Julia gasped. “Who…?”
Her words were cut off as a hard hand clamped over her mouth. “Silence,” the man breathed in her ear. “We must leave as fast and quietly as possible.”
She froze, shocked. There was something familiar in that whispered voice. But the man whose name flashed through her mind couldn’t possibly be here.
No matter. Any rescuer would do. She nodded and he released her. She saw he carried some sort of rifle.
After she wrapped the loose chain around her arm to silence it, he bent over, gesturing for her to do the same. His clothing was dark and his face covered, making him a shadow among shadows. Her own gown was also dark. They moved away from the cluster of bushes, heading parallel to the road and back the way she’d come.
Her rescuer was a master at taking advantage of any cover available. Luckily Crockett and his other two men were talking and laughing as they passed the jug around. She hoped they wouldn’t notice how long her visit to the shrubbery was taking.
After they rounded the bend and had the hill and some trees between themselves and Crockett, her rescuer stopped and turned to her. His lean, broad-shouldered form still seemed familiar, but his identity was obscured by a dark scarf.
She caught her breath when he tugged off the concealing scarf. Cool moonlight slid over blond hair and the lethal elegance of his chiseled features. Impossibly, her rescuer was Major Randall, as beautiful and fearsome as hell’s own angels.
Recognition was followed by a feeling of inevitability. She’d first met Randall at Hartley Manor, when he and two others had come in search of their missing friend, Ashton. They’d found him with Mariah Clarke, mistress of the manor at the time. Of Ashton’s friends, Randall was the prickliest, the wariest.
For some reason, probably punishment for her sins, there was an itchy, powerful connection between them that was as undeniable as it was unwelcome. When the group made the long journey to London together, Randall wouldn’t even ride in the same carriage with her. She’d been grateful for that.
Yet of all the men on earth, he was the one who had rescued her. “Why you, Major Randall?” she asked softly, her question more philosophical than practical.
He answered literally. “On the way back from Scotland, I decided to call on the Townsends.” His voice was equally soft as he started off again at a brisk pace. Now that he had straightened up, his limp was visible and worse than she remembered.
She fell in beside him. “The Townsends are away.”
“So I learned, but I was invited to spend the night. I was dining when your apprentice came to report that you’d been kidnapped.”
“Jenny is all right?” she asked.
“Yes. She got her little girl to fetch a knife so she could cut herself free.”
“Thank heaven!” Julia would never have forgiven herself if Jenny or Molly had come to harm because of her.
“You’re shivering.” Randall peeled off his coat and draped it around her shoulders. Body heat radiated from the garment.
“You’ll freeze,” she said, glad for the warmth but uneasy with the way the coat made her feel as if he was touching her.
He shrugged. “I’ve spent enough time living rough that I don’t notice temperature much.”
Taking him at his word, she put her arms into the sleeves. The coat was almost cloak-sized on her, and she welcomed every heavy woolen inch of it.
He led her into a copse on the left of the road. She thought the horse tethered there was Charles Townsend’s mount, though she couldn’t be sure. Randall slid his weapon into a saddle holster and mounted, then offered his hand. “Best ride astride.”
She took his hand and he lifted her with unnerving ease. Swinging her right leg over the saddlebags was awkward, but she managed. Randall set the horse into a walk and they returned to the road, heading back toward Hartley.
She reluctantly set her hands on his lean waist for balance. “The man you struck, Haggerty. Is…is he dead?”
“No, but he’ll have the devil’s own headache. Why do you care?”
“He was the most decent of the lot.” She closed her eyes, shaking, still not quite believing that she was free. Randall was dangerous and uncomfortable, but he’d saved her life. He was a hero, and rescuing females was what heroes did.
Shouts rose behind them, with Crockett bellowing, “The damned bitch has escaped!”
Her hands tightened on Randall. He said, “Don’t worry. By the time they realize that you didn’t head off into the pasture away from the coach, we’ll be well away.”
“Won’t they come after us in the carriage?”
“They’ll try.” He chuckled. “They’ll find that the harnesses have been cut, so they won’t be going anywhere very soon.”
“You did that first?” she exclaimed. “How very efficient!”
“Military experience has its uses.”
“I thank God and you for that, Major.” She drew a deep breath, still not quite believing she was safe. “I thought I was doomed.”
He shrugged and didn’t reply. All in a day’s work for a hero.
The road curved around another hill, and he set the horse into a canter. Despite Turk’s smooth strides, she had to tighten her hold on Randall. They’d never touched before this night, and now she knew why. Being so close to him was…disquieting. “Are we returning to Hartley?”
He shook his head. “Even if Turk wasn’t carrying double, he’s too tired to go that far. And if they followed us and tried to get you back in Hartley…”
He didn’t need to complete the sentence. She would not call down violence on the town that had been her home for years. “I’m sure you have an alternative plan.”
“I noticed a track leading up to a shepherd’s hut not far from here. We can go to ground there and get some rest.”
“Rest. What a lovely thought.” She tilted her head against his back and relaxed. Disquieting the man might be, but she had complete faith in his competence.
Wearily she wondered what she would do next, now that they’d found her. She’d worry about that tomorrow.
Not long after, they swerved from the road onto a nearly invisible track that led up and around the tall hill. Patchy clouds were beginning to obscure the moonlight. For once, the chronically damp weather was welcome.
They reached the dark square of a hut and he pulled the horse to a stop. “We’re in luck. Not only a roof, door, and four walls, but a lean-to for Turk.”
“I’d be happy in a cow shed as long as Crockett and his men can’t find us.” She slid from the horse, swaying as she reached the ground. Randall steadied her with one hand. She pulled away from his touch as soon as she regained her footing.
“The chances of them finding us are vanishingly small.” He dismounted himself. “If they do, I shall deal with them in a more emphatic fashion.”
“Four to one odds don’t bother you?” she asked, more curious than surprised.
“They’re amateurs. I’m not.” He unfastened the saddlebags and carried them into the hut. “Better and better. There’s a small fireplace and some stacked wood. If I give you my tinderbox, can you start a fire while I tend to Turk?”
She followed him into the hut, glad to be inside. “Do you think a fire is safe?”
“We’re well concealed here, and the wind will carry any smoke away from the road.” He handed her the tinderbox and moved toward the door. “There will be rain by morning, and that will wipe out any hoof marks if they look along the road then.”
As she knelt by the hearth, a glimmer of moonlight glowed through a parchment-covered window. The single-room hut had an air of disuse, but at least it was dry and they were protected from the wind. Though her hands were clumsy with cold and exhaustion, she had a small fire burning by the time Randall joined her.
He opened his saddlebags and pulled out a small blanket. “Take this.”
She returned his coat, then wrapped herself in the coarse woolen fabric as she settled to one side of the
fire. Randall dug into the saddlebags again. “Are you hungry?”
She thought about it. “Starving, actually.”
“Here’s some cider.” After giving her the jug, he used his knife to divide bread and cheese.
She sipped the tangy cider gratefully. “You are well prepared. Military experience again, I presume.”
“The first lesson of campaigning is to insure supply lines.” He handed her chunks of bread and cheese, setting some aside for himself and repacking the rest.
She bit into the cheese with more enthusiasm than elegance. Her energy began to revive as she ate. There was silence as they demolished the bread and cheese. The cider was cool, tart, and welcome.
In the light from the fire, Randall’s handsome face was remote and enigmatic. She had no reason to fear him when he’d just saved her, but he was too powerful, too male, to be comfortable company. Even with her eyes closed, his presence was as vivid as the heat of the fire.
She wrenched her thoughts away from the major. The urgent issue was deciding what to do now that she was not heading to likely death.
She was so absorbed that she jumped when Randall asked, “Do you know why those men kidnapped you?”
He had a right to know, but she hated revealing the sordid story of her life. “I do.”
“Jenny said they called you a murderess,” he said bluntly. “Is that true?”
Her mouth tightened as she met his intent gaze. “Yes.”
Chapter 5
Randall studied Julia’s delicately lovely face. It was very hard to imagine her as a murderess. “Whom did you kill?”
Her gaze slid away to the fire. “My husband.”
“Did he need killing?” he asked coolly.
Her head shot up again. “No one has ever asked that.”
“Anyone can react with violence if sufficiently provoked. You don’t strike me as a woman who would kill for anything less than the most drastic of reasons.” He offered the cider jug again. “Tell me about it.”
Relaxing a little, she took a long swallow of cider. Had she expected him to toss her back onto the road for the kidnappers to find? As a soldier, he’d had more experience with killing than most, and accepted that sometimes it was necessary.
He’d wondered what Julia Bancroft’s story was. Now he’d find out. Perhaps that would explain why he found her so damned compelling.
She pulled the blanket tight around her as if it was a shield. “I was barely sixteen when I married. The match was arranged. Everyone agreed it was very suitable.”
Randall put another branch on the fire. “How did you feel about the match?”
“I’d been raised to believe that arranged marriages were best. I assumed my father would pick me a good husband.” Her smile was wintry. “My betrothed was young and good-looking and charming. I was quite pleased.”
“But…?”
“My handsome, wellborn, eminently suitable husband was a monster.” Though her voice was flat, her body betrayed her by shuddering.
Making an informed guess, Randall said, “Violent and abusive?”
“Yes.” She pulled even further into herself.
Randall clamped down on his rage at that unknown husband. “Did you have to kill him to save your own life?”
Wearily she brushed a wisp of soft chestnut hair from her face. “At first, the violence was rare and he would apologize very earnestly. But the marriage went from bad to worse. He was jealous and accused me of wanting to lie with every man I met, so he kept me in the country and made sure I had only female servants. Gradually I realized that hurting me aroused him.” Her voice broke. “How was I to know how to deal with such a man? I was a child, raised to be dutiful!”
“It is not a woman’s duty to allow a man to hurt her.” Now Randall understood why she was so self-effacing, and why she flinched every time he came near her. She didn’t trust men, and justly so. “How did it end?”
“After about a year, I found that I was with child. I prayed for a boy so my husband would have his heir, and told him I wanted to live apart until after the birth.” Her gray eyes were stark. “He went berserk. He swore he’d never let me go, that I belonged to him, all while giving me the worst beating yet. I was sure he was going to kill me. I shoved him while frantically trying to get away from his riding whip. He had been drinking and his balance was off. He…he fell and smashed his head into the edge of the fireplace. He died instantly, I think.”
Randall winced. A riding whip? “So it wasn’t murder, but an accident that happened when you were defending yourself.” He forced his voice to stay level. If he allowed his anger to show, she might bolt into the night. “And the child?”
“I miscarried that same night.” Her breathing was swift and ragged. “My husband kicked me. Repeatedly.”
He winced again. He would give a great deal to draw her into his arms to offer comfort, but he doubted she could bear a man’s touch at the moment. “How in the name of heaven could anyone accuse you of murder under such circumstances?”
“Crockett, the man who kidnapped me, was my husband’s companion and acolyte. They had a strange, intense relationship.” She gazed at the fire, her expression remote. “Crockett was the one who found my husband’s body, with me bleeding beside it. He acted swiftly to cover up what happened so there would be no scandal.”
“So no one knew the real story?”
“There was an inquest. The official verdict was death by misadventure, but Crockett told my father-in-law I’d murdered his son. Naturally he was devastated by the death of his only son. He had to blame someone, so he blamed me. Ever since that day, he has wanted me dead.”
“He was the one who arranged your kidnapping?”
“Yes.” She closed her eyes briefly. “I don’t know what he had planned for me, but I doubt I would have survived.”
Randall thought about what she had said, and what had not been said. “Surely your own family is powerful. Couldn’t they offer you protection?”
She laughed, unable to control her bitterness. “As soon as I could stumble from my sickbed, I fled to my father. My father-in-law had written to say I’d murdered my husband. They were old cronies, so my father chose to believe him rather than me. He disowned me. Said I was a disgrace to the family name. After that, I was fair game for my father-in-law.”
Julia fell silent again, her mind caught in the past. Randall asked, “What then?”
“I faked my own death. I was near the sea, so I went to the shore and wrote a note saying how distraught I was at my husband’s death. I took what money I had, left my shawl and bonnet on the shore, and let the world think I had drowned myself.”
A mark of desperation, and of fierce strength. Intensely interested in the way the pieces of her story were shaping up, he asked, “How did you escape?”
She shrugged. “I bought a ticket on the first coach I could find, not caring where it took me. But I hadn’t recovered from the beating and miscarriage. When I started bleeding all over the coach, the driver put me off at a village near Rochdale in Lancashire. The local midwife took me in. I was thought to be dying.”
“Let me guess. Her name was Bancroft?”
Julia’s face eased. “The real Mrs. Bancroft. Louise was rich in years and experience, and had snatched other females from the jaws of death. I asked if I could stay and help her until I was stronger. Soon I was her apprentice. I took the name Bancroft and we told people I was a cousin. I had an aptitude for the work, and it was very satisfying. She taught me all she knew, and I took care of her as her health declined.”
“You moved to Hartley after she died?”
“I wanted a location as remote as possible. As Mrs. Bancroft was failing, she got a letter from a friend saying a midwife was needed in this part of Cumberland, so I moved here after her death.” Julia’s mouth twisted. “I’m guessing that my visit to London with Mariah is what alerted my father-in-law to the fact that I might be alive. If I’d stayed in Hartley, I would still be sa
fe.”
“You can’t live there again.” His attraction to this small, self-effacing woman was no longer inexplicable. He’d noted her quiet beauty, but there were other beautiful women and most of them weren’t doing their best to be invisible. What made Julia unique was the steel at the center of her soul.
He felt an intense urge to protect her. Protect, and a good deal more. “Have you thought what you’ll do next?”
“I doubt I’ll be safe anywhere in England.” She brushed her hair again, her expression bleak. “Perhaps one of the colonies. Midwives are useful everywhere.”
“I’m guessing that you were married to Lord Branford,” he said in a conversational tone. “Your murderous father-in-law is the Earl of Daventry.”
She gasped and shrank away. “Dear God, you’re part of that Randall family. I had wondered, but Randall is a common name, and you don’t resemble them.” White-knuckled fingers clenched her blanket. “Are you going to turn me over to Crockett?”
He caught her gaze. “Never.”
Watching as if he might transform into a wolf, she asked, “What is your relationship to Branford and Daventry?”
“Since several cousins have died over the years and Daventry is childless, I’m currently the heir presumptive to the earldom.” His face hardened. “My father was a younger half brother of the present earl. They never got on. My resemblance is to my mother’s family. My parents died when I was small, so I was sent to Turville Park to share a nursery with Branford.”
“What was he like then?”
Randall thought back to his arrival at the Daventry estate. He’d been grief-stricken and confused and desperate for a new home. “Branford made my life hell. He was older and larger than I, or I might have killed him myself.”
She stared at him. “No wonder you joined the army.”
“So I could learn to fight really well? I hadn’t thought of it in those terms,” he said. “Certainly I fought everyone at Turville. Daventry shipped me off to various schools as soon as he could. I was expelled from one after another until I ended up at the Westerfield Academy.”
Never Less Than A Lady Page 3