by Lauren Smith
The moment she emerged, another man lunged for her. To escape him, Emily fell back against the side of the coach. Rather than grab her, he held his arms wide to keep her from slipping by him, like he was corralling livestock.
“Easy, easy,” he purred.
Emily whipped her head to the left and pleaded with her mind to think, but the man she’d bitten rounded the corner and pounced, pinning her against the coach, his arms caging her in. His solid muscular body towered over her. His jaw clenched as though one move from her would trigger something dark and wild. Emily’s breath caught, and her heart pounded violently against her ribs.
The man was panting and angry. The intensity of his eyes mesmerized her, but the second he blinked, the spell broke and she fought with every bit of strength she could muster.
“Cedric, I need you!” The man shouted over his shoulder.
One of the riders trotted over holding a silver flask in one hand. Emily redoubled her efforts to escape and stamped on the instep of her captor’s boot. But it was too late. The man held the flask to her lips and, when she didn’t open her mouth, he pinched her nose, and she was forced to part her lips for breath. Vile, bitter liquid streamed down her throat. She gagged but swallowed.
The bitter taste in her mouth made her shudder violently, and a wave of dizziness swept through her, blurring her vision. The ground beneath her feet seemed to spin. A frightening deadness stole through her arms and legs, and she weakened against the man who still held her. Perhaps if she feigned unconsciousness here for a moment, got her breath back and cleared her head she could fight…
The man with the flask stepped back and Emily let her body go limp. Her captor kept his arms around her waist and shoulder, locking her to his body. Emily drew a breath, slow and shallow so as to not attract attention. The man who held her waited as someone dropped a cloak onto the grass before he gently set her down on it. Then he stepped away to talk to his companions. She had counted five all together before she’d had to shut her eyes.
Emily did her best to lay still and breathe shallowly as she listened, but it was hard to fight the panic that rioted within her and the fog that slowly descended on her vision. Every instinct screamed for her to flee, but she remained still, praying they’d turn their attention away from her just long enough for her to rise and run.
She heard a man’s voice above her. “Well, that wasn’t too hard.”
“I say, is that a gypsy child? I thought we were abducting a fine young lady of the ton?” Another laughed.
Emily fought the urge to snarl, despite the lethargy of her body. Bloody, arrogant popinjays! The anger felt better than the fear and it gave her a little more energy.
What had been in that flask she’d drunk from? A poison? No…that made no sense. She’d read of this bitter taste before… Laudanum! New anger sparked inside her. She let it flow from her head to her toes, and the illusion of strength built in her bones.
Yet another voice spoke up. “Charles, pay the driver an extra fee for his silence, and Lucien and I will see to the girl.” This voice she recognized. It was the man she’d bitten. He and the others appeared to be gentlemen, if you could call them that at all.
After moving in with her uncle, she learned never to trust a man’s appearance again. A fine set of clothes did not make someone a good man.
What confused her more was what these rogues wanted with her. Certainly Blankenship hadn’t hired them to take her. He would have chosen men of lower standing. The riding glove she’d bitten had been of a fine quality, too fine for common henchmen.
“How long will she be out?” one of the men asked.
“Hard to say…probably a good hour.” She recognized the voice as the one called Cedric. “One of us will carry her back to the manor.”
A gentle hand swept Emily’s hair back from her face. That same hand drifted down to her neck, caressing her skin before it touched her arm then slid along her waist. Tingles of fear traveled beneath her skin. She fought to keep her breath from quickening, but her heart fluttered wildly. When the hand brushed along her waist, Emily’s breath sped up. She was highly sensitive in that particular area, and the feather light dance of fingertips along her body, through the muslin, made her stifle a giggle. She cursed her ticklishness.
The hand withdrew. Then just as suddenly the hand was back, brushing along her waist, still as gently, until she burst into fit of gasping hysterics.
“She’s awake!” the captor who had just touched her called out, his voice breathless as though he was fighting off his own laughter.
Emily scrambled to her hands and knees. She’d barely moved when a body tackled her from behind, knocking her back to the ground. What little strength she had left deserted her. His knees trapped her hips, pinning her to the ground. Emily cried out as his weight settled on her. He loosened his grasp enough to let her breathe but not to allow her any freedom.
“Have you got hold of her, Godric?”
Emily lashed out, legs flailing, back arching. “Please! Don’t do this, I beg you!” She hated begging, but it was her last chance.
“We won’t hurt you, darling.” The man on top of her, Godric, ran a large palm along her side, stroking soothingly.
“Liar!”
He tightened his hold as Emily kicked and fought. “I’ve got her, but be quick, Cedric! She’s bucking pretty madly.”
Cedric knelt by her head and tilted the flask against her lips, forcing laudanum down her throat. Emily tried to whip her head to the side, but Cedric’s other hand covered her mouth, preventing her from spitting out the vile liquid. It was useless to battle against her fate. She let her eyes plead where her mouth could not.
“Sorry, my dear. Truly, I am.” The sincerity in Cedric’s voice surprised her.
How could sincerity follow such brutality?
He kept the flask at her lips. She swallowed hard and then coughed as it the liquid burned a path through her insides.
Her last sight was of Cedric, his brows creased above his eyes. Her fingers left tracts in the gritty earth of the dark, empty road as she struggled to stay conscious. The musty aroma of soil clouded her nose, mixing with the heavy warmth of the masculine body that pinned her down. Her limbs were heavy. Her eyelids fluttered and she knew she couldn’t hold out much longer. Godric gently caressed her body, as though to comfort her, but only confusion and fear followed her into the encompassing blackness.
Cedric, Viscount Sheridan, cupped the girl’s chin and tilted her face to examine her. “Is she really out?”
The moonlight bathed her body, affording the men a decent look at their victim. Long, dark lashes lay against porcelain cheeks, which were tinted with a rosy blush.
“There’s one way to find out.” Godric’s hands swept over her body, returning several times to her waist where he’d discovered she was ticklish.
She remained limp and unresponsive to his exploration. “She is definitely out.” He climbed off her.
Charles and Lucien sauntered over on their horses.
Charles chuckled. “How many lords did you say it would take to subdue this little hellion?”
Lucien Russell, the Marquess of Rochester, bit back a grin.
“More than we guessed,” Ashton replied in amusement, gazing down at Emily.
Godric took in the dirty, but stunning little captive at his feet. “She’s not at all like her uncle.”
Heat pooled deep inside him. His brief memory of her had not done justice to the puzzle of Miss Emily Parr. He could not forget the way she’d fought him, even in fear. But knowing he’d scared her left a hollowness in his chest. He had expected to ignore her protestations and carry her off. What he hadn’t expected was for Emily to fight valiantly against him and leave him feeling every inch the villain.
Cedric stuffed the bottle of laudanum back into his waistcoat pocket. “Having second thoughts?”
Godric barked out a laugh and shrugged off his guilt. “Lord, no. You know me better than that, Cedric. S
he’s mine now.” He glanced at Emily again.
He felt oddly possessive of Emily, not that he had any right to. Still, the sudden urge to deposit the girl in a walled garden appealed greatly. Trap her in a tower like a princess from a fairy tale.
“The girl’s intrigued him,” Lucien said to his friends.
Godric gathered Emily into his arms.
He knew he must look a strange sight to his friends, taking such care with Emily. But something about her called to him. He ached for sensual touches, the slide of satin sheets against his skin, her silky body beneath his own. He hadn’t planned to seduce her, but the little hellion’s bravery had aroused him. She’d make for a wild bed partner. His lips curved into a smile at the thought.
“She can ride with me,” Charles offered hopefully.
“I’d sooner trust her with a drunken sailor.” With reluctance, his hands lingering, Godric handed Emily to Ashton instead.
Godric mounted his horse, then leaned down to retrieve her.
He cradled Emily sideways across his lap, one arm tightly about her waist, tucking her head under his chin to keep her steady.
The mere memory that Emily had almost outwitted him twice left Godric smiling. He’d not had such fun in ages. If he hadn’t given in to his urge to touch her, he’d never have found that ticklish spot at her waist, and she might have crept off while he and the others talked. Ashton was right; she was cunning—a trait she must have inherited from that uncle of hers. But her beauty? It amazed him. She bore not a single resemblance to the reedy Albert Parr.
The ride back to Godric’s country estate took an hour. They stopped once to dose Emily again with laudanum when she stirred like a sleepy kitten. The rub of her curled fists against his chest and her face burrowed against his throat, sent a thrill of pleasure through him.
He tried not to think about Emily or whether her lips tasted as sweet as they looked. He focused on the road ahead of them and his home, which lay just beyond.
The St. Laurent estate consisted of an extensive Georgian manor that rivaled the beauty of Chiswick House. His father and the Duke of Devonshire once had a friendly rivalry on the matter.
He studied the estate with new eyes, trying to imagine how Emily would perceive it.
The architect had styled the house, with six ivory columns in the front, like many of the greater Palladian homes in England. Godric’s ancestors built the upper parts of the manor with lovely ashlar stone, while the lower was rusticated, lending a lacing of texture to the manor, like a woman’s dress embroidered at the hem. Godric was surprised to find he was eager for Emily’s approval. If she was going to stay here for a while, he wanted her to find pleasure in her surroundings.
As soon as Godric rode up to his manor’s steps, a weary footman appeared and called for a groom. The elderly butler, Simkins, came to the door a moment later, escorting all the men into the hall once he assured care of their horses.
“Your Grace, we were not expecting visitors.” Simkins eyed Godric’s sleeping captive with open curiosity.
“Simkins, this is Miss Emily Parr. She will be my guest here for a while. Have Mrs. Downing assign her an upstairs maid to help her dress. See to her every need, but do not allow her to leave.”
“Of course, Your Grace. She shall be treated like a princess.”
“Don’t spoil her, Simkins,” Godric said, reconsidering. She was to be kept in a cage, so to speak, and it would be wise not to gild that cage, at least until she understood he was in control.
A sudden thought occurred to him. His valet, Jonathan Helprin, would need to be kept away from Emily. She was a temptation to any man, and young Helprin was not a typical valet. Having been born and raised under Godric’s roof, the younger man had a keen eye for the ladies, rather than clothes, where a good valet’s interests should be. “Oh, and Simkins,” Godric caught the butler’s attention. “Reassign Mr. Helprin to duties that keep him far away from my chambers. The house, if possible. Have one of the footman see to my needs in the interim.”
The older man hesitated, clearly confused. “Uh…yes, Your Grace. I will see Mr. Helprin is occupied elsewhere while your guest is in residence.”
“Thank you.”
Simkins then greeted the other four men who had followed Godric into the main hall. “My lords.”
“Simkins, you devil, how are you?” Charles laughed. “Miss me?”
Simkins almost smiled, but kept his controlled demeanor. “I am fine, Lord Lonsdale. The house has been much quieter since your last visit and I have slept well knowing that I did not need a fleet of footmen to scrub port stains out of the carpet in the drawing room.”
“Hmm, port sounds delightful. Bring me a glass when you have a chance?” Charles grinned at Simkins, who shook his head, muttering as he took his leave of the gentlemen.
Cedric pointed the way down the hall with the silver lion’s head of his cane. “Come on, Lucien. Let’s go warm ourselves by the fire.” They left, Charles tramping along after them.
Ashton followed Godric up the staircase, Emily still in his arms. Godric chose the room next to his, the one most often inhabited by a mistress. Unlike other gentlemen, he brazenly kept his mistresses at his estate, heedless of the gossip that might result.
Godric nodded his head to the door, indicating for Ashton to open it.
“Er…you mean to keep her so close to you?” Ashton politely inquired.
“Yes. She’ll likely keep trying to run off. I’ll be able to hear her better if she’s this close.”
Ashton swung the door open to reveal a four-poster bed adorned with a blue coverlet and lilac curtains. He set Emily down, lifted her head and placed a pillow under the gleaming coils of her hair. The pins from her coiffure had come loose during the struggle and he found he liked the wild disarray.
Ashton eyed the small door disguised as part of the wall, and Godric grinned.
“I know what you’re thinking, Ash…” The door led directly to his bedchamber.
“What you do with her is none of my business.” Despite his constant attempts to keep his close-knit group of friends under control, Ashton was no saint.
With a nod, Ashton excused himself and Godric remained behind. His eyes drifted over the helpless young woman on the bed. Mud and grit had stained the muslin of her gown. Smudges of dust colored her nose and cheeks. At first glance, she looked like a wild little orphan but the curves of her body left Godric painfully aware she was a woman. Unable to resist, he cupped her face in his hands, running the pads of his thumbs across her cheeks to rub the dirt away. Her skin was soft, and Emily stirred slightly at his touch, her body shifting against his right hip where he’d sat down next to her.
Emotions he’d long buried welled up, tightening his throat and burning in his chest. He was a lad again, mesmerized by the allure of a young woman. A time he could never reclaim, an innocence ripped from his bleeding soul years ago.
Standing up, he retreated to the doorway. He lingered there, his eyes tracing the shape of her body. An acute sense of longing struck him. He wanted to bind her to him, but she would slip through his fingers like grains of sand.
How would she react to him come morning? With resentment and disgust, no doubt. He’d dragged her from the coach, manhandled her and drugged her. He was no hero, and a woman like her deserved a knight astride a white charger.
He ruined everything he touched.
Godric’s head dropped as he closed the door and went to join his friends below.
Chapter Two
Early morning light danced through the lilac curtains, casting purpled shadows across the counterpane. Emily woke, aching and sore. The sensations puzzled her. As she sat up in the massive bed, her gaze skimmed a room elegant enough for a queen. For a brief moment, as the beauty of the furnishings sank in, she reveled in the strange fairy tale surroundings.
She slid from the bed and approached the wood and gold-filigreed dresser, tugging gently on the handle of one drawer. It slid open to revea
l a collection of chemises as thin as spider-spun silk. Emily fingered the finery, sighed and turned away, only to catch sight of herself in the dressing-table mirror. A loud gasp escaped her lips as she slapped a hand to her mouth. Her gaze fell on the set of reflected eyes, open wide as they took in the sight of her dirty and disheveled dress.
Memories flooded through her while terror gripped her anew, fraying her self-control. Where was she? Where had they taken her? Emily’s hands shook as she tried to tame her hair. She grimaced.
What am I going to do?
She could barely think as the dull throb of a headache pounded behind her eyes, an aftereffect of the laudanum, she supposed. She had the vaguest sense that they’d knocked her out a second time, when she’d started to wake from all the rough jostling.
Her dress was beyond repair, but that didn’t matter. She needed to escape.
Emily stumbled across the room, but paused when she noticed a sky blue muslin day gown laid out on a chair, alongside three petticoats and dark blue slippers and hair ribbons. A little note was pinned to the gown.
Dear Miss Parr,
I hope you slept well.
I took the liberty of having this gown altered this morning after Mrs. Downing obtained your measurements. Please come down for breakfast at your leisure.
Sincerely,
Mr. Simkins, butler, and Mrs. Downing, housekeeper
for His Grace, Godric St. Laurent, the Duke of Essex
Emily stared at the note.
The Duke of Essex? Her devilish captor was none other than Godric St. Laurent? At least she wasn’t in danger as she had first worried. These men were peers of the realm and would not murder her or otherwise harm her like the highwaymen she’d first believed last night.
Her friend Anne Chessley had told her quite a bit about Godric and his friends. She’d called them the League of Rogues, a name she’d whispered half afraid and half fascinated. They were men without rules and morals as far as she knew, if one could trust gossip and stories printed in The Quizzing Glass Gazette.