The Earl Is Mine

by Kieran Kramer

  But the stranger fell into a dead faint, his body slumping sideways on the tufted leather seat cushion. His hat and something brown and grotesque—resembling a flattened dead squirrel—fell off his head and onto the floor, revealing a crown of tightly pinned Titian-colored curls.

  Chapter Four

  Dear God, it was Pippa! Pippa in man’s clothes! A surge of shock traveled the length of Gregory’s body, and he cursed like the veriest sailor. What was she doing dressed as a man and walking through a rainstorm so far away from home? How had she gotten this far? What in the world had happened to her?

  Her slender legs, encased in buff breeches and Hessian boots, and slanted across the edge of the seat, were completely immobile, but she was breathing evenly, thank God.

  He tried not to notice whether her breasts were evident, but he couldn’t help seeing that she’d managed to disguise her feminine figure completely.

  The flask. He needed it now. For both of them.

  With a sweep of his hand, he located it in the folds of a lap blanket and pulled the cork out with his teeth and took a quick swig.

  Soaked as her clothes were, they gave the impression she was a successful secretary or accountant—or even an upper servant with the day off. Her brown-and-tan-striped cravat was a bit uncommon, but Gregory wasn’t surprised she’d gone that route. She always wore at least one thing on her person that was eye-catching. The brown tailcoat and tan waistcoat, on the other hand, were perfectly unexceptional.

  Gently, he touched her temple and brushed a tendril of hair back. “Pippa, wake up.”

  Her eyes fluttered and opened. “Gregory,” she said softly.

  His name had never sounded so sweet. But a black fury rose in him, choking out the gratitude he felt that she was safe. “What kind of foolish game are you playing?”

  She merely stared at him, water pooling under her cheek.

  “Answer me, Pippa.” Threat laced his words, but inside, his heart knocked against his ribs. She looked so forlorn. A waif of a girl. And there she’d been, battling the elements on her own. Who knew what kind of stranger would have stopped to pick her up if he hadn’t?

  “Don’t make me go back.” Her voice cracked. “I beg of you.”

  Any man with three sisters and a loving mother knew the power of soothing words to a woman in distress. But he’d not reward her folly. He’d keep her alive—that was enough.

  “How the hell did you get this far from home?”

  “A farmer’s wagon. But he dropped me off when he got where he needed to go.”

  “Here.” Gregory’s voice was gruff. “Let me help you sit up.”

  She made a move herself, but he took the burden off her by lifting her under her arms. She was like a rag doll, and his wrath increased.

  “I suppose you’re angry—” Her voice was thin.

  “You guessed right.”

  They were close. And private. Like two lovers running away. But they weren’t. Not by a long shot.

  “Here.” He handed her the flask. “Drink this. It will prevent another faint, and it will warm your bones.”

  Without hesitation, she took the vessel from him, lifted it high, and poured some in her mouth. Instantly, her cheeks grew round and she waved a hand in front of her face.

  “Swallow it,” he urged her.

  Her eyes, already made large by the elfin hairstyle, widened further.

  “Pippa.”

  She stared at him as if she were ingesting poison, swallowed loudly, and sputtered, her fingers clenching her throat.

  Ah, she was such a girl! But he’d not pity her. No, indeed. “Dress like a man—expect to act like one.” His brogue came out along with his temper.

  “Good heavens.” She inhaled a great breath through her nose and wiped her hand across her mouth. “I pity the brute creatures who enjoy such vile stuff.”

  She reached for the door, and he caught her by the wrist.

  “Oh, no you won’t.” He pivoted her unyielding arm onto her lap. The straight line of her back and her narrowed eyes spoke volumes, but that was her problem, not his. “You’ll have more.” His tone brooked no argument. “You’re shivering.”

  She leaned forward, her mouth a straight line, her eyes snapping with her own fury. “I’d rather die than have more.”

  He got nose to nose with her. “You just might—if you don’t.”

  They stared steely-eyed at each other, and he was glad to see her angry. It would get the blood moving through her veins almost as well as the whiskey would.

  “Very well,” she muttered, “if it will mean you leave me alone and I may be on my way.”

  He tried not to show his obvious triumph when she drank from the flask again with an unsteady hand and let out a long breath. “Are you happy now?” She winced and handed it back to him.

  “You’re welcome.” If she was looking for more comfort, he wasn’t going to offer it. Of course, he was fall-on-his-knees happy that she was coming back to life with a vengeance, but she didn’t deserve to know this, not when she was wrecking all his plans. “I’ll be sure to tell the marquess you send him your highest compliments. He says it’s an old Brady recipe handed down by the leprechauns.”

  “In that case.” She beckoned with her index finger for another taste—and then another. “I feel better now. I think.” She thrust the silver vessel back at him. “Thanks to your father. And the leprechauns.”

  Not you, was the unspoken sentiment.

  He corked the flask and left it on his seat. “You need to change clothes.”

  “I can’t,” she said immediately. “I’m off again.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  She made a moue of impatience. “Dammit all, Gregory! I’ve already felled one man today. Don’t make me do the same to you.”

  “Hah. As if—” And then her words hit him “What did you say?” She couldn’t be serious.

  Her eyes became shuttered. “It’s a long story.”

  “And you’ll tell it.” He was already burning to exact vengeance on whoever had forced her to defend herself and then run away. “If you’re hurt—”

  He’d kill the man. Plain and simple.

  “Of course I’m not hurt,” she said scornfully.

  In the midst of his stone-cold anger, he admired—and was touched by—her show of bravado. “Was it someone you met on the road? Or—it wasn’t that damned Hawthorne, was it? Give me the name. Now.”

  “Hawthorne,” she said, “but—”

  It was as if she’d thrown a match onto dry straw. “That sorry—”

  “And the Toad—Mr. Trickle—helped him. They wanted him to carry me off.”

  Gregory saw red. Those conniving bastards! He’d enjoy every moment of thrashing Hawthorne until he ran from Plumtree with his tail between his legs. Unfortunately, Trickle had to stay in the equation for Lady Helen’s sake, but Gregory would be sure to make life miserable for him.

  “You must change clothes,” he said. “I promise I won’t look. And no one will ever know. When you’re situated comfortably again, we’ll discuss what we’re going to do.”

  He wrenched open her sturdy canvas sack. Thankfully, the items folded loosely inside—two shirts, two white cravats, a tailcoat, a waistcoat, a pair of pantaloons, a pair of men’s shoes, and three pairs of stockings—were dry.

  “I can’t change clothes,” she said. “Not with you here.”

  “Surely you don’t expect me to wait outside in that deluge.”

  “But it’s not proper.”

  He sighed. “There’s a time for proper, and a time for common sense.”

  She looked fretfully out the window. “It is pouring cats and dogs.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  She still said nothing.

  “I told you I won’t look,” he reminded her.

  “Well—”

  “I dare you,” he said. “Take off all your clothes, and if you do, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?”

  �
��I’ll buy you a hot beef pie at the next inn.”

  “You will?” Her face brightened like the sun.

  “Of course. And then we’ll change horses and turn around so I can scare Mr. Trickle near to death and beat the daylights out of Hawthorne.”

  “I’ve already taken care of Hawthorne. And we can’t turn around.” She folded her arms over her chest. “I’ll only take off my clothes if you’ll let me stay.”

  “No.” He couldn’t help feeling a stirring of lust when she so blithely referenced taking off her clothes.

  They stared at each other again, at an impasse.

  He leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs. “Listen to me, you stubborn girl,” he whispered fiercely. “You’ll take off your clothes, or I’ll take them off for you.”

  Her face blanched, but her chin came up. “I’ll do it myself,” she uttered like the scrapper he knew she was. “And fie on the man who thinks he can take a peek and live to tell the tale.”

  The whiskey was having its effect. He wanted to laugh, but he daren’t. He pretended her threat carried weight. She deserved that bit of dignity. After all, they were about to flout society’s rules in the worst possible way.

  “Here.” He held up the blanket in front of his face, relieved he could relax his smoldering expression. “Do it now. I can’t see a thing.”

  “Hmmm … everything?” From the other side of the woolly barrier, she suddenly sounded more like the old friend she’d always been before that day in the garden. Perhaps she couldn’t maintain the tension, either, when there were practical matters to be sorted out. “My breeches aren’t too bad.”

  “They’re soaked straight through,” he said. “Why didn’t you take a greatcoat?”

  “I’d little time, and I’d no idea it would rain. It swoops in sometimes, off the sea, without warning. Are you going to ask me if I brought a snuffbox next?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I did.” She sounded distinctly triumphant. “Quite a masculine one, too, with horses prancing on the front—one has his foot on a serpent.”

  “I’ll hold the blanket up all day if I have to until you get dressed, so no more delays. We’ll discuss your escape when you’re dry again.”

  “It wasn’t an escape,” she insisted, making a few breathy noises. He assumed she was working on removing her coat, which he’d noticed was particularly tight. “I had nothing to fear back home other than the Toad and his wily ways, but I could have taken him on and won. No, what happened this morning merely inspired me to go forward with my plan to go to Paris much sooner than I’d anticipated.”

  “Right,” he said dryly. “You’ll tell me the details of this plan. I insist.”

  “Perhaps I will—but only when I feel like it. Don’t condescend to me, Gregory. Do you know anything about fate?”

  “I know it’s fickle. Like women.” He heard more signs of a struggle. “Trouble with your coat?”

  “Yes, blast it. And women are only fickle with you because you’re fickle, too. Haven’t you figured that out yet? There was a cartoon of you in the London papers recently. Did you see it?”

  “No. I avoid the gossip rags.”

  “Well, you were striding down the gangplank of a ship—shirtless, mildly drunk, a lovesick young lady of the ton on either side of you, a lustful look in your eye, a scrap of paper with a draftsman’s sketch of a fragmented heart upon it in your hand, and a banner above your head proclaiming, ‘The Ignoble Architect of Disappointed Hopes Returns.’ The message was clear: Respectable young ladies are not to lose their hearts to you.”

  “You’re awfully nosy about my affairs.” He tossed the blanket aside. “Let me.”

  She held out an arm. “Just the sleeves, my lord. And I’m not nosy. Can I help it that everywhere I turn, there’s a new, scandalous story about you?”

  He gave the outstretched cuff a good tug. “So now I’m back to being the rakehell, eh? The one you must warn off.”

  “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” she said airily, “as you proved in Eliza’s garden—”

  “And you were there, too, kissing me back, right under your friend’s nose.” The sharp, back-and-forth movement of her body toward and away from him as he tugged was doing nothing to help him detach from his recognition that she was all woman beneath her manly garb.

  “I might have,” she said, “but I wasn’t myself. I regret that now—a great deal, I assure you.”

  “I don’t.” He enjoyed hearing her phony gasp. She knew damned well he didn’t regret it. “But I did think the whole deliciously wicked episode behind me.”

  “It wasn’t delicious!” she insisted.

  “Are you sure about that?” He stared her down a few heated seconds until she looked away. “As I was saying … I thought it was behind me, yet here you are, dressed as a man in my carriage when I’m on my way to a house party to which you’re not invited.”

  “If I’d known it was you—”

  “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have gotten in. We both know your survival instincts outweigh your pride.”

  “Yes, they do—which is why I’d have run in the opposite direction had I known this was the Brady carriage. A haystack would have served me just as well till the storm died down.”

  “I’d like to throw you in a haystack right now and leave you there with your beloved field mice. It would serve you right.”

  She didn’t seem to hear him. “Damn my fragile sensibilities. They’re to blame. Seeing you made my heart lurch. In terror, of course. And just like in a bad dream, my knees turned to jelly—and I couldn’t run. Or I would have.”

  Imp. “Am I like Frankenstein, then?”

  “Nearly,” she said with enthusiasm tempered by agitation.

  Both were good to see. They meant the blood was flowing down to the tips of her toes. He yanked sharply on her sleeve—which seemed to get tighter and more slippery the more he worked on it—and refused to remark on her answer to the Frankenstein question.

  See what she made of that.

  “Well, you’re a man without a heart, at the very least,” she said into the silence. Was it guilt making her tone uncertain?

  “I am, aren’t I?” He gave a long pull, and the sleeve moved forward a good four inches. “Would that you never forget.” He stopped pulling and did his best to look as if he were the most menacing man on earth, one who’d crush her heart under his feet were she sorry enough to ever fall in love with him again.

  It was all true. So it wasn’t difficult.

  Her pupils widened, but he went straight back to work on her sleeves, pretending he hadn’t noticed the frisson of worry etched into her brow.

  “There,” he said when she was finally free.

  “Thank you.” She gave a little shiver. And no wonder. Beneath leather braces holding up her pantaloons, she was sheathed in a voluminous shirt that was also soaked through and clinging to her skin. Underneath that was a swath of white fabric binding her breasts.

  Too well, he couldn’t help thinking in the rakehellish recesses of his brain.

  She wrapped her arms around herself. “Please get behind the blanket again.”

  “Yes, madam.” He held the makeshift curtain back up. “Let’s finish this off promptly.”

  “Uncle Bertie’s trunks are filled with costumes,” she said, and then her voice came to him muffled: “I’ve played with them for years.” Her hands grappled with bunches of the shirt over her head, and then her head must have popped out because her next words were clear. “I’m rather expert,” she added proudly, and dangled the sodden garment over the top edge of the blanket, where it landed on the floor.

  As both his hands were occupied, he’d have to wait to shove the blasted thing under the seat. No use opening the door to wring it out, either—the sheets of rain came steadily on.

  “Unwind the band of cloth,” he said. “We’ll need to dry it out.”

  She paused. “I shouldn’t.”

  “You’ll be wearing a
shirt and a coat, remember.”

  “True,” she said hopefully. “And it’s not as if I’m…” She trailed off.

  “Go on and take it off,” he said, ignoring her implication. She might not be bursting out of her bodice as so many fashionable women were, but she was proportioned like a Greek goddess and exceedingly tempting, exactly the way she was. In fact, her modest gowns drove him mad with wanting to see more, to feel more, as he’d done once before—but only barely before the kiss had abruptly ended. “You’re uncomfortable, surely.”

  “I am.” She blew out a sigh and began the process of rendering her upper half naked.

  The sound of the cloth unwrapping was subtle but audible, and Gregory felt an overwhelming urge to sneak a peek. Just one little glance over the edge. If she were looking down, she wouldn’t even notice, would she?

  But of course, he wouldn’t succumb to temptation. You’re a gentleman, his conscience chided him.

  He hated his bloody conscience.

  A few tortured seconds later, Pippa held a straggly bundle of cloth stripping over the blanket.

  “Drop it,” he said.

  It landed on his boot with a squishy sound.

  “I need a new dry shirt.” Panic laced her words. “And coat. Please hurry.”

  Oh, how a man’s mind could turn to mush in the presence of a near naked woman! But she was a naked, cold woman, and he had an obligation to help her. “You’ll need to hold this side of the blanket then.” He jiggled the left corner.

  When she took it, he reached behind him and passed the dry shirt to her free hand over the barrier. They switched ownership of the blanket corner, and seconds later, she’d donned the new shirt.

  The same maneuver took place with the coat. It was a bloody circus act they had going. He was the lion—she was the vulnerable maiden.

  “Better?” he asked after a moment of hearing her struggle—the blanket was rippling with her efforts.

  “Better.” Finally, she pushed the woolen barrier down.

  Anxiety hovered about her eyes and mouth, but in her dry jacket and shirt, she already looked vastly improved: alert, robust, even alluring—as if she’d taken a cold shower under a waterfall and had been rubbed down with a towel and put before a fire. It was entirely charming of her to appear so well, considering she was in a damp carriage and still wearing drenched pantaloons.