by Anne Gracie
He regarded her helplessly. She lay against him, more or less in his embrace, relaxed and wholly trustful. His arm hovered a moment over her, then he sighed and wrapped it carefully around her—only to support her, he told himself. The road was bad. There were bumps and potholes. She could fall.
She slept on in his arms.
The bruise on her cheekbone was deepening. Lavender shadows darkened the delicate skin beneath her eyes. Tiny curls sprang from the mass of her damp hair as it dried. She must have worn it up in an elaborate twist the night she was abducted, for though it was wet and bedraggled, it was still partly pinned up. He could see a few pins glinting in the light.
Carefully he eased them out, one at a time, trying not to disturb her. Finally he had them all. He gently sifted his fingers through her soft, damp hair, loosening the tangles and spreading it out to help it dry. Dark curls twined about his fingers.
A damp lock of hair fell across her mouth. He carefully lifted it away and smoothed it back behind her ear. A small, dainty ear, with a tiny hole in the lobe. Had she lost an earring?
Cal Rutherford’s little sister. Courage obviously ran in the family. She’d been drugged, abducted, imprisoned for hours at a time in a cramped, airless compartment under a seat, subjected to lord only knew what indignities and humiliations. She was bruised, cold, wet and filthy—he’d forced her to strip in his presence and had thrown away her ruined clothes. Most females he knew would be hysterical by this stage.
Instead she’d curled up against him, practically naked but trustful as a kitten, and gone to sleep in his arms. The remnant effect of the drugs. At least he hoped it was.
Her brother had made a practical marriage in order to protect his sisters. He’d be beside himself now, poor fellow, not knowing what had happened to Lily. Brothers needed to take care of their sisters.
Ned was grateful he had no younger sisters to take care of—or brothers, for that matter. He’d proved long ago that he couldn’t be relied on to take care of anyone. He stared bleakly out the window at the shifting scenery, the weight of warm, soft woman heavy against his chest. It was raining again, a soft gray mist.
She twisted restlessly. The rug slipped, pulling the shirt awry and revealing the curve of a creamy breast and a bare, vulnerable shoulder. There were bruises on her body as well as her cheek. He dragged his gaze off her, tugged the shirt up, tucked the rug in more securely and resigned himself to the inevitable: The trip to London was going to be torture.
The carriage rattled onward. They stopped for a change of horses, but Lily didn’t stir. Her sleep might be heavy but it wasn’t restful. Her body twitched and wriggled, and the expressions that passed across her face . . . Whatever dreams she might be having, they weren’t pleasant.
He should have killed the villain who’d done this to her.
He couldn’t return her to her brother in this sorry state. It wouldn’t be fair either to her or to Cal. A handful of lines from his school days came to him: Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care, The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, Chief nourisher in life’s feast.
His initial plan had been to drive on through the night and most of the next day—getting her back to London in the shortest possible time. She needed sleep, but not in a rattling jolting carriage. Proper sleep, in a bed that didn’t bounce with every pothole. And any journey to London would be interrupted every twenty miles or so when they stopped to change horses.
He wanted to relieve her of her ordeal, not add to it.
She needed calm and uninterrupted sleep, and time to let the drug pass from her system. Food. And a bath. He would restore her to her family with her dignity intact, not half naked, bruised, dirty and dazed.
He reached up with his free hand and rapped on the roof. “Find a suitable small town,” he said when Walton opened the hatch. “We need an inn, but nothing fashionable. The lady needs a bed, a bath, food and clothing. And all with the utmost discretion, Walton. Nobody is to know who she is.”
He hoped to hell that her family had kept her missing status a secret. No one must learn she was not still in London, safe in her own home in the care of her brother.
Because if they did, God help her.
Chapter Five
Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken.
—JANE AUSTEN, EMMA
Aunt Agatha was in her element in Hyde Park, taking various cronies and acquaintances up in her barouche for a turn around the park, and complaining to them of the foolish stubbornness of her niece by marriage and her charges, Rose and Georgiana—indicated by an irritable wave of a hand as the two young girls rode behind and sometimes beside the carriage.
Emm heard the first part after Aunt Agatha had set her down to walk—exercise being good for a breeding mother—as the carriage moved slowly off. “The youngest gel, Lily, is stricken with what the doctor believes is the vilest case of the influenza, but will Emmaline or the gels consent to reside with me until all danger of infection passes? Pshaw! They will not!”
Emm hid a smile. Aunt Agatha’s cronies would be used to complaints about ungrateful and intractable relatives. Much more convincing than her showing concern for a niece she’d never had much time for.
From time to time the girls broke away to tell Emm what their aunt was saying. “You should hear her, Emm,” Rose said, half entertained, half indignant. “She’s telling everyone how furious she is with you for refusing to move in with her because of Lily’s supposed illness! Apparently you’re risking the health of the Rutherford heir with your stubborn foolishness—as if she has a direct connection to God and knows what sex the baby will be.”
“Oh, I hope she’s a boy,” Emm said. “Aunt Agatha wouldn’t forgive her if she wasn’t, poor little thing.”
“She’s mad at us too,” George added. “We’re disrespectful of our elders and recalcitrant and—what were the other words she used, Rose?”
“Intractable, undisciplined and unmanageable,” Rose said with relish. “And we are, as far as she’s concerned. I don’t think that part was an act.”
“In my day gels had more respect for the wisdom of their elders . . .” George said in a surprisingly good imitation of the old lady.
Inspired by the old lady’s vehemence, they were determined to spread the news of Lily’s illness far and wide, and it took all Emm’s powers of persuasion to convince them not to mention Lily at all, unless anyone asked. They rode off, a little disappointed to have learned that discretion really was the better part of valor—at least this time around.
They looked stunning on horseback, one so fair and the other so dark and both such elegant horsewomen. How she wished they were a threesome, though.
Oh, Lily . . . It was impossible not to worry, even though Emm knew it did no good.
The barouche passed at a sedate trot. A drift of conversation reached Emm. “Ashendon? Oh, he’s in no danger of infection. He’s off seeing to some estate business in the country. Men are never there when you need them.”
The old lady was very convincing. Each time the barouche passed, Aunt Agatha’s passengers would turn their heads and direct reproachful looks at Emm. She sat on a bench, trying to look guilty but defiant, crushed, and at the same time foolhardy, stubborn and recalcitrant.
And keep a straight face.
She shouldn’t have found anything to laugh about with Lily still missing and the situation looking grimmer every hour she was gone, but the truth was it was a relief to have anything to smile about, even if her amusement had to be hidden.
“Lady Ashendon, Lady Ashendon!”
Emm turned to see who was speaking, just as Sylvia rushed up to her. “I just heard that Lily has been stricken with the influenza! So she’s back, then? You found
her? Oh, what a relief! I was so certain she’d eloped with my horrid cousin—what? What have I said?”
“Keep your voice down, Sylvia,” Emm snapped.
Sylvia looked bewildered. “But why? Lily didn’t elope after all, did she? Everyone is saying she’s been taken ill and that’s why nobody’s seen her in the last few days.”
“Yes, she’s ill, with the influenza,” Emm said in a firm, clear voice, hoping any ears pricked in their direction could hear. “I don’t know where you heard anything to the contrary, but—”
“People were saying that one of the Rutherford girls had eloped,” Sylvia explained. “Well, I knew it must be Lily because Lord Ashendon came to my home in the middle of the night searching for her—oops! Is that meant to be a secret?”
“No, but we don’t want to spread untruths, do we?” Emm, well aware of several members of the ton standing nearby, forced herself to sound calm and unworried. “Lily left the Mainwaring party without telling us because she was feeling ill. Of course Cal, being very protective of his sisters, became worried—he has a tendency to overreact. But as it turned out the poor girl was coming down with the influenza and was a little feverish and confused.”
“Oh, is that what happened? I’m so sorry I got the wrong end of the stick! But don’t worry, I’ll let everyone know the truth. Give poor Lily my love and tell her I’ll visit as soon as the infection has passed.”
Sylvia hurried away, leaving Emm staring after her. She casually glanced around to see if anyone had been close enough to hear. Several elegant ladies glanced quickly away and moved closer together, murmuring quietly. One word drifted to Emm’s ears: Eloped?
Emm borrowed a word from Cal’s vocabulary. Damn!
* * *
• • •
Dusk was falling when the carriage entered a sleepy little village a few miles off the main road. Ned looked out the window. Walton had chosen well. It was neither so small a village that they would stand out and be memorable nor a large enough town to attract members of the ton who might recognize them.
They stopped outside an ancient inn, crooked with age, but otherwise as neat as a pin, with mullioned windows polished to gleaming, a well-swept courtyard and several half-casks filled with flowers on either side of the entrance. There were no fashionable traveling coaches in the street outside, no phaetons or curricles—only a rustic wagon or two and an ancient-looking dogcart. Perfect.
“Wake up, Lady Lily,” he said, raising her gently. He had no intention of letting her realize she’d slept sprawled across him, her head snuggled against his chest, her breasts pressed against him. Testing his self-control to the maximum.
She stirred and abruptly came awake with a jerk, flailing out with her fists. One of them caught him in the eye. “Ouch!” He caught the other fist in his hand. “Gently now. You’re safe.”
Her eyes flew open and for a moment she stared blankly at him. Then the tension drained abruptly from her. “Oh. It’s you. Sorry, I thought you were—”
“I know. But you’re safe now.” He released her hand and picked up the rug from the floor. He tucked it back around her, trying not to notice—unsuccessfully, even with a watering eye—exactly how thin and inadequate his shirt was on her.
Her gaze flew to his eye. “Oh, dear. Did I do that?”
“It’s nothing.”
“No it’s not, it’s all red. Let me—”
He pushed away her hands. “It’s all right. I’ve had worse.” He hated being fussed over. “We’re here. I’ll go ahead and make the arrangements. I want you to wait in the carriage until—”
She glanced outside, frowning. “Where are we?”
He shrugged. “Some village. There’s an inn here where we can pass the night in relative comfort.” More comfortable than trying to sleep with a luscious, far-too-trusting siren draped across his lap.
“An inn?” She gave him a wary look and pulled the rug closer around her. “I don’t want to stay at an inn. I thought you were taking me straight home.”
Ned wanted to roll his eyes. Now she got suspicious. He was simultaneously pleased at the evidence that she did, in fact, have a cautionary bone in her body, albeit a slow one, and irritated that after all this, she should be suspicious of him.
He’d been practically a saint for the last few hours, letting her sleep while snugged up against him, keeping her decently covered, for the most part—she was a restless sleeper. And resolutely ignoring the raging appetites she stirred in his body.
“I am taking you home, but it’ll be dark soon, so we’ll stop for the night here.”
She bit her lip. “It’s just that they will be frantic with worry.”
“Your brother will be on your trail as we speak. He’s not the sort to sit back waiting to hear—and if I know Cal, he’ll have a team of men out looking for you as well.”
She gave him a troubled look. “I think some men came looking for me when we were on the road. I tried to call out, but I was gagged and under the seat and the drug made it difficult to think, and”—she sighed—“they didn’t hear me.”
His jaw tightened. That swine should be rotting in jail, or better still dangling at the end of a rope.
“I’ll send your family a note by messenger; don’t worry, it’ll get to London faster than a coach and four. There’s no need to travel through the night. Your abductor might have done so, but it’s dangerous, especially when there’s no moon, and I have more consideration for my coachman and the horses.” And for his passenger. She was worn to the bone. She needed food and sleep and care before undertaking another long, uncomfortable journey.
Besides, even if they drove hell-for-leather, stopping only to change horses, it would still take all night and part of the next day to get to London.
He hoped to hell Cal had managed to keep the whole affair under wraps, come up with some story to explain her absence. As long as he had—and Cal was no fool—and as long as he could get her back to London with no one else the wiser, the consequences to her would be limited to a nasty experience and a few bruises.
“Besides, we need to get you some proper clothes”—he quirked a brow—“unless, of course, you want to arrive in London naked but for a man’s shirt and a fur traveling rug.”
She gave a halfhearted little laugh. “No, of course not.”
“Good. Then wait here while I make the arrangements.”
Lily waited in the carriage, the rug wrapped tightly around her. Guilt wrapped her even tighter. The sleep had helped, but the drug still lingered like glue in her veins, making her limbs heavy and uncertain.
Her thoughts, however, were becoming clearer by the minute.
Everyone at home would be so worried about her. Rose and Emm and George would be frantic, and Cal—Cal would be out somewhere on the road from London, out in the cold and rain, worried sick, looking for her.
Mr. Galbraith—Edward—had had to turn back from wherever he was going and make the long journey back to London. And deal with a muddy, miserable, droopy creature who couldn’t even stay awake! She was entirely dependent on him.
She wasn’t even a friend of his. He might know Cal, but he hadn’t recognized Lily at all.
All this trouble and anxiety and inconvenience was her fault. Oh, Mr. Nixon might be the villain responsible, but deep down Lily knew she was to blame. If she’d had her wits about her . . . If she hadn’t been fretting about Rose doing something reckless . . .
But the fact was, Rose would never have sent her a note.
You didn’t realize the note was a forgery? You didn’t recognize your own sister’s writing?
She hadn’t been able to bring herself to explain to him about her dreadful inability. As it was, he only thought her careless. Or maybe stupid. Which she was, but in a much worse way than he’d imagined.
She’d hoped that once she left school she’d be able
to hide her weakness from everyone. Now . . .
She burrowed deeper into the rug. The trouble was, she wanted him to like her.
Though why on earth would he like a girl who’d dragged him into such a mess, who’d spoiled his plans and forced him to make the long, uncomfortable journey back to London, a girl who—she sniffed at herself cautiously—still smelled faintly of mud and vomit and animal dung . . .
The carriage door opened, jerking her from her gloomy reverie, and he stood there, looking handsome and serious, his brow a little wrinkled but the rest of him elegant and immaculate. The contrast between them couldn’t have been more depressing.
“I’ve told the landlady you’re my sister and that you had an accident on the road. Your luggage—because, for reasons known only to yourself, you traveled only with bandboxes—was ruined when you and your carriage went off the road and into a river.”
Lily blinked.
“I was following behind in my own carriage,” he continued. “I am a bad-tempered fellow and female chatter annoys me, so we travel in separate carriages.” He gave her a wry look. “It was the best I could come up with on the spur of the moment.”
He held out his hand. “Luckily this inn, small as it is, has a bedchamber with a sitting room attached. It’s very small, but clean and adequate. How are you feeling? Can you stand?”
“Yes, of course.” She stood on legs that felt as if they’d been stuffed with sawdust and started cautiously down the carriage steps, then squeaked in surprise as he swept her off her feet and held her against his broad, firm chest.
“Oh, but you don’t need—”
“Has to be this way,” he said gruffly. “Don’t want the hoi polloi gawking at your bare legs and feet, do we? Besides, the cobbles are wet and cold and dirty.” He carried her toward the inn, where a plump, motherly-looking woman waited with a concerned expression, holding the door open for them. “The landlady, Mrs. Baines,” he said in her ear. “Oh, and your maid broke her leg in the accident. We had to leave her behind in the care of a local physician.”