Duel of Hearts

by Farr, Diane

  The catch on the curtain was apparently giving him a great deal of trouble. He was pressed against her for what seemed an eternity, while his fingers worked the wet leather. At last he sat back and Lilah could breathe again.

  “Thank you,” she managed to utter. She stole a peep up at him. This was a mistake. Their eyes met—and locked. In the closeness of the carriage, mashed onto a bench too small to hold the both of them, his nearness was inescapable.

  Invisible sparks seemed to fly between them. Lilah saw at once, with a thrill of mingled fear and relief, that the sparks flew both ways. The connection between them was instantaneous, and so strong she felt as if she could almost read his mind. Could he read hers? Attraction flashed and pulsed between them, as irresistible as it was inexplicable. Drake seemed to like it no better than she did. His expression grew fierce. She felt herself paling. Yet, for a long and fascinated moment, neither could look away.

  Drake broke the contact first, turning his head as if with an effort. “You are welcome,” he said hoarsely. “But don’t do it again. I don’t know what idiocy possessed you—”

  “How was I to know the window would leak?” flashed Lilah. It was a relief to vent her emotions in anger. Anger was simple. Anger was understandable.

  “Common sense,” he snapped, immediately rising to her bait. “Which you seem to lack.”

  Miss Pickens shuddered and intervened, breaking up what might have been a refreshing little skirmish. “Lilah,” she pleaded timidly, “pray let me change places with you. Your seat cushion is wet through.”

  Lilah felt a stab of irrational disappointment at having her quarrel interrupted, but her better self prevailed. She took a breath, mentally shook herself, and faced Miss Pickens.

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said, with gentle firmness. “It is like you to offer, Picky, but I shan’t allow you to sacrifice yourself on my account. Pray remain where you are. Lord Drakesley and I are perfectly comfortable.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Drake muttered. Lilah longed to jab him with her elbow, but repressed the unladylike impulse.

  Miss Pickens looked distressed. “Oh, my dear child, it isn’t seemly for you to ride facing backwards while I keep the forward-facing seat. And I have it all to myself, too! You cannot ask me to take the best seat while my betters are inconvenienced. I would be ashamed.”

  “I’ll take it,” offered Drake.

  Lilah, exasperated, glowered at him. “For your information, riding backwards makes Miss Pickens ill.”

  “Oh. In that case, she can stay where she is. In fact, I insist on it.” Devils danced in his eyes as he looked down at Lilah. “But I see no reason why you shouldn’t be forced to sit in the puddle. I daresay it would teach you a valuable lesson.”

  “Thank you,” said Lilah, with awful politeness. “But I have no need of lessons, valuable or otherwise.”

  “On that, we have a difference of opinion,” remarked Drake. “Oh, well.” He shifted slightly on the too-small seat, stretching his legs, as best he could, across the narrow aisle between the benches. Lilah tried not to notice the muscles bunching in his thighs. “At least this hellish journey can’t last much longer. The mud will probably force us to halt at the next inn.”

  “Oh, no.” This daunting thought shook Lilah out of her odd preoccupation with Drake’s body. She blinked at him in dismay. “Do you really think so? We haven’t covered nearly enough ground today. I must reach London no later than tomorrow.”

  Drake’s mouth hardened into a thin line. “And so must I. Time is of the essence. We may have to drive past nightfall tomorrow, but we’ll reach London. Whatever the weather. The great thing is, we’ll be able to change coaches if we stop. I don’t intend to go a mile farther than I must in this rattletrap.”

  Lilah brightened. “I hadn’t thought of that. Why, we might even hire separate coaches.”

  Drake immediately reached up to rap on the ceiling. “An excellent idea. I shall instruct the driver to halt at the next inn, mud or no mud.”

  Unfortunately, they were traveling through a sparsely inhabited area of rolling pastures and irregular stands of woods. Drake checked their progress periodically through the flaps on Miss Pickens’s side of the coach, but the only buildings discernible through the rain were far from the road and seemed to be farm houses.

  The rickety coach was forced to travel more and more slowly as conditions worsened. Every so often, it seemed to float sideways as it skidded in the mud, and still no roadside inn or habitation appeared. Miss Pickens began to look quite sick with dread.

  Lilah leaned across Drake’s lap and took her old governess’s hand in a sustaining clasp. She reminded her that they were not, after all, negotiating a mountain pass. “We shan’t skate over the edge of a cliff,” said Lilah bracingly. “Tipping into a ditch is the worst that can happen.” Miss Pickens, her anxiety not noticeably eased, only moaned in reply.

  By now, the rain had become a downpour, drumming with increasing intensity on the roof. The coach tilted and slipped forward for a moment. Lilah thought it prudent to let go of Miss Pickens’s hand and sit back; it would only add to Picky’s distress if she pulled her from her seat. But as she slid back into place, she was startled to feel Drake’s arm go around her. Lilah froze as a frisson of dark excitement flashed through her veins, jangling her nerves. She stared up at Drake, her eyes wide with alarm.

  His face seemed very close to hers. Too close. She was acutely aware of his arm behind her back like a band of steel, his enormous hand gripping her. With his arm thus out of the way, her body was molding itself to his, willy-nilly. It was a strange sensation…but there was something wonderful about it, something both compelling and comforting. His eyes held hers, but she could not read his expression.

  “Let me hold you,” he said. His voice seemed carefully devoid of inflection. “The strap on your side of the carriage is broken.”

  Lilah frowned at him. “I don’t need—” she began, but the coach gave another sudden lurch and she forgot what she was going to say. Miss Pickens uttered a miserable little cry and clung to her strap, nearly losing her seat. But Drake’s arm tightened around Lilah, holding her close. Keeping her safe. She found that she had instinctively grabbed at his coat and was now clinging to him in a way that struck her, once the danger was past, as quite shocking. Why, they were actually embracing. Really, if Miss Pickens hadn’t been preoccupied with her own misery, Lilah was sure she would have delivered a thundering scold.

  Lilah quickly disentangled herself and assumed a more dignified posture. “Thank you,” she said stiffly. It was best to pretend he was offering her a service, nothing more. She tried to ignore the blush heating her cheeks and prayed that he would have the decency to do the same.

  He did. “You are welcome,” he said gravely, as polite and distant as if he were merely holding a door for her. She was grateful for this unexpected display of good manners—until it occurred to her that his motives for feigning disinterest were highly questionable. He had certainly not removed his arm. If anything, he held her more intimately than before.

  Miss Pickens suddenly seemed to notice the peculiar scene confronting her. She eyed Lilah and Drake askance. “My lord, you must not allow Miss Chadwick to encroach upon your space,” she said severely.

  Drake’s face was a mask of politeness. “I am comfortable enough, Miss Pickens,” he assured her. “I only hope you do not think I am taking liberties.”

  Miss Pickens, still hanging onto her strap for dear life, turned pink beneath her pallor. “Oh, no, my lord, I would never suggest such a thing. I am sure you would never do anything so vulgar. But—”

  “Thank you,” Drake interrupted smoothly. “I am concerned for Miss Chadwick’s safety. With no support on her side of the coach, she might easily be thrown from her seat.”

  Miss Pickens appeared relieved. “Oh! Naturally. I had not thought—that is, I had not noticed the state of—well. Never mind. How observant you are! So solicitous! Your co
ncern does you honor, my lord.”

  “I am happy to be of service,” he replied politely. Lilah, still suspicious, sneaked a glance at Drake’s face. He looked down at her again and she thought she saw a flash of enjoyment behind his bland smile.

  “Exactly how long do you intend to keep your arm round me?” she enquired.

  He must have heard the tart edge in her voice, for his smile widened. “For as long as you are in danger, Miss Chadwick.” The smile widened further, and his voice lowered. Shielded by the noise of the rain he was able to tell her, in a voice only she could hear, “I promise you, I don’t mind it a bit.”

  Lilah was too flustered by this to think of a good reply. Fortunately for her peace of mind, their forward progress, though slow, was genuinely treacherous. This robbed her of the necessity to bleat out a maidenly protest. She could, instead, be grateful for the strong arm encircling her, since it really did prevent her from being thrown about. The fact that it was Drake’s arm was, she reminded herself, immaterial.

  The moment finally arrived, however, when the driver, with a shout of relief, turned the weary horses into the yard of a roadside inn. For the last time, Lilah felt herself thrown against Drake’s body by the turn.

  “Thank goodness,” she said brightly, and pulled out of his embrace. It seemed to Lilah that he kept his arm around her a fraction of a second longer than absolutely necessary, but he did release her at last. She busied herself in pulling up the hood of her traveling cloak and fastening it tightly at her throat, while the driver whistled up an ostler and pulled the coach as near the door of the inn as he could.

  The rain was still pounding down. The din made conversation difficult and outside activity impossible to hear, so it was no wonder that Miss Pickens recoiled when the door beside her was yanked open. An unrecognizable figure who may or may not have been their driver, thoroughly drenched, with water streaming from the brim of his low-pulled hat, gestured impatiently for Miss Pickens to step out so he could usher her into the doorway visible a few yards behind him. Clucking faintly, Miss Pickens stepped out.

  The man’s arm was extended for her, and she surely clutched it, but nevertheless her feet slid out from under her. Miss Pickens shrieked. The man caught her before she went down, but her shoes were obviously ruined and the hem of her gown was now six inches deep in mud. One of the inn’s servants sprang forward to assist and Lilah watched in dismay as Miss Pickens, huddled miserably between the two men, was half-dragged into the inn.

  Lilah hung back, eyeing the distance from the coach to the inn with misgiving. “Perhaps we should wait a bit,” she suggested nervously. “It can’t rain this hard forever.”

  Drake snorted. “Don’t be a pudding-heart. Water won’t melt you.”

  “I’m not a pudding-heart,” declared Lilah, stung. “But this is my favorite traveling cloak, and it’s new. I don’t want it ruined.”

  Drake said something under his breath. The roar of the rain drowned out every word except “female.” Lilah guessed at the rest. Her chin jutted stubbornly.

  “It has nothing to do with being female,” she informed him. “I am simply being practical. Although a man ‘as rich as Croesus’ might not understand such mundane matters.”

  “Oh, if you’re going to throw that in my teeth—”

  “I’m not throwing anything in your teeth! I’m merely—”

  “What a contentious chit you are! Sit in the coach till Doomsday; it’s all one to me. I’m not going to sit here like a gapeseed and argue with you.” The coach swayed as Drake grasped the narrow doorjamb and heaved himself off the seat. There he paused for a fraction of a second, squinting out at the rain. It was blowing in sheets across the yard.

  “Damn,” he said, without heat. Apparently resigned to his fate, he descended onto the step, then splashed down onto the ground. Lilah watched forlornly as Drake disappeared into the pelting rain, leaving her alone in the abandoned vehicle.

  Well, whatever Lord Drakesley may think, she did not intend to sit in the coach until Doomsday. One of the inn’s servants would return for her in a moment or two and help her make a quick dash for the door. She was wondering if she should try turning her cloak inside out, so that the worst of the damage would occur to the lining rather than the exterior, when the door on her side of the coach suddenly burst open. She turned with a frightened squeak, thinking it had blown open—and, indeed, with both doors open the rain immediately blew into the interior—but, to her astonishment, it was Drake who had opened it. He had evidently walked around to her side of the coach rather than into the inn. And before she could say a word, his long arms reached in and unceremoniously pulled her into the storm.

  “There’s no help for it,” he said unemotionally. “Hang on.” And he swung her neatly up into his arms. Her feet never touched the step, let alone the ground. Good heavens, he was strong. Lilah instinctively flung one arm up around his neck and hung on.

  He held her in his arms like a baby and strode toward the inn. It was an outrageous stunt. What did he mean by it? Lilah decided to worry about that later. For now, she turned and pressed her forehead against Drake’s wet coat, hiding her face from the rain. Being carried as if she weighed nothing was a novel sensation. She felt powerless—which had never been one of Lilah’s favorite ways to feel—but, with her body cradled in Drake’s massive arms, there was something oddly pleasant about feeling out of control. She wondered, dreamily, if drunkenness felt like this. If it did, she understood for the first time why people might find it addicting.

  A small waterfall pattered down on her shoulders, signaling that Drake was stepping over the threshold of the inn. The roar of falling water immediately lessened. He took two more steps, then halted. Lilah opened her eyes, lifted her head and looked into Drake’s face.

  They were in a small anteroom or foyer with walls of rough-hewn logs and plaster. They were alone. Further on, the foyer opened into a larger room where firelight and voices signaled the presence of Miss Pickens, gently complaining, but the foyer itself was deserted. Behind Drake, the door stood open to the yard. She heard a distant shout from what must have been the stables, and the splash of running feet as a boy came to take the horses’ heads.

  The contrast between the utter stillness immediately surrounding them and the noise and activity on either side, made it seem that Lilah and Drake were stranded together on a private island. They had halted, by accident or design, in a space between two worlds. The open door behind them led back to the tempest. The open door ahead led to the coziness of the firelit inn. But in the foyer, they belonged to neither the storm nor the refuge. They stood wrapped in an intimate solitude, lit only by the flicker of a single torch smoking and dancing in the wet wind.

  He did not set her on her feet. She did not struggle. He held her, and she allowed herself to be held. Time spun out like candy floss, sparkling and sweet and fragile as gossamer. They stared, studying each other with a startled, almost wary, amazement.

  Lilah remembered that earlier, she had thought Drake was not handsome. She must have been daft. He had the bones of an aristocrat, with strong features, a high-bridged nose and square jaw. The deep-set, hawk-like eyes were compelling. Beautiful, too, like the eyes of a predator. They were a hazel that appeared almost golden when the firelight struck them.

  She watched the wavering light glance across the planes of his face, mesmerized. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. He must be a man who habitually hid his thoughts from others; his expression was mask-like in its neutrality. But his eyes blazed with a stark emotion she could not name. She could not name it but she recognized it, whatever it was, because she felt it too. With their eyes locked in wordless, intuitive communication, Lilah felt something flare and burn in the core of her being, heating her from the inside out.

  She wanted something. She wanted…she wanted…why, this was strange. She didn’t know what she wanted. But she felt every nerve in her body stretch taut with longing.

  Suddenly, th
eir private island was rudely invaded. A flash of light and exclamation of concern heralded the entrance of Miss Pickens with a lamp, and the landlady with towels.

  “Lord Drakesley, you are dripping on the floor. My poor Lilah! Are you wet through?” uttered Miss Pickens, holding the lamp anxiously aloft.

  Drake seemed to tear his eyes from Lilah’s with an effort, directing an annoyed frown at the intruders. The landlady, undeterred by his scowl, beamed a welcome. “Come you in, my lord. And you, my lady. Tsk! Nasty weather for a journey, isn’t it?” She handed one of the towels to Drake and stood respectfully back, waiting for Drake and Lilah to step away before attacking the pool of rainwater they had left on her floor.

  Embarrassment seemed to seize both Drake and Lilah at the same time. He moved to set her on her feet and she quickly slid down his body and stood beside him.

  “Thank you,” she said, shaken. She turned her attention to the two women hovering helpfully nearby. “I am only wet in patches, but I’m afraid Drake is soaked to the skin,” she told Miss Pickens.

  This unfortunate remark caused a vivid image to seize Lilah like a fit: Drake peeling off his wet clothing. Paralyzed by her own imagination, she gulped and fell silent.

  Miss Pickens fixed Lilah with a startled, disbelieving gaze. Since she was still occupied in fighting off unbidden fantasies, it took Lilah a moment to comprehend her old governess’s sudden disapproval. Then, with a shock, she realized that she was still clinging to Drake, and he to her. Mortified, she moved quickly away and busied herself in shaking out her cloak and untying the strings of her hood.

  Meanwhile, the landlady had taken a brisk swipe at the floor and was ushering Drake into the room beyond the foyer. Her voice, cheerfully prattling, floated back to Miss Pickens and Lilah. “Well, it’s going to be a wet night and no mistake, but we’ll see to it you’re kept warm and dry, my lord.”