The Devilish Montague

by Patricia Rice

  Montague was a lethal weapon. And for all his education, he didn’t seem to like anyone very much.

  With no hope of reaching the house before he caught up with her, she abandoned the wagon and slipped into the shadows of the stable, out of the lingering drizzle. Nickers and whoofs and the pungent odor of manure permeated the morning air as the animals stirred in anticipation of their breakfast.

  She’d learned the value of stealth and a good diversion while avoiding Harold’s rages. Spreading her thick cloak, Jocelyn pulled the hood over her bonnet and settled in a rear stall where a barn cat was nursing newborns.

  “I know you’re in here,” a husky baritone called from the entrance. “I had hoped to have to hunt you down. You have disappointed me.”

  Jocelyn wanted to ask what he intended to do, shoot her? But she saw no reason to disturb the kittens.

  She suffered a nervous chill at the thought of being alone with an enraged man, but for all his brooding gloom, Mr. Montague was widely reported to be an honorable gentleman. He might scald her with the acid of his scorn, but a gentleman would never lay a hand on a lady. Behind him, dawn was lightening the wet day, silhouetting his square shoulders as he brushed raindrops from his hair. She wished she didn’t admire his physical strength so much. He had looked like a dangerous pirate in that duel, and his fencing this afternoon . . . Not to be considered. She had her goals, and Montague didn’t fit in with them.

  She scratched mama cat’s head to reassure her as her pursuer stomped from stall to stall, waking the mares. Fortunately, the stallions were stabled elsewhere, or they’d be breaking down their doors at this intrusion.

  She’d stationed herself so she could see the length of the barn and knew when he drew near. Her dove gray cloak blended nicely into the shadows this far from the door. When his tall outline loomed close, she pulled back her hood so he could see her white face against the stall. Good soldier that he was, he spotted her instantly.

  She surreptitiously studied Mr. Montague’s stern, steely-eyed expression as he approached. She knew the value of most of the young men of society, and Blake Montague’s worth lay in his intellect, not in his pockets.

  Except—the sight of the distinguished silver in his thick hair produced in her an oddly delicious shiver of excitement. She must admit that he was a handsome, if formidable, figure of a man—not one easily manipulated by the deceptive smiles and beguiling ways she’d learned to employ.

  She was entirely too aware of Blake Montague’s powerful body as he came to a halt and regarded her as if she were a strange insect. His square jaw and angular cheekbones were made harsher by the bronze of a Portugal sun. Sinfully dark-lashed eyes accompanied his thick, overlong locks, creating an almost poetic image, if only the streak near his temple didn’t look like a dangerous lightning bolt.

  It was that intense, hawk-eyed expression he bestowed upon her that set her nerves trembling, nearly preventing her from teasing him as she might tease another man.

  She could almost swear he growled as he limped forward. She held a finger to her lips to indicate quiet. He quirked a menacing dark eyebrow at her.

  “Quit posturing and admit the bird is better off free,” she whispered.

  “Free?”

  If he’d worn a hat, she thought he might have stomped on it. Picking up a kitten, she returned his glare. “What else could be done but let free such a rude creature?”

  “You did not let a tropical bird loose in chilly England. You may be nicked in the nob, but no one ever said you were stupid.”

  She slanted her eyes thoughtfully. “Actually, Harold said it quite often. And my brothers-in-law had occasion to mention it once or twice. Mr. Ogilvie certainly said it over these past days. I think I prefer nicked in the nob. What, precisely, does that mean?”

  He ignored her effort to distract him. “The bird belongs to the duke. You cannot keep it. It’s theft. Just tell me where you’ve hidden it, and I’ll see it’s returned without question.” He crossed his arms over his soaked coat and glowered.

  Jocelyn beamed at him in return. “Nature cannot be owned, sir.”

  He blinked as if he’d just realized she truly was dimwitted—the reaction she was most accustomed to receiving. In keeping hapless Richard and his fowl from being murdered by angry family and strangers alike, she’d learned to act helpless. They usually quit shouting when she presented guileless smiles and pretty pleas.

  Mr. Montague recovered more quickly than most, unfortunately. He reached down, grabbed her arm, and hauled her to her feet, much to mama cat’s consternation. “That’s the most preposterous idiocy I’ve heard all week, and I’ve heard a lot. Where is the bird?”

  “Really, sir, you’ll ruin the drape of my gown.” She probably ought to be afraid. Blake Montague was more raw male than she normally encountered. He didn’t stink of perfume or hair pomade but male musk, perspiration, and damp wool. His hands on her weren’t the polite escort of a gentleman. She sensed he was passionately determined for reasons she could not perceive, but she couldn’t believe he would harm her because of a bird.

  “Would you like me to summon an audience?” he asked maliciously. “What would Lady Bell have to say if we were discovered here alone at dawn?”

  Jocelyn cocked her head thoughtfully. “Oh, something pithy and intelligent like birds of a feather flock together. Or dross sinks to the lowest depths.”

  She thought she almost caught a quirk of humor in the curl of his lip, and a thrill of totally unjustified pride swept through her. She really ought to be concerned about her reputation, but he was a rural baron’s youngest son, and until recently, she had been no more than the impoverished daughter of a deceased viscount. Their families were of Quality, but not of vast import to society.

  But Lady Belden had been more than kind to her, and Jocelyn always tried not to disappoint her hostess. She set the kitten down and left the stall so the mama cat might rest easy. “Wouldn’t you rather explain your interest in a half-dead old bird than cause a scandal?”

  “Personally, I’d wring the foulmouthed featherbrain’s miserable neck, but Ogilvie has placed a thousandpound reward on its return, and I have good use for the blunt.”

  “Your mother said you had given up on buying colors!” Jocelyn declared in dismay. “You’ve already been grievously injured. It would be suicide to return to the battlefield.”

  Blake Montague bared his strong white teeth and hauled her past the stalls. “I have an entire family smothering me with such witticisms, thank you. What I choose to do is no concern of yours. Now tell me which of these stalls contains the damned bird, or I shall open them all.”

  “Then I hope you enjoy chasing the duke’s cattle,” she replied merrily.

  Montague shot her a disgruntled look, studied her amused expression, and withdrew a pistol from beneath his coat. He aimed it at the luggage cart that was clearly visible through the barn doors. “What if I proceed to shoot those boxes?”

  Jocelyn shrieked, jerked his arm downward, and the delicate firing mechanism of the expensive pistol exploded.

  In dismayed horror, Jocelyn covered her mouth to prevent crying out as Montague lifted his boot to reveal a smoking hole through the toe.

  “Oh, my, you are bleeding! We must remove that boot.” Near tears, the lethal blonde dropped to her knees on the barn floor beside Blake and struggled to grasp his ruined boot.

  Blake could scarcely believe the birdbrained Venus had had the audacity and immense stupidity to attend a duel with the intention of stealing a damned bird, much less shoot him. And if he did not mistake, Miss Carrington was now about to faint over his wound.

  He was none too happy with the sight of his own blood pouring from the smoking hole, either.

  “You should never carry a loaded pistol!” she sobbed while kneeling over his legs and tugging at his boot. He wished her concealing cloak to damnation so he might have a better view of her luscious bottom. “Violence only leads to violence,” she continued, althou
gh he wasn’t listening.

  She pulled so hard on his boot, she practically toppled into his lap when he jerked his foot away at the sharp pain. Recovering quickly, she scrambled to her knees beside him and peered at him through long-lashed violet eyes nearly hidden beneath a preposterously frivolous bonnet. Her eyes alone could bring a strong man to his knees.

  The ridiculous plume of her bonnet framed a heart-shaped face, an upturned excuse for a nose, limp blond ringlets, and a wide mouth designed specifically to destroy him.

  “Leave the boot alone,” Blake ordered, biting back a groan of pain for both the inanity of his reaction to a flibbertiwidget and the throb of his wounded appendage.

  She was kneeling entirely too close for his peace of mind. He pushed her hands aside and attempted to ease off the leather. “Did no one ever tell you to keep your hands away from men with guns?” he grumbled, just to refrain from emitting every curse in his capacious vocabulary.

  “Gentlemen generally do not wave weapons in my presence,” she countered, recovering from what little remorse she’d suffered, although she wiped suspiciously at the corner of her eye. “Give me your neckcloth for a bandage.”

  “It’s a flesh wound. I don’t need a bandage.” In truth, it felt as if he’d shot off his toe, but he couldn’t wiggle his foot free to tell. He directed his gaze away from his smoking boot, which left him looking into eyes that tilted deliciously at the corners when she glared at him, but she finally showed some sense by not arguing.

  “Will you bleed to death if I run to the house for help?” she asked.

  “It would be preferable to enduring your prattle.” Blake hated the sight of blood, especially his own, but he supposed it was better than studying this addlepated Venus.

  He finally tugged off the boot and waited for her to depart before peeling off his stocking. Even with the sock on, it looked as if the bullet had merely nicked a toe, but blood soaked through the knit, spreading everywhere. He’d rather not offend her with the sight.

  “Far be it from me to wound your pride as well as your toe.” Proving herself to be an unexpectedly dangerous judge of character, she retained her dignity, stood up, and began to brush off her hay-littered skirt—until the chatter of voices in the yard halted her.

  “I heard a shot!” an excited female called from outside. “We are already too late to stop them from fighting! I should not have taken time to dress! Could you tell the direction?”

  Blake groaned in recognition of his mother’s voice. “Run. Now.”

  To his amazement, the scatterwit obeyed. She raced to the open doorway, which revealed that the rain clouds had finally dissipated. Her bonnet fell off and flopped down her back, allowing the first rays of dawn to strike a rosy tint on her creamy complexion and highlight the golden strands of a heavy chignon deteriorating with moisture. In her haste, she failed to lift the sagging hem of her loose cloak, causing straw and dirt to fly up in a cloud that clung to the wet cloth.

  She looked like a woman who had just been tumbled.

  “Over here, come quickly!” she cried to the women in the stable yard. “Someone fetch a physician.”

  Blake went from admiring the vision of a dawn goddess to covering his eyes in defeat. “I meant run and hide, Miss Carrington, not greet our doom and direct it toward us.”

  He could easier shoot a bee from a bonnet than finesse his way out of the scandal sure to be raised by their presence together at this hour and in this condition. His companion had wits to let.

  A feminine babble joined that of the geese honking overhead. From somewhere outside, the parrot woke grumpily and squawked, “Pretty bird wants a canary.”

  Blake wished he’d shot the obscene creature when he’d had the chance.

  A gaggle of females darkened the doorway, whispering, gasping, and otherwise dithering rather than enter the dim stable.

  “Jocelyn, whatever is going on here?”

  Blake recognized Lady Belden’s modulated tones and wondered if there was any place in all the kingdom where he could hide without the delicate dowager hunting him down and shooting him. Of course she was up and about. That was her wagon loaded outside. She was no doubt looking for Jocelyn and prepared to depart for London at this ungodly hour. The widow did not let time or distance stand in the way of her entertainment. She certainly hadn’t come to save his hide from a duel. But it would be just like his mother to do so. One of the maids must have awakened her.

  “Lady Belden, Mr. Montague has been injured,” Miss Carrington cried. “I need bandages to stop the bleeding, and—”

  “Blake!” his mother exclaimed frantically. “Frances, call for a physician. Find a groom. We need to carry him to the house at once.”

  Blake groaned in exasperation. “It’s just a scratch, Mother,” he asserted, reluctantly revealing his presence. “I am fine. Send the ladies away so the damage does not offend them.”

  His mother ignored his admonitions, of course, shoving past his sister and Lady Belden to enter the barn. “Miss Carrington, I need bandages and alcohol,” she called at the sight of his bloody toe.

  Without asking his permission, his not-so-delicate mother jerked off the stocking that had become matted to his wound. Blake nearly came up off the floor at the explosion of pain.

  In the doorway, Miss Carrington folded her hands in her skirt, raised expressively blond eyebrows, and refrained from smirking. He had the choice of displaying his wounded pride by telling her to get the hell out again, or pretending she didn’t exist. He grabbed the stocking and used it to mop blood from the nick while his shy sister stood in the doorway, covering her eyes.

  “It was an accident,” he muttered from between clenched teeth. “I am no longer in the nursery, Mother, so if you would cease and desist, it would preserve my dignity for another few hours.”

  After rummaging through the luggage, Lady Bell returned with a clean white cloth and a brandy flask. She held them out for someone else to bring to him, not deigning to enter a stable containing a man with a naked foot. “I cannot conceive of any rational reason for this incident, Jocelyn,” the dowager said. “You have blood on your skirt.”

  “And straw,” his mother added absently, kneeling on the floor at an excellent advantage for observing Miss Carrington’s attire. “I do hope she accepted your proposal if the two of you were out here all night.”

  Damnation! His mother was a woman dedicated to seeing him wedded. She would stick tighter than a leech if he did not divert her.

  “We were not out here all night.” Blake gritted his teeth and whisked the cloth and flask out of Miss Carrington’s fingers so she might flee—which, of course, she didn’t do. He took a healthy swallow of the brandy before dumping the contents over his wound, then whipped the linen around his toe to hide it. “Our soaked conditions should be proof enough of that,” he added. “And Frances was with me until just a few hours ago.” Five or six, to be exact. Small matter.

  Miss Carrington stooped down again, this time to offer aid in helping him up. Her damp attire revealed far more of her curves than he had any right to notice, and his blood thrummed in inappropriate reaction.

  He blamed his response on the blond strand that had once been a ringlet dangling damply beside her ear. When he brushed aside her interfering aid, she nibbled a delectably pink bottom lip and cast him a look that he preferred not to interpret. The woman would no doubt blow off another toe if he allowed her closer.

  “I was merely checking on my horse, and Miss Carrington was helping a mother cat.” Wobbling, Blake pushed off the floor without anyone’s assistance, hoping to escape this ambush of delicate femininity until he recovered from his light-headedness, which had probably been brought on by loss of blood. Certainly not from Miss Carrington’s presence.

  He’d shot his good foot, leaving him to hobble unsteadily with one boot on and one boot off. It would be simpler to volunteer for the army again rather than suffer another house party like this one.

  The least he coul
d do was collect the reward for his troubles. He’d heard the filthy-mouthed bird in the cart as the hordes descended, but it was impossible to listen for it while his mother, Frances, Lady Belden, and Miss Carrington chattered all at once.

  “That’s sweet of you to protect her reputation after she saved you from a duel,” his mother simpered, following close and prepared to catch him should he topple, although he towered a foot taller, several stone heavier, and would likely flatten her. “She’s a darling girl, and we thoroughly approve.”

  “I am not protecting anyone, and I was not aware that I needed your approval, Mother,” he replied stiffly. Saved him from a duel! As if he needed saving. Ogilvie was such a bad shot, he could only have hoped to hit Blake by accident.

  Any attempt at argument with his parents felt as if he’d been reduced to a snot-nosed boy in short breeches, but he couldn’t let his mother entertain ridiculous hopes about an addlepate who would no doubt get him killed. “Miss Carrington was not with me, as Ogilvie and Atherton can attest.”

  Not that Ogilvie would be inclined to help him or that anyone would believe a rake like Nick. Blake ignored the imagined noose tightening around his neck and limped toward the wagon, eyeing the stacks of trunks, satchels, and other assorted luggage piled high. They were less than a day’s journey from London, but it looked as if Miss Carrington and Lady Belden had packed enough for a year on the Continent.

  Miss Carrington hastened to come between him and her boxes.

  Rather than suffer the continued humiliation of being dithered over, Blake risked her tempting perfume to lean over and whisper in the bird lady’s ear, “If you will not tell me where you have hidden Ogilvie’s fowl, I have nothing further to say in your defense, Miss Carrington. Your reputation may go hang.”

  “Oh, I believe you are wrong there.” She caught his arm and steered him toward the house, away from the cart, steadying his limping stride while pretending he supported her. “But men are often so caught up in seeing the world at large that they fail to comprehend the social niceties. That’s where women are eminently useful, is that not right, Lady Montague?”