by Candace Camp
“Stop that caterwauling!” he snarled. “Dammit, woman, what is wrong with you? You’ll bring the whole countryside down upon us.”
Camilla did stop screaming, but only because she was out of breath. She sucked in a lungful of air as she whipped around and struck out at him with her doubled-up fist.
She hit only his chest, and it sent a dart of pain shooting up her arm. He let out a string of curses and grabbed for her wrist, but Camilla twisted and struggled, hitting out and kicking at him.
“Bloody hell, woman, would you stop it? Are you mad?”
They were both thoroughly soaked by the rain now, but neither of them noticed as they grappled in the dark. The man was far larger and taller than Camilla, and the conclusion was never in doubt, but she was fighting for her life, and she struggled wildly, connecting with several kicks and blows as he struggled to subdue her. He managed to wrap one arm around her and pull her off her feet, but Camilla twisted and reached for his face with her nails. He jerked back as her fingers scraped down his cheek, barely missing his eye, and he lost his balance and staggered backward.
They crashed to the ground, but their fall was softened by the mud into which they fell. The man received the brunt of the blow, and he loosened his grasp involuntarily. Camilla seized the opportunity to pull away from him, but before she could crawl to her feet, he had grabbed her arm, jerking her to a stop, and she fell face-first into the mud. She came up spluttering and enraged, lashing out at him. He grabbed for her arms, trying to pin them to her sides, but she was slippery with rain and mud, and he could not get a good hold on her. They rolled across the muddy ground, grappling.
Camilla squirmed and twisted, trying to get away, and he tried to wrap his arms around her to pin her arms to her sides. Once, as they struggled, she felt his hand slide across her breast, and she sucked in her breath sharply at the intimate touch. It startled and alarmed her, almost as much for the strange, sudden heat that shot through her body as for the effrontery of the contact.
He, too, seemed surprised at the touch, and he froze for an instant. She seized the opportunity to try to rise, but he grabbed at her arm to stop her, and the sodden material of her dress ripped, leaving the sleeve in his hand. She tore away, and he lunged after her. They went sprawling in the mud again, his weight bearing her down into the soft muck. He grabbed her wrists, hauling them up over her head, and sat up, leaning on her arms to hold her to the ground. His legs clamped tightly around hers, holding her immobile beneath him.
The man gazed down at her, his chest rising and falling in rapid pants. He was soaked and smeared with mud, his rough dark shirt hanging open down the front, where buttons had been torn off in their struggle. His bare skin showed through the gap, sleek and tanned and wet. His hair clung to his head. There was a cut high on his cheekbone where she had hit him with her umbrella, and his eyes glittered fiercely.
Camilla’s throat went dry. The man looked elemental and furious, quite male and quite angry. Camilla was very aware of the suggestive nature of their position, of his weight upon her legs. She was conscious, too, of an odd feeling in the center of her being, a strange mixture of fury and excitement and some other elusive emotion she could not have named. His eyes skimmed down her, taking in the wet bodice that clung to her breasts, and she could feel the response of his body.
“Let go of me!”
“Not until I get some answers!” he growled back. “Who the devil are you, and what are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” she gasped, outraged. “I have every right to be driving through here. It is you who are obviously up to no good, skulking about the countryside in the dark, people firing at you. Release me at once, or you’ll be in even more trouble than you already are.”
“You are hardly in a position to be issuing commands,” he reminded her, and a faint smile touched his lips.
His mouth was wide, with a generous lower lip, and he should have had an appealing smile, but his face was set in cold, sardonic lines that ruined any hint of charm. His amusement at her expense infuriated Camilla, and she lunged upward with all her might, trying to throw him off. He was far too heavy and strong for her, of course, and her efforts did little to dislodge him, but the glitter in his eyes turned dangerously brighter, reminding Camilla chillingly of the helplessness and intimacy of her position.
To hide her fear, she curled her lip in contempt. “It is obvious that you are a villain,” she said coldly. “I suggest that you refrain from turning yourself into a felon, as well.”
His eyebrows quirked up in inverted vees, giving his dark visage an even more demonic look. “Well said, madam. But I scarcely need remind you that without witnesses, it is hard to charge a man with a felony.” He paused, letting the threat of his words sink in, then smiled coldly and said, “Besides, I know of no felony that has been committed this night.’tis scarcely a crime to take charge of a carriage in order to save a lady from a gang of men who are attacking her.”
“You know as well as I that those men were not concerned with me,” Camilla shot back. “It was you they were firing at.”
His mouth twisted grimly. “Perhaps, but they would certainly not have been if you had not blundered into the scene, shouting and waving a lantern about.”
“How was I supposed to know that you were engaged in clandestine doings? I was seeking your help—a futile quest, obviously, but I was not as aware of your character then as I am now. I did not know that I was dealing with a thief.”
“I am not a thief.” He ground out the words.
“Ha!” Camilla shot him a scornful look. “What were you doing hiding out there on a foggy night, then?”
“That is none of your business, and if you weren’t such a blasted busybody, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“I should have known that you were the sort to try to shift the blame. As if I were responsible for your cohorts or your enemies or whoever those people were.”
“Lord, you’ve got a wasp’s tongue on you.” Suddenly, swiftly, he stood up, hauling her up with him. “But I’ve no desire to hang about here bandying quips with you. Those men might very well be upon us at any minute.”
He clamped one hand tightly around her arm and began to walk her toward the post chaise. Camilla dug in her heels. “Wait! I am not going anywhere with you.”
“I think you would be far better off back in Edgecombe than you would be standing around in the dark in the middle of the countryside with a large group of men with guns wandering about.”
“I didn’t say that I was staying here! What I meant was that you are not going anywhere in my carriage.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then dropped her arm and stepped back. “Of course. You are right. It is your carriage, and I have no claim to it. I shall leave you, then. Good day, madam.”
He turned and started striding away. Stunned, Camilla stared after him. Then she remembered that her coachman was unconscious—oh, Lord, might he even have killed the poor man?—and while she could handle a gig, it was quite beyond her powers to drive a coach-and-four. Not only that, there was a band of men with guns who were perhaps still pursuing her carriage.
“Wait!” she called, and when the stranger did not stop, she took a few running steps after him. “Stop! Please?”
He turned and looked back at her, his eyebrows raised inquisitively. “Yes?”
“Don’t go. I—I cannot drive the post chaise back to Edgecombe.”
“Mmm. Then it would seem that you have a certain problem with your carriage. Good night.”
“Oh, stop being so exasperating! I am telling you that you can go with me to Edgecombe.”
“You mean that you are allowing me the honor of working for you?” he asked sardonically. “How kind of you. But I am afraid I must decline the honor. You see, I think it would be better for me to walk. One man in the fog is far less
noticeable than a great carriage.”
“Horses are faster.”
He shrugged and turned to walk off again.
“Stop! You cannot leave me here! No gentleman would leave a lady stranded like this.”
“Well, as you have no doubt realized, I am not much of a gentleman, and, frankly, I have yet to see any ladylike qualities in you.”
Camilla glared at him. “All right. Have you satisfied your need to insult me? Let us go, then. We both know that it would be absurd for you to walk when there is a coach right here. We do not like each other, but surely we can trade—your skill at driving the horses for the use of my post chaise.”
He said nothing, just walked back and swung up to the top of the coach. Camilla quickly climbed back in, and they set out again, this time at a speed more suited to the rutted track. It was fast enough to rattle and jounce Camilla around in her seat, and she suspected darkly that the awful man was doing it simply to annoy her.
Adding to her discomfort was the state of her hair and clothes. This morning she had been dressed quite charmingly in a sprigged muslin gown and green kid half boots, and her hair had been pulled up to the crown of her head, from which point it hung in a cluster of fetching curls. Now her shoes were a sodden mess, soaked through and caked with mud, inside and out, and her dress and hair were in almost as bad a state. She was wet clear through to her underthings. Her curls, too, were thick with mud, and she could feel it drying on her skin, as well.
How was she going to explain her state when she arrived at the Park? Tears welled up in her eyes. As if she did not have problems enough already, what with Grandpapa and the terrible lies she had woven…. To have to arrive looking like a ragamuffin seemed like the outside of enough.
Grimly she blinked her tears away. She refused to cry over this. If nothing else, her tears would leave tracks on her dirty cheeks, making it obvious that she had been crying. And no doubt he would think that she had been crying because of him. She grimaced as her thoughts turned to the obnoxious man who had virtually abducted her.
He was uncouth, low and thoroughly maddening. He had treated her reprehensibly. No man of breeding would have grabbed her so roughly or pinned her to the ground like that. She remembered the bold way his eyes had lingered over her breasts, revealed by the thin, wet material of her dress. It made her blush, even sitting there alone in the dark carriage, to think of the way his legs had clamped around hers, of how intimately his body had been pressed against her—and of the shocking movement his body had made as he looked at her. It had felt so strange—almost exhilarating, even at the same time that it was utterly improper and infuriating.
She shifted on her seat, pulling her sodden dress away from her. She was growing more and more uncomfortable by the moment. The mud was continuing to dry on her, and her clothes were sticking to her flesh. Worst of all, her wet garments were quite cold, so that she was shivering almost continuously. She wanted to drape her cloak around her to help keep off some of the cold, but she hated to get mud all over the inside of it. Still…she could hardly just sit there and catch a chill. She was eyeing the cloak uncertainly when she became aware of the fact that the carriage was rattling over cobblestones. With a suppressed cry, she pushed aside the curtain and looked out to see that they had entered the village.
Within moments, they were turning into the yard of the Blue Boar. Camilla let out a sigh of relief. Though she had tried not to let herself think about it, she had been worried that the stranger would not really take her into the village at all, but, realizing the dangers of her being able to identify him, would abandon her on some dark and lonely road…or worse.
Now, with a cry, she jerked open the door of the carriage even before they came to a complete stop and jumped down from it. “Boy, see to the horses,” she called to the ostler, who had started across the yard toward their vehicle. “And look to my coachman, too. I fear we may have to send for a doctor.”
The ostler came to a dead halt, goggling at her, but Camilla did not notice. She was already hurrying to the front door, her only thought to get safely inside before the stranger atop the chaise could catch up with her.
As soon as she stepped inside the public room, all conversation came to a halt, and everyone swiveled around to stare at her. Camilla stopped short, dismayed at being the focus of so many sets of eyes. In her relief at reaching the Blue Boar, she had forgotten about her appearance, but now those stunned expressions reminded her of just how she looked. Her hand went to her mud-encrusted ringlets, and she glanced down at her wet gown, pressed to her body in a most improper way, one sleeve completely ripped away. A wave of deep red washed up her face to her hairline.
The keeper of the inn, a large, bluff man, started toward her from his post at the tap. Camilla saw him and was swept by relief. “Saltings! How glad I am to see you!”
She took a step or two forward, then stopped as he said, “Here, now, miss, what do you think you be doing? Coming in here like that! This is a decent inn, it is, and we’ve no use—”
“Saltings!” Camilla exclaimed, shaken. “Don’t you recognize me?” Tears of humiliation sprang into her eyes. This seemed the last straw, the perfectly awful end to a perfectly awful day—that Saltings, who had known her all her life, should mistake her for a common doxy. Was he actually going to toss her out?
The man stopped and peered at her. “Do I know you?”
“It is I! Camilla Ferrand!” Tears flooded her eyes. She could not hold them back, and they spilled over, coursing a trail through the smear of mud on her cheeks.
“Miss Ferrand!” he repeated, his jaw dropping. “Sweet Lord, what happened? What are you doing here this way?”
He went to her, gently taking her arm and steering her toward the smaller private room of the inn, then stopped. “Oh, dear, no, there’s a gentleman there.” He took another glance at Camilla beside him, muddy and disheveled and struggling to hold back her tears, then at the rest of his customers, all staring avidly.
“Well,” he said with a sigh, “there’s nothing for it. You can’t stay out here, that’s for certain.”
He rapped sharply on the door to the private room and pushed it open when a man’s voice inside answered. “I beg your pardon, sir,” Saltings said, ushering Camilla inside the room. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’ve got a bit of a problem here. There’s a lady here, and, well, it wouldn’t be right for her to be sitting outside with the common crowd, sir.”
Camilla looked across the room, fighting to contain her tears. The gentleman sitting beside the fire—for it was just as obvious that he was a gentleman as it had been that the stranger on the heath earlier was a ruffian—rose to his feet, his eyebrows lifting in astonishment. He was dressed impeccably, from the crease of his simple yet elegant white neckcloth to the tips of his polished Hessians, and his hair was dressed in a similarly subdued yet fashionable style known as the Brutus.
He took one swift look at Camilla’s muddied state and said, “Precisely, Saltings. You are right. The lady must have the private dining room. The only thing is, I am expecting a visitor— Ah, there he is now. And looking, I might add, quite as if he had shared this young lady’s adventure.”
Camilla swung around at his words. “You!” she exclaimed with loathing.
There, in the doorway, stood her tormentor.
CHAPTER TWO
THE MAN GAVE Camilla a look that left little doubt that he shared her feelings. She straightened, bolstered by his irritation. It was some comfort, at least, to see that he was as filthy, wet and bedraggled as she.
“What the devil are you doing here?” the man asked roughly. “Am I never to be rid of you?”
“I might say the same about you.”
“I take it that you two have met,” said the gentleman by the fireplace, his voice as smooth and suave as if they were all standing in a London dra
wing room.
The stranger from the carriage ride grunted and moved into the room. Camilla said icily, “I am afraid that we were not properly introduced.”
“Ah, Benedict.” The gentleman sighed. “I fear you are ever lacking in manners.” He moved forward toward Camilla. “Allow me to correct his oversight. I, dear lady, am Jermyn Sedgewick. And this is, ah, Benedict, uh…”
“How do you do, Mr. Sedgewick? I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” Camilla replied formally, trying to ignore the absurdity of the polite greeting in contrast to her grubby state of dress. She cast a flashing glance toward the other man. “I am sorry I cannot say the same about meeting Mr. Benedict.”
Mr. Sedgewick opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He cast a grin toward Benedict. “I see you have made your usual charming impression.”
Benedict’s only reply was a noise resembling a growl. He turned away from both of them, striding over to the fire and holding out his hands to it. Mr. Sedgewick ignored him as he spoke to the innkeeper. “Well, Saltings, I think what we need here is a hot rum punch. Why don’t you bring us a bowl of it? I’ll do the mixing.”
“Of course, sir.”
Saltings bowed out of the room reluctantly. Camilla knew that he had been hoping to hear the details of what had happened to her and Benedict.
Sedgewick turned toward Camilla. “Now, Miss…?”
“Forgive me. Here you have been so kind, and I haven’t even told you my name. I am Camilla Ferrand.”
“Miss Ferrand. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, even under such deplorable conditions. Please come over here by the fire and warm yourself. I am sure you must be quite chilled.” He guided her toward the fire and into the chair beside it.
Camilla sank into the chair, grateful for its softness and for the warmth of the fire. She leaned forward, soaking up the heat. Benedict looked at Camilla, and his mouth twisted in a grimace. He withdrew to the other end of the fireplace, turning away from her and planting his elbow on the mantel. Sedgewick glanced from him to Camilla and back again, but he made no comment. The silence stretched out awkwardly.