Sir Rory paid her no notice, but descended from the chaise in acute annoyance.
“What is it?”
“Reckon as I don’t know, sir. The ’orses are sweatin’, like.”
“They’ll keep. They were fresh when I left London.”
“Mayhap they need water, like. We can turn back to the inn ...”
“Out of the question! Is that why you stopped, you blunder head?” Sir Rory Aldershot glared at his man, who stepped backward a pace.
“Not me, pleasin’ yer honor! The left beast is a might skittish, like. Took a stumble, I reckon.”
“Careless handling, then! Now get going!”
Sir Rory swung himself up again and eyed Lily with sharp dislike. He was just thankful he’d had the foresight to ply Barrymore with burgundy, for they were not making good time and he had no wish for any mishaps.
Lily could have kicked herself for not thinking of the weapon he’d carelessly left lying behind the cushions. Oh, if only she had retrieved it! She might never have the opportunity again. She could have almost moaned with dismay, but remembered, of course, to maintain her dignity. That was the only small satisfaction she had against this vile man!
The journey began again in silence, Aldershot more concerned about the time than about baiting her. The slower the progress, the more likelihood there was of being pursued. He called to the driver.
“This is not a country picnic, man, move it, I tell you!”
“I tell you, I can’t, pleasin’ yer ’onor! The team be not stable.”
“Nonsense! They are as well matched as can be. You are merely being specious.”
The driver, having no idea of the insult being thrust at him, defiantly continued, though his face was black with a scowl and his hand heavy. Of a sudden, the carriage swayed precariously. Lily was thrust to the side, her shoulder jammed against the door as the wheels ground to a screeching halt.
Aldershot cursed. His door was jammed so he leaned over Lily to try hers. She recoiled at the touch, but the man was too incensed to notice. The driver jumped down from his perch and went round to the front of the team. Aldershot followed, without a backward glance at his victim.
“God’s truth, you are a veritable cow hand! Have you no notion how to handle a team?” He glared at the driver, fuming.
“Don’t glare at me, sir! Reckon they’ve been pushed too hard, that’s wot.”
“Nonsense!”
“Then you drive ’em, me lor’! The left ’orse feels lame.”
“Impossible! You are just an addlepated gudgeon, for I inspected them myself this morning.”
“It is lame, I tell yer!” The coachman folded his arms and glared at his master. “Lame, lame, lame!”
“You are hysterical.” Aldershot cuffed him soundly and examined each bit.
Lily, finally, had her chance. Quick as lightning she changed seats and felt for the weapon. She prayed it was not a sword, for she had not the foggiest notion how to wield such a thing. Her hands touched cold steel. She breathed a sigh of sudden elation. A pistol!
Very carefully, she primed the thing, for had not Lord Raven insisted she know about such matters despite her earnest and youthful protests? Well, she never really had the hang of it, but by God, she would make shift now! Carefully, cursing her modish, delectably expensive morning gown and all its tiresome petticoats, she shifted her position and waited. When Aldershot returned, she would shoot him. She waited calmly as she heard raised voices at the front of the chaise. Good! They were out of sorts with one another, for it was a sad and undeniable fact that she was facing two men with only one pistol shot.
Fetlocks were being inspected. She peered out of the window and fiddled with the handle of the door. They were not so isolated as it would seem, for there was a crofter’s cottage nearby and evidence of a recent fire. She wondered whether she should scream and thought the better of it. Surprise—and a pistol—were her only true advantages. Screaming would make her forfeit one at least.
Now it was the hooves being examined. Eight in all ... her eyes wandered to the bundle of wood lying in neat bundles by the embers. Chopped so precisely with that ax ... she could see the wood splinters of each log, a dull yellow against the darker brown bark. Then suddenly her wits were about her.
She descended the chaise quickly, so the wheels creaked and the springs jerked. The horses stepped backward, too, so the surprise she so valued was no longer one of her advantages.
“Get back in.” Aldershot left off his arguing and advanced angrily toward Lily. In a split, hysterical second, Lily had an irreverent thought. “At least he did not call me passion flower.” And then she was all business.
Hands steady, she demanded that Aldershot stand back. And his man, too. Sir Rory saw his danger immediately.
“Don’t be so foolish. You do not know how to use that thing. Put it down.”
“Tell your coachman to stand next to you.”
“I shall do no such thing.”
“Then I shall shoot you.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” For an instant, Lily was sorely, sorely tempted. She would aim for his nose, not his heart, for surely that was the ugliest of his features.
Then she remembered herself and called his bluff. “The pistol is primed, you may note. I would have the greatest satisfaction shooting you, sir, but first, I require your coachman.”
The coachman needed no second telling. He left off fussing about the colts and stepped forward with speed. When he saw Lily, a splendid vision in the most delectable gown he had ever seen, he knew at once that Sir Rory had taste if not sense. When he said as much, with a little grin in Lily’s direction, she dimpled, though her hand remained firm.
“Was it lame?”
“The ’orse, ma’am ?” The coachman was very respectful to young ladies with pistols. Lily nodded.
“Oh, aye. It was the shoe. Musta slipped off on the road, like. Colt’s got a bloody big stone in ’is ’oof, saving the language, miss.”
“Shall I shoot it, to put it out of its pain?” Aldershot winced. He believed in Lily’s beauty, not in her sense and certainly not in her ability to handle a weapon. Still, he would rather she shot a horse than him. And then he would teach her . . . God’s truth, how could he have left the thing lying about for her? But then, as he told himself, any decently bred maiden would not think to touch such a thing.
“No, ma’am, the ’orse can be spared. Save yer bullet for them wot needs it.”
A decided dimple now appeared in Lily’s creamy, heavenlike cheeks.
“Be silent, you fool!” Sir Rory could have stamped with rage. In the event, he remained still, for the dastardly pistol was now directed most pointedly at his nose, if not his heart.
“Stupid widgeon!” He choked on the words and shifted his weight to his other foot.
Lily just smiled.
It did not take Barrymore a fraction of a moment to realize something was amiss. Though the burgundy lived up to its promise, it paled on the palette when Lily did not reappear smartly.
“You there!” Barrymore snapped his fingers peremptorily, for he did not like the smirk on my lady innkeeper’s face or the shifty manner in which she hurried past him.
“Aye?”
He noticed the defiant lack of “my lord” as she addressed him, and grew alarmed. “Where is my wife?”
“Your wife, me lor’?”
Too late she applied the necessary title. Barrymore was too incensed to notice.
“I believe that is what I said.”
The woman tittered unnecessarily. “She is off, me lord! Saved from a night of carnal sin, she is.”
For the first time in his debonair, happy-go-lucky, devil-may-care life, Denver, Lord Barrymore, wished to commit cold-blooded murder. This he very nearly did with his own two hands were it not for the fact that he was interrupted from his goal by the innkeeper himself.
“My lord, I believe I can explain . . .”
“Get this woman out of my s
ight and explain as I saddle a horse.”
The innkeeper bowed and gestured to his wife, whose bluster suddenly dissipated in the face of her spouse’s very tangible wrath.
“He would have despoiled an innocent virgin . . .”
“Stop blabbering, woman! They were married this day. And much good that is going to do us with your interfering, meddlesome ways . . .”
My lord did not favor them with the courtesy of listening. He strode out and was just selecting, from the medley of horses available, a suitable mare, when a grubby hand pulled at his impeccable ruby red morning coat. This was a feat in itself, for the superfine clung to Lord Barrymore’s form as closely as a second skin. It did not yield easily, but the grubby hand was tenacious and it was little less than a second before the viscount turned to see the cause.
“Yes?” His tone was uncompromising and the boy thought to cut his losses and run. Still, he was an enterprising lad and not inclined to scrub basement floors at the expense of a gentleman’s penny.
“Lose ’is shoe, ’e will.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Bloody great ’orse will lose ’is shoe. I knowed it at once.”
Barrymore looked at him closely. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and sniffed.
“Who will lose his shoe?”
“Didn’t I tell yer? That gentry mort’s ’orse it will. Made off wiv the lady, mind, but they won’t go no how wiv a shoe like that.”
Denver’s heart leapt for a moment. The boy began to make a certain sense.
“How do you know?”
“I walked them, like. The left ’orse seemed a little lame and I looked.”
“Why did you not tell the gentleman?”
“No time for no changes. Said so ’imself.”
“Did you tell him about the shoe?” The boy grew sullen with all the questioning. He sniffed again.
“He didn’t ask, like.”
“Good, good lad!” Denver felt the strangest impulse to kiss the varmint. He was not so far deranged as that, however, but he did draw from his pocket a coin far too unsuitable for a youth of his size and criminal predilection. It was the last coin left to him as he had trudged somberly to settle his debt with Raven. The child gasped at the sight of it, but Barrymore’s mind had already turned to weightier matters. He selected the mare, apprised his men about the circumstance—Standish blanched to the roots of his hair—and set off at a canter after Sir Rory Aldershot and the only thing that meant more to him than Lord Raven’s Ransom, the raven herself. Lily, Viscountess Barrymore, his raven-haired wife.
Twenty
Sir Rory Aldershot had been careless. Now he was stuck, in a unique position, between a tittle waif of a thing and the barrel of his own, most excellent, gun. In the circumstances, he chose to remain stoically still, but hard lights glinted in his granite eyes. Though they were as blue as the sky, yet they were as cold as my Lord Raven’s icehouse. He ground his teeth together as Miss Chartley—how was he to know that she was already the Viscountess Barrymore?—took aim for the tip of his rather splendid nose.
“Do me a favor,” Lily addressed the coachman without looking at him.
“What, me, ma’am?”
“Yes, you. You look to me a nice strong creature. Tie him up, will you?”
The coachman thought a moment, for his processes were sluggish, then grinned. “Aye, that I will gladly, but I have no rope.”
“Use strips off a traveling rug.”
“There is none.”
Sir Rory’s eyes bulged at this conversation.
“You double-crossing dog! I shall have your hide for this!”
Lily ignored him. So, too, she was pleased to note, did the coachman.
“Any suggestions?”
“Your ... petticoats, ma’am?”
“My . . .” Lily blushed.
“No, I think not. Much as I would not hesitate to use my undergarments for such a worthy cause as this, I believe it would be foolish. I would need both hands.”
“I will tear them off meself, ma’am.”
“Ha, I warrant you would!” Sir Rory smoldered at the man’s insolence, but was still wary of the gun. Lily was a confoundedly unpredictable sort of female. She would need schooling, when this nonsense was concluded with. It was only a matter of time before she made a mistake. Unfortunately, time was something he could ill afford. He bit his lip angrily.
“Now, now, Sir Rory, don’t be impertinent!” The light of laughter touched naughty Lily’s eyes now. She addressed the coachman, but her gloved hands remained as steady as rock.
“I believe I shall pass on your offer, sir. Even I balk at the impropriety of having you reach for my undergarments.”
Sir Rory gasped at this unmaidenly comment. Lily continued, with an impish smile hovering about her full, delectably inviting lips. “Besides,” she said, “I am conscious of the fact that my pistol might wobble. Steady, steady, you know.” Sad to say, the sweet viscountess was beginning to enjoy the high drama. It was amazing how collected one could be on the correct side of a primed pistol.
The coachman grinned his alternate appreciation and rampant regret. Still gazing at Aldershot, she addressed the menial once more.
“Make yourself useful, if you will, with that ax.”
He looked a query, which she noticed from the corner of vivid, emerald green eyes. She did not turn her head in reply, for her gaze was still fixed firmly upon the tip of Sir Rory’s aquiline nose. The nostrils twitched.
“Go on, then, fetch it. It is a passing fine ax.”
The man obliged, but looked puzzled. So, too, did Aldershot, who had thought he had Lily’s measure. Now he was at a loss. He shifted to his right foot, then shuffled again to his left. He wanted to consult his fob, but the stupid widgeon might set the pistol off by mistake. So, he waited.
“Got it?” Lily’s voice was almost merry. Sir Rory eyed her suspiciously as the man nodded.
“Good. Then start chopping.”
“Chopping?” The coachman looked at the fire logs in bewilderment.
“Not those, sir! Those!” Lily indicated the carriage wheels with a quick flick of her hand. Aldershot moved forward, but the gun was trained on him again in an instant.
“Not so fast, Sir Rory! I might shoot your foot by mistake!”
Aldershot decided not to take the risk. His eyes nearly popped out of his forehead, however, when the coachman understood what she was about and began to chop the great round wheels with masculine zeal.
“What in the blazes are you doing?”
“I should have thought it obvious, sir. I am rendering any further journeying useless.”
The coachman snickered a little, so Sir Rory kicked him roundly with the point of his civilized top boots.
“You are fired, man!”
The coachman stared a moment, then wreaked silent revenge by his continued devastation of the carriage wheels. It was a singularly enjoyable task, for Sir Rory was a petty man and he was being regarded with satisfaction by the prettiest little nymph he had seen in years.
“Did you hear me? You shall be turned off without a character. I shall be damned if anyone will employ a hapless nobody with no references!”
“Oh, you are so wrong, Sir Rory!”
Lily smiled sweetly.
“Be quiet, you vixen! You know nothing of such matters!”
“Oh, but I do.”
The carriage gave a great groan and sank to the ground, back wheels helplessly aloft. Lily addressed the coachman calmly.
“That will be fine, sir. You may start on the back two. I want this wood to be good for nothing but sticks. Won’t the crofter be surprised to see how industrious we have been? He shall have enough firewood to last all the winter. A fitting repayment, I believe, for the use of his ax.”
Sir Rory took a cautious pace forward. Lily seemed too amused to notice, so he took another.
“Uh, uh, uh! Naughty, naughty.”
The pistol was leveled, again, at his n
ose. What an appalling child!
“Did you say you have turned off your coachman?”
“You heard me.”
“Very good, he may consider himself hired once more.”
“Over my dead body!”
Lily looked at him consideringly. Then, in a rather haughty tone that quite suited her magnificent features, she addressed him.
“If you like, though that will not be necessary. Lord Barrymore requires only that he can handle a team and obey my commands.”
“Lord Barrymore? You flatter yourself.”
“I think not.” Lily’s voice was deceptively gentle.
Sir Rory raised his brows fleetingly. He would not argue with the silly wench. Now she was opening her berry red lips.
“We were married, you see, only this morning.”
There was a moment’s stillness. Then the unwelcome information finally filtered through to her abductor. When he hissed vituperously and clenched his fingers into a taut, uncomfortable fist, Lily thought he understood.
“So you see,” she continued lightly, “the viscount will be seeking me shortly. I shouldn’t much like to be in your shoes when he finds me, should you?” Her voice danced as lightly as clouds.
“Climb under the wreckage.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Climb under the wreckage. Since I cannot bind either of you, I must hope that the weight of half a barouche will keep you occupied awhile. Yes, you, too, Master Coachman, one can never be too careless of one’s trust these days. But this I promise you: if you engage not to permit this worthless piece of flesh to escape, you shall very soon be wearing Barrymore livery. My word on it.”
At which the burly man grinned a toothless smile—or in truth, there was evidence of some back molars, but these were of little account—and pushed Barrymore under with him.
Lily waited until she was perfectly certain both would have a fair time struggling to lift the remains of the interior. Just to be certain, she packed some of the chopped wheels about in places, so that splinters alone would offer sufficient enough hazard. Then, with a careful click to decommission the pistol, she lifted her skirts and ran as if her life depended on it.
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