.” He bent his head. “Tonight, very definitely, this is where you belong.”

  The first brush of his lips, the first touch of his hands as they spread and held her, then moved over her back and pulled her against him, verified the statement, told her how true it was—how very much he needed her.

  The raw hunger in his kiss, the undisguised passion, the raging desire that fueled it, spoke eloquently of all he—and she, too—had feared, all they’d known they’d had at risk. Now the threat was behind them, conquered, vanquished, and in the aftermath, in the clear light of their victory, nothing was more apparent than the wonder and rightness of their dreams.

  Their strength, their vulnerability—both sprang from the same source. The same overwhelming emotion that laid waste to all barriers and left them burning with one urgent and compulsive need.

  Neither questioned it.

  They shed clothes in the moonlight, let their inhibitions fall with them to the floor. He lifted her and they came together in a frenzy of need, of lust, of greedy passion, of molten, exultant desire. His need was hers; hers was his. They fed and gave succor, took, yielded, and let the raging tide swell.

  Wrapped together, incandescent with glory, they gave themselves up to it, surrendered anew. She gave him all and he returned the pleasure, again and again, over and over until ecstasy built, rose and engulfed them. Caught them, trapped them in its golden fire.

  They burned, clung, gasping
as they reached the peak and soared, and the flames fell away.

  Leaving them somewhere beyond the stars, far beyond the physical world.

  Locked together, merged, as one they breathed, and felt, and knew. The moment stretched; full and deep, awareness touched them. Their gazes locked. A moment of heartbreaking stillness held them.

  Passion, desire, and love. The smallest word held the greatest power.

  This—all of this—was theirs. If they wanted. If they wished.

  They both breathed in. The shimmering net released and fell away; the physical world returned and claimed them. With soft murmurs, soothing kisses, and caresses, they sank onto his bed.

  Tomorrow, Alicia promised herself as, wrapped in his arms, she drifted into sleep.

  He woke her the next morning, fully dressed, to explain that he’d sent a messenger to London last night, and now had to take Sir Freddie back to the capital.

  Watching her as she blinked, valiantly trying to reassemble her wits, he grimaced. “I’ll return as soon as I can. Stay here with the boys. I suspect Geoffrey will want to take Adriana to meet his mother.”

  He leaned close and kissed her, then rose and strode out.

  Alicia stared at the doorway, then heard the door beyond close. No—wait! was her instinctive reaction. Instead, she sighed and rolled onto her back.

  Foiled again, yet there was no point in ranting. Aside from all else, when she spoke to him of marriage, she wanted Sir Freddie and all his works finished with, no longer in any way hanging over them.

  Which left her facing her current situation—in his room, in his bed—and how best to deal with it.

  In the end, brazen and resolute, she decided to behave within his house precisely as she meant to go on; she had had enough of deceptions. She rang for water, washed while a round-eyed maid shook and brushed her gown, then, determined to be completely open and honest with Tony’s mother, she found her way back to the hall and was deferentially conducted to the breakfast parlor.

  There, she found her four siblings in high spirits. Geoffrey rose as she entered; she smiled and waved him back, then bobbed a curtsy to the viscountess, seated at the end of the table.