Joanna Maitland

by Rakes Reward

  In the gathering gloom, no one would be able to tell them apart.

  He pulled his pistol from his pocket and cocked it. With his arm hanging loosely at his side, his pistol was hidden by his coat. He started forward at a measured pace.

  It was just like the start of a duel.

  He had covered no more than fifty yards when he heard a tiny rustle in the bushes to his left. He looked quickly down the path, straining to see in front of him. There was no sign of Kit. He must appear soon.

  Hugo continued to walk steadily down the path.

  ‘That’s Stratton!’ cried a man’s voice from the bushes.

  Hugo ducked automatically, but there was no bullet. Three hefty bruisers pushed their way out of the bushes. They were barring his way. And they had cudgels in their hands.

  ‘So that is the way of it,’ he said grimly. Unlike Kit, he had no cane.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of colour among the trees. Good God, there was a woman in there!

  ‘Behind you!’ cried a female voice.

  It came from the wrong direction.

  Hugo whirled just in time to duck. The fourth man’s club missed his head by a hair’s breadth.

  A woman screamed. And then another—a second voice.

  Hugo ignored them. The force of his assailant’s blow had bent the man almost double, exposing his neck. Hugo hit him with the pistol, but it spun out of his hand. He whipped round to face the other three—unarmed.

  Kit had appeared as from nowhere. He was using his cane like a sword against two of the bruisers. Only one now faced Hugo.

  Kit flashed Hugo a grin. ‘I think the odds are fairer now, gentlemen,’ he said calmly. ‘Three against two.’

  One of the pair risked a quick look behind him. A mistake. Kit struck him hard on the wrist. With a howl of pain, the man dropped his cudgel and clutched his arm. ‘Ye’ve broke it!’ he screamed.

  ‘Probably,’ said Kit, squaring up to his last man. ‘Let’s see what you’re made of, eh?’ he snarled.

  The man hesitated.

  Kit stepped back a pace and looked towards Hugo. He was holding his own. Kit lunged forward. ‘Now then!’

  The man dodged.

  Kit whirled, ready to parry the next blow.

  A woman screamed again.

  Kit looked towards the sound.

  The man Hugo had felled was on his feet again. And he had an arm across a woman’s throat.

  It was Marina.

  A murderous rage overcame Kit. In a split second, he had plunged his cane like a sword deep into his opponent’s belly. The man dropped without a sound.

  ‘Careful, Kit,’ Hugo gasped, still struggling.

  Hugo’s voice stayed Kit’s all-consuming fury. Instantly, he was icy calm. Waiting.

  Two men were disabled. Hugo was about to overcome the third. But the fourth man had Marina.

  ‘Let us go,’ yelled the fourth man. ‘Or I’ll slit ’er throat. Swelp me, I will.’

  Kit dropped his cane and took two paces forward, sliding his hand into his pocket. ‘Let her go. Or I’ll kill you.’

  The man did not move. But his knife did. It glinted suddenly in the dim light. Kit heard a muffled groan.

  ‘Let her go,’ he said again, pulling the pistol from his pocket. ‘Even at this distance, I can put a bullet in your head before you draw breath. Let her go.’

  Hugo had his opponent in an armlock at last. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ he yelled. ‘He’s a crack shot. He’ll kill you.’

  The man stood undecided.

  The silence was rent by another scream.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Marina struggled to turn towards the sound. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a fleeting glimpse of a woman in the bushes, trying to fight free of a man. He seemed to have her by the hair.

  ‘That’s enough o’ that, missy,’ growled Marina’s captor, pushing the knife higher up her throat. ‘One more move an’ I’ll stick ye.’

  Marina froze.

  She was not afraid, even though she knew she might die here. All her senses seemed to have been heightened by the danger. She could smell her captor’s unwashed body and fetid breath, overlaid with the sweet smell of the new leaves on the trees. She could hear his frightened breathing, and feel it on the back of her neck. His knife touched her throat with a cold promise of death.

  And only yards away, she could see Kit’s powerful shape, unmistakable in the gloom, preparing to shoot. He took another step forward.

  ‘That’s enough,’ yelled Marina’s captor. ‘Any closer an’ I’ll kill her.’

  Kit stopped. Slowly, he raised his pistol.

  Marina felt her captor shrinking into her shadow. There was no target for Kit but her own defenceless body. She held her breath. He would shoot only if he were sure. She loved him. So she must trust him.

  She refused to close her eyes. If this was to be her last moment on earth, she wanted her gaze to rest on the man she loved.

  ‘I think you might be wise to put up your pistol,’ said a voice from the shrubbery.

  Marina could not turn to see. It was a man’s voice, though, and it had a foreign accent.

  Kit did not take his eyes off Marina. Nor did his pistol waver by even a fraction. ‘I think not, Baron,’ he said grimly. ‘You know my reputation. Tell your man that I can do exactly as I said. Tell him I will kill him if he does not let her go.’

  ‘As I will kill you,’ replied the Baron, moving out on to the path. Marina could see him now. His left hand was clamped around his wife’s upper arm. When he pulled her out behind him, she moaned.

  His right hand held a small silver pistol. And it was pointed at Kit.

  No! Marina swallowed the scream that rose in her throat. She must not distract Kit. She must do something. But what? She had no weapons. She could not even kick out, for she did not have boots on her feet. She had run out, wearing the green silk evening slippers. They were now in shreds. Her feet were almost bare.

  She could feel the man’s panicked breathing slowing a little. He was beginning to think he was safe, protected by the Baron’s gun. The hand holding the knife at her throat relaxed a fraction.

  It had to be now.

  She took a deep breath and rammed her elbow back into the man’s ribs with every ounce of strength she possessed.

  He doubled up, groaning. The knife was no longer against her throat. She ducked away and threw herself towards Hugo, well out of Kit’s firing line.

  Kit had not moved. His pistol was still trained on Marina’s attacker, now grovelling on the ground.

  ‘Did he hurt you, Marina?’ Kit’s voice sounded hoarse.

  ‘No. No.’ Why was he concerned about her? He should be defending himself against the Baron. ‘Take care, Kit,’ she cried.

  Kit smiled into the gloom. Without turning towards the Baron, he said calmly, ‘If you were minded to kill me, sir, you really should have done it by now.’

  The Baron hauled his wife a little closer. She whimpered.

  ‘Do not imagine, sir, that I will lift a finger to protect your wife,’ Kit said flatly. ‘Our affair is long over. I suggest you would do better to address your complaints to her new protector.’

  Marina closed her eyes in a moment of sheer terror. The Baron would never accept such insults. He was bound to shoot Kit now.

  After a long pause, the Baron said slowly, ‘Let these men go, Stratton. Your quarrel is with me.’

  Kit glanced towards Hugo, who nodded and loosed his hold on his captive. The man hobbled over to where Kit’s second victim lay on the ground and half-hauled, half-carried him off into the darkness. Marina’s captor, and the man with the broken arm, simply took to their heels.

  ‘Honour among thieves,’ said Kit, turning slowly to face the Baron.

  ‘And now it is stalemate, Stratton, I think.’

  Marina started forward. If she could come between them—

  Hugo caught her before she had gone a yard. He pulled her
into the shelter of his arm and held her there. ‘No, Marina,’ he whispered into her hair. ‘Do not interfere. Leave this to Kit.’ When she still struggled to free herself, he laughed softly. ‘Trust him, my dear. I promise he will come back to you.’

  Marina was stunned into immobility. It sounded as if—

  ‘Shall we play it out here? Or would you rather meet me on the field of honour, like a gentleman?’ The Baron’s tone made clear that he did not see Kit as a gentleman at all.

  ‘As you choose, sir,’ Kit said quickly. ‘It will make no difference to the outcome.’

  The Baron spluttered something in German. His wife groaned.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Kit. ‘I am not your wife’s lover now, sir. But I was. You have every right to try to kill me.’

  ‘Are you saying, Stratton, that you have no such right?’

  Kit said nothing.

  Marina understood then. If they met on the duelling field, Kit would not fire on the Baron. He would just stand there, proud and defiant, allowing the wronged husband to have his revenge. It was Kit’s concept of justice.

  The Baron understood too, for he put up his pistol. ‘I do not relish the idea of cold-blooded murder,’ he said.

  Kit nodded in the direction of the vanished bruisers. ‘Do you not?’ he said wryly.

  ‘They would not have killed you,’ replied the Baron matter of factly. ‘You would have become somewhat less attractive to the ladies. That is all.’ He had not released his ferocious grip on his wife’s arm. ‘Katharina was happy to lure you here. She said she wanted to watch your beating. I fancied it might provide a salutary lesson—for both of you.’ He looked down at her. There were streaks of tears on her ashen cheeks. ‘So. So. It will do, I think.’ He put his arm round her shoulder. It was not a loving embrace. ‘We will go now,’ he said. ‘My compliments to you, Stratton, and to your brother. I had not expected anyone to overcome that nasty quartet.’ He gave a stiff military bow, its precision marred by his hold on his wife. ‘I am sure you understand that we shall not speak again.’

  Kit returned the Baron’s bow, but the man had already turned to leave. In a very few moments, they were out of sight.

  Marina straightened and Hugo released her. She thought she felt a tiny, comforting squeeze before he let her go.

  ‘That was a close-run thing, Kit,’ Hugo said, shaking his head a little.

  ‘Perhaps,’ replied Kit.

  Marina was almost sure he avoided his brother’s eye.

  ‘As for you, woman,’ Kit said, advancing menacingly on her, ‘what in heaven’s name did you think you were doing?’ He took her by the shoulders, as he had done once before. This time, he did not shake her. He just stood there, staring down at her, letting his gaze rove over her features. ‘You are, without doubt, the most infuriating, idiotic, ungovernable—’

  Hugo cleared his throat ostentatiously.

  ‘Oh, go and see to the horses, can’t you? You’re a pretty poor apology for a coachman, I must say.’

  Hugo burst out laughing. ‘At once, sir,’ he said with a mock bow. ‘Just as you say, sir.’

  ‘Marina.’ Kit lingered over the word, all the while stroking her hair back from her face. ‘Marina,’ he repeated, ‘you are quite maddening. How shall I ever be able to cope with you?’

  She did not reply. She was sure she had not heard him aright. He must mean—

  He drew her into his arms and began to kiss her face, beginning at her hairline, and moving to her forehead, her eyes… She groaned with the pleasure of his touch.

  He stopped. ‘Marina? Good grief, what am I doing? You are hurt. And cold. Here.’ He shrugged out of his dark coat and wrapped it round her, imprisoning her arms. ‘Your neck. Let me see.’ With amazing gentleness, those strong, lean fingers lifted her chin so that he could see where the knife had been. ‘Confound it! Can’t see a thing in this light!’ He tightened his grip on her. ‘Come. There is a light on the coach.’

  She stepped on something sharp and gave a little cry of pain.

  ‘My God,’ he exclaimed. ‘Your feet!’ He swept her into his arms, ignoring her attempted protest, and carried her out of the park to the waiting carriage. Hugo was on the box. A grinning urchin was at the horses’ heads.

  Hugo jumped down to open the carriage door. ‘Spot of abduction tonight, is it, sir?’ he quipped.

  Kit flashed a smile in response. ‘Drive back to Fitzwilliam House, my good man,’ he said. ‘Very slowly.’

  Kit ignored Marina’s protests that she had received nothing more than a scratch. He took her throat in his hands and gently, gently traced the red line the knife had made. There was one tiny drop of blood. He swore under his breath. He should have killed the villain when he had the chance!

  ‘What is it?’ Marina asked.

  ‘You are bleeding,’ he replied harshly. ‘He cut you—’

  ‘It was my own doing,’ she said, putting her hand over his. ‘I felt the prick of the knife when I pushed myself free. It is nothing.’

  ‘You could have been killed, you beautiful idiot.’

  Marina said nothing, but she smiled shyly. She seemed to be relishing his insults.

  ‘And your poor feet…’

  ‘That, too, was my own doing. I could have stopped to put on outdoor shoes…but then I might have been too late.’

  ‘Too late for what, pray?’ he asked, lifting her into the corner of the seat and raising her poor, bruised feet into his lap.

  ‘To warn you that—’ She stopped and looked inquiringly up at him. ‘I suppose you will tell me that my warning was unnecessary. And that my arrival only served to put myself in danger.’

  ‘Something of the sort,’ he murmured, stroking the shreds of the green silk slipper from one foot.

  A shiver ran through Marina.

  Kit pretended not to notice. Slowly, he caressed the second slipper free.

  She shivered again, more noticeably. ‘What are you doing, sir?’ she whispered hoarsely.

  Kit began to stroke the bare skin of her foot where her stocking was torn and bloody. ‘Trying to remedy the damage you have done, ma’am.’

  He continued to run his fingers over her skin with a touch so light that, if she closed her eyes, she could not quite be sure that it was happening. She pushed herself back against the deeply cushioned seat, trying to escape from the feelings he was creating, yet at the same time longing for them to continue. In the end, she could not stifle a tiny groan.

  ‘Mmm,’ agreed Kit huskily. ‘I fear these must be removed.’

  Marina was floating. She barely heard his words. Her skin was alive, but her mind had been numbed by the magic of his touch.

  He began to slide his fingers up to her ankle, and then to her calf. It was exquisite. She wanted to purr like a contented cat. When he raised her skirts to remove her ruined stockings, she could do nothing to resist him. He untied her garters, allowing himself a tiny caress of her inner thigh that had her moaning in her throat. Then he rolled the stockings down and gently peeled them from her bleeding skin.

  She was still purring when he lifted her on to his lap and began to kiss her. She did not know where she was, only that she was in the arms of the man she loved, and that he was caressing her, kissing her, as if he loved her. A tiny, strident voice from her old self tried to scream that he was a rake, that he knew exactly how to seduce plain, innocent women like Marina, but she ignored it. The purring was too strong.

  At first his kiss was light, hesitant, even unsure of her response, but as she began to kiss him back, everything seemed to explode. He pulled her close against his hard body, his hands stroking her spine and her hair. When it finally tumbled down her back, she heard a rumble of satisfied laughter, deep in his chest. Then the kiss was transformed. It was harder, more demanding, almost punishing, but she leaned in to him like a woman starving, craving for more. Innocent though she was, she responded to him with a lover’s passion.

  He groaned out her name.

  If she nev
er had another moment of passion in her life, she would remember the sound of her name in his throat.

  His fingers had found their way to her bodice, had undone the tiny buttons and untied the ribbons of her chemise. Her breast was resting heavily in his hand. He groaned again, never lifting his lips from hers. And he began to roll her nipple between finger and thumb, gently at first, then more roughly. An arrow of heat shot through her, like the pull of a puppet’s strings under his fingers, and she felt a sudden release of liquid fire in her belly. Her whole body was about to melt.

  So this was passion—this unutterable longing for union, for fulfilment.

  Kit broke the kiss, breathing hard.

  Marina whimpered. She could not open her eyes. It had been so blissful.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said huskily, pulling her head into the crook of his shoulder and applying his fingers to the buttons of her dress. ‘I should not have done that.’

  Slowly, she opened her eyes. They were huge and dark, and dazed with passion. He was not sure whether she was actually seeing him. He tried to concentrate on restoring her gown to a more decorous state, but it was almost impossible to do up those tiny buttons without touching the skin of her breasts. It was beautiful skin, like creamy silk overlaid with blush. And it was so very tempting…

  ‘Kit,’ she breathed through lips swollen from his kisses. ‘Please—’

  ‘No, my sweet,’ he said, trying to hide the desire in his voice, ‘not here. Not in a dirty, smelly carriage, remember? In my bed. Willingly in my bed.’

  She did not respond. He had lost her.

  He knelt on the floor and, taking his handkerchief, began to wipe away the grime and the blood from her feet with featherlight strokes. He needed, desperately, to prove to her how much she meant to him. He could think of no other way.

  ‘You must be bathed, Marina, to remove this dirt. Emma will be able to give you some ointment, and bandages—’

  ‘Emma?’ She sounded bemused.

  ‘Emma. My sister. Hugo’s wife. I am taking you to her.’