Diamond in the Rogue

by Wendy Lacapra

  A dammed rolling stone—both by calling and by choice.

  And nothing could convince him the sound that roused him from sleep had been one that belonged. The light knock had been persistent, as if a hand or a leg were repeatedly thumping against the back of the carriage.

  To test, he knocked his knee against the coach. Yes. That was the sound, all right.

  He’d opened his eyes to complete darkness—becoming aware first of the carriage’s gentle rocking, then of the rain and horse’s hooves, and then of the banging.

  Staring into the night, he weighed how much time he’d lose if he called out to the postilion to stop. He remained silent. A strap had come loose, or a branch had gotten caught in the rail. Regardless, stopping before he’d traveled far enough away from Southford to be fully safe would be a bad idea.

  Now he regretted that decision.

  The straps were fastened, and no stray tree parts lodged in the rail or around his trunk.

  Strange.

  He hopped back down from the back of the coach, frowning. Something was off…he just couldn’t put his finger on what.

  Another glow joined the shining reflection of his raised lamp.

  “Lord Rayne, is it?” a woman asked.

  “No.” His answer came instinctively. “That’s the crest, of course, but I’m his—er—cousin,” he said, though he didn’t have one. “Graham Laithe.”

  Probably should have come up with a false name. Apparently, whatever had disturbed his slumber caused sluggish thinking, too.

  The woman made a humphing sound. “Jack said you was the earl himself. Well, no matter. Coin’s coin. All the same to me. Might I tempt you with a room, Mr. Laithe?”

  “Afraid not, madam…?”

  “Mrs. White,” she said. “Mr. White’s the owner of the inn. My son, Jack, runs the stables, though he takes a fare himself, now and again, just to keep sharp. My daughter, Carol, works the tavern. Allow me to at least send you on your way with a pint? Winter’s come on fast—you’ll be glad for some sustenance as the night drags on.”

  The night had become menacing cold and wet. In his short time outside, chill had seeped into his bones. “What do you have on the stove?”

  “Lamb stew—a finer one you’ll never taste,” Mrs. White said proudly.

  His stomach sent him a disgruntled reminder he hadn’t eaten much at the wedding breakfast. Couldn’t have kept anything down, then.

  He gazed through the window into the tavern room of the small inn. Were it not for the weather and the time of year, doubtless the place would be full. Instead, a single man sat hunched over his tankard.

  Mrs. White’s eyes lit, sensing prey. “The roads are mighty muddied—and you wouldn’t want to get stuck. Not in this weather. The road follows the river for miles. Did I mention a lad brought back a report of a dam straining not more than a few hours north?”

  Well, that settled the question. He didn’t exactly fancy being stuck. If a quarter hour inspecting the carriage had left him shivering, what would a—wait.

  “Mud,” he said aloud, turning back to the carriage.

  “Mud?” Mrs. White echoed.

  “The wheels and the sides of the carriage are covered with mud.”

  “Of course they are.”

  “Yes…but look here, the back of the carriage is nearly clean.”

  “Well.” She snorted. “Hate to see your footman’s coat, then.”

  He frowned. A man on the back of the rail would be an explanation. Only, again, he didn’t have a footman.

  “So? How about that room?”

  “You have a lodger.” He called over his shoulder. “I’ll be in as soon as I’ve had a word with Jack.”

  “Praise be and thank you! I’ll have your bed and your dinner ready by the time you’re done.”

  The door to the inn closed behind Mrs. White. He studied the splatter patterns. If someone had been clinging to the rail, it must have been another postilion—the blank spot was too small to have been a man.

  “Oi!” Jack rounded the back of the carriage. “There’s one postilion that’s willing to continue north if you insist.” He rocked back and forth on his feet. “But I say, if you do, you’re fool as he is.”

  “I’ve changed my mind and taken a room,” he said, meting out payment.

  Jack slipped the coins into his pocket. “By the by, that upstart footman of yours looks ill, if you don’t mind my sayin’. He’s kinda small, too. Not much substance for traveling through the night.”

  “Did you say”—Rayne leaned forward—“my footman?”

  “Ya.” The boy scrunched up his features as if Rayne was daft. “Your footman. The same one’s been riding on the back since your last stop.” He nodded toward the carriage. “You know, the scrawny thing that helped me brush down the horses when we watered?”

  Rayne’s gaze moved from the boy to the carriage and then back to the boy.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” The boy whistled. “I knew it. Had the right livery, though. Your crest stitched in gold. Still, I knew, I tell you. I knew.” A wicked gleam entered his eye. “Don’t you worry.” He turned back toward the stables. “Me and the boys’ll take care of him.”

  Livery? His nonexistent footman had on his livery?

  “Wait.” Rayne laid a hand on Jack’s arm. “You may send my footman to me.”

  “What? He ain’t your footman. Plannin’ to thieve from you, too, I bet. Got a beating due him for it.” The boy cracked his knuckles. “Come, now. He don’t deserve your pity. Let me and the boys have some fun.”

  “While I, er, thank you for your protection.” He wedged his hand into his pocket, pulled out an extra coin, and tossed it into the air. “Of course he’s my footman…” He cleared his throat. “I was just surprised he got himself sick.”

  The boy pocketed the coin with narrowed eyes, reluctant to give up the bigger prize. “Suit yourself. I’ll send him over.”

  Rayne’s gaze followed Jack to the stables.

  Farring.

  Rayne quelled his unease.

  Farring must have hired someone to watch out for him. That was the only explanation as to how a footman wearing his livery had crossed more than thirty miles without him knowing.

  Inside the open barn, Jack yanked a short figure into the light of a hanging lamp.

  A low, heated exchange followed. Two more boys flanked Jack, one on either side—fight formation if Rayne ever saw one.

  The footman hurtled his small body at the largest of the three. Then, the boys tackled him to the ground.

  Rayne broke into a run as the biggest boy pulled back a booted foot.

  “Stop!” he yelled, wondering why his stomach had given out.

  Chapter Four

  Julia widened her stance, transferring a steady gaze between each of the three boys. She’d stared down society matrons. Who did they think they could scare?

  “I said, come with me.” Again, Jack grabbed for—and this time caught—her elbow. “I knew you weren’t no footman.”

  Awry. The plan had definitely gone awry. She glanced between Jack’s grimy claw and his face. “Unhand me. Now.”

  “Unhand me,” Goliath mimicked. “Who does he think he is, King George?”

  The trio snickered.

  She narrowed her eyes. “If you are going to insult me, Colossus, insult me to my face.”

  “Who are you calling Cole-sis-sis?” the big boy growled.

  She shrugged out of Jack’s grasp, picked Goliath, half-turned as if she were about to walk away, and, instead, lowered her shoulder and rammed his stomach.

  Perhaps she had been just a wee bit overconfident.

  Goliath was a brick wall. Still, he oomphed. She took pleasure in the sound for a hair’s breadth of a second. Then, all three were on her at once.

 
At least she’d had audible satisfaction before they set to pummeling her to death. And, heaven help her, she wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

  She forgot the cold. She forgot her aching, jittering joints.

  Using all the strength she had, she jumped back onto her feet. With one arm, she protected her face, and with the other, she landed any blow she could. She could barely see, but she kept striking.

  She hadn’t had an older brother for nothing.

  “Stop! Stop!”

  Her neck snapped back as Jack’s fist landed on her jaw. With a growl, she hurled herself at him, landing a knee where it would hurt him most. Jack bent, and then she swung around to face the third boy, fist raised.

  “When I said stop.” An unseen arm lifted her from the ground by the back of Markham’s oversized coat. “I meant you, too, footman.”

  She struggled in his grasp, trying to keep her face hidden.

  “Stanley,” Jack cut in. “Your footman’s name is Stanley.”

  Her feet instantly returned to gravel. Then, Rayne clamped her against his chest and brushed his forearm across her bound breasts. He sucked in a breath, making a sound she could only describe as untamed.

  The sound lingered, hot and sloppy in her stomach. By the time she regained her wits, Rayne had fastened her arms behind her back.

  Good thing Markham hadn’t known that particular move, else he would have won every time.

  Rayne sniffed the hair that had fallen from her cap and then uttered the most unrepeatable, beautiful oath Julia had ever heard—all teeth and hard-tongued consonants. By far the most invigorating word she’d collected yet.

  Well, at least she’d gained something.

  “He’s a thief,” Goliath said.

  “She’s a runaway,” Rayne replied.

  “A girl?!” the boys cried in unison.

  She twisted in Rayne’s grasp and lifted her face. “Now how do you expect me to pretend to be your footman?”

  “You.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “Don’t. Talk.”

  If she couldn’t talk, how was she going to inform him he was being abducted?

  Although, now was probably not the best time. Not when a long, jagged vein in Rayne’s forehead pulsed as if it might pop.

  “Of all the bloody,” he spat, “foolish, harebrained schemes you could have come up with—”

  “Looks like they’s acquainted, fellas.” Jack smacked his hands together as he wiped off the dust. “Our work is done.”

  “You, there. Bring the valise up once the carriage is settled. At the moment, my hands are full.”

  “Sure thing, guv,” Jack answered.

  “Plenty respectful to him, are you, Jack?” she taunted. “But you’re all bluster and greed.”

  “I said don’t talk,” Rayne gritted.

  His breath in her ear caused striking sensations in her bound breasts.

  “Ruffians,” she huffed under her breath. “All of you.”

  Rayne yanked her back. His gaze traveled down her body, slow and hot, rather like the way a flame traveled over a lard-soaked wick. He made the untamed sound again. And then repeated the fascinating curse.

  Even the skin behind her knees quivered.

  “Go!” He pushed her toward the inn.

  Her boot heels hollowed tiny trenches in the earth, but she gained no purchase. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “You,” he sneered, “are not in a position to ask me anything.”

  “Well, if you think I am going to follow you meekly while you’re in this state—”

  “You don’t have a choice,” he grunted. “Trust me, I’m your best option.”

  Option?

  She had options?

  Well—she struggled to look over her shoulder—if her options were a choice between the dark, wet night, a couple of proprietorial, belligerent postilions, a tavern full of God-knows-what, and…and…

  She stole a sideways glance.

  Whatever that six feet of breathing beast formerly known as Rayne had become, she’d take the wet night, thank you very much.

  She regained her footing. “You are not in charge.”

  He bared his teeth, sending pinpricks down her spine.

  She mustered her last shred of dignity. “Now that I reconsider, perhaps we should continue this discussion inside after all.”

  He threw open the door to the inn. They vied for first as he hustled her across the empty tavern and into a stairwell beyond. There, he released her arms.

  She rubbed her shoulders, urging the blood to return.

  “Don’t…” His eyes glowed, terrifyingly focused as he backed her against the stairwell. “…Get too comfortable.”

  She’d never seen an expression like his on anyone…except for maybe Goliath.

  Her throat dried. “Are you planning to hit me?”

  His gaze hollowed out. “No,” he croaked. “Of course not. Julia—”

  “Stanley.”

  He ran his hand though his hair. “Look, either you are going to agree to stay here, or I am going to fasten you to the railing. I’m not going to hurt you, but, believe me”—his menacing scowl returned—“I have no problem with trussing.”

  Trussing?

  “I’ll stay.” She wet her lips. “If you tell me what you’re planning to do.”

  He snorted. “I’m planning to inform the innkeeper to expect another guest, to order some food, and then take you to a private place to”—he paused—“talk.”

  Talking was acceptable…she thought.

  “I’ll stay, thank you,” she said primly. “Do go on.”

  He kept her trapped against the banister for another long, breathless minute. Then he winced, uttered the curse again, and was gone.

  She inhaled. Good heavens. Taking a deep breath hurt.

  Not because of Rayne—her arms were already recovered—but because of Jack and his friends.

  She tested her aching jaw.

  Open. Good. Now, close. Not broken, at least.

  She pushed off the railing and then froze. Rayne had promised not to hurt her, but she didn’t want to find out if he’d been serious about the trussing. On the other hand, how could she weigh her risks if she hadn’t some idea what was going on?

  Quietly, she placed her ear against the closed door. The exchange was muffled, but she thought the innkeeper said “not that kind of place.”

  Rayne’s spoke again, then the innkeeper, and then two women’s voices joined the fray. Of course the women would take Rayne’s side.

  A gust of wind rattled the plates in the window, and a torrent of raindrops against the glass followed. Suddenly, she was very, very aware that she was trapped in a near-empty inn, somewhere off the Great North Road, a ten-hour ride from anyone and everyone she knew. A ten-hour ride if the roads were passable by morning.

  And, of all the situations she’d suggested to Farring, Rayne fastening her to a stairwell hadn’t made her list. He’d been rather quick with the suggestion, too.

  She pursed her lips.

  She’d gain the upper hand…somehow.

  Though, to be honest, she wouldn’t mind another tussle. And not because her heart was still thudding with the thrill of a fight, but because—in an act of pure treachery—her heart was still thudding with the greater thrill of being clasped against Rayne’s chest.

  Rayne returned to the stairwell, his face impossibly hard. He dangled a key from his hand as he pointed up the stairs.

  “Up.”

  “Stairwell again.” She hauled herself onto the first stair. “Ironic.” She held the rail as she climbed. “Or funny.”

  “There is absolutely nothing amusing about this,” he replied. “Nothing whatsoever.”

  “Well”—she glanced over her shoulder—“you must admit you
have an unhealthy habit of pushing me upstairs.”

  “Did I, or did I not, tell you to be quiet?”

  “You quite clearly told me not to speak. On the other hand, you also said you were arranging a room for the express purpose of talking.”

  “I will be doing the talking—questions, mostly. You will restrict yourself to answers.”

  They came to the numbered door that matched the five inscribed on his key plate. He slipped the key into the lock, turned, and then opened the door.

  She strode into the shadowy interior with a confident swing of her hips, as if all of this had been part of her plan.

  “I’ll decide what questions I will answer and, for that matter, when and if I speak. If you are nice, I might change my mind about the pirates.”

  He set down the lamp and adjusted the wick, and the room brightened.

  “Nice? You think I should be—my god!” He grasped her chin in his fingers and tilted her face. He released her and leaned over. “Fuck.”

  Thrill raised bumps on her arm. Again…that utterly delicious, terribly vulgar word. She smiled, winced, and then caught the former expression in the mirror. Her left jaw had started to swell. Well, that wasn’t going to be pretty in a few hours. And whether the bumps on her arm were the result of thrill or chill…she was no longer quite sure.

  “Is your jaw broken?” he demanded. “Are your ribs?”

  She shook her head. “Just bruised, I think.”

  He hissed through his teeth. “What devil made you take on those three? And what devil made you think you could convince anyone you were a man? And, for that matter, what the hell were you doing on the back of my carriage?”

  My, he commanded a colorful assortment of words.

  “Boy,” she corrected. “And I was holding my own, before you blurted out the truth. Besides”—she folded her arms—“pretending to be a boy, or a man, for that matter, is easy enough—I just emptied my mind of thought and chose instead to believe myself superior to every living creature.”

  He stared in silence. “Holding your own, were you?”