Rebels, Rakes & Rogues

by Cheryl Bolen

  "You are too kind. At any rate, you may be off now, and take a run in the gardens before we must face each other across a real dining room table."

  Beau started to leave, then stopped, returning to stand before him. "Thank you, my lord, for the most... most lovely minuet I've ever danced."

  "The only minuet you've ever danced." The soft, sad light in his eyes only made the longing pulse deeper still within Beau.

  Tentatively she ran her fingertips down his high cheekbone, reveling in the feel of his jaw knotting beneath her touch. But the emotions between them were binding her into knots as well, frightening her with feelings that flooded through her like a riptide, carrying her away. And she feared that she was losing herself in them.

  The need to see him smile again was fierce.

  "Perhaps I shall... shall have to repay my debt to you by teaching you something as well." Her voice was soft and tender. "Of course, I know precious little that would be of use to you."

  "You owe me nothing, little one," he whispered, leaning his cheek against her palm to trap it against his shoulder.

  "Ah, but I do. What do you think, milord? Have you ever considered a career as a highway brigand?"

  He smiled at her. "I am beginning to believe you have already stolen something far more precious than my coin, Milady Flame." He grasped her wrist, dragging her hand gently down until it covered his heart.

  Beau's throat squeezed shut with some emotion she could not name, and she fled from it, turning and hurrying from the room.

  Chapter 15

  It was a perfect day for a battle.

  Griffin shielded his eyes against the dazzling morning sun and gazed across the woodlands that surrounded Darkling Moor; the lush vegetation sparkled with morning dew. The whole day lay before him. Today he was free—no weight of ledgers or financial snarls. None of Charles's devilment. Yet today's task might prove more formidable still. More formidable, and yet more entertaining, more enticing, more hazardous to life and limb.

  For today the Devil's Flame was going to learn to ride like a woman.

  His lips curved into a grin, his eyes flashing to a beautiful silver mare that stood trapped out in a gleaming sidesaddle. The mare was the most spirited in Darkling Moor's stable, a mount that few females would dare to ride. And yet Griffin knew instinctively that the sleek, skittish Moonshadow would soon be looked upon with blistering disdain. For even that spirited beast would seem like a bumbling child’s pony in comparison to the wild-eyed stallion Isabeau DeBurgh had been riding as she charged down on Griffin’s coach three weeks ago.

  "Beau will be spoiling for a bout of fisticuffs even before she leaves her chamber!" Griffin muttered to himself. She'd be outraged the instant she saw what she was expected to wear when in the saddle. He grimaced, thinking of the garments he had seen laid out upon Isabeau's bed. A petticoat of lush blue Camlet trimmed in gold, a tight-fitting coat with an elegant frill of lace for her throat. And the hat—a cocky little beaver hat with a plume all dusted in gold.

  It was a riding habit fit for a princess. He had seen to that, to the indignation of the seamstresses he had ordered to complete in an impossibly short amount of time.

  He had promised the red-tressed "princess" a wild ride over the parklands, a reward for the way she had applied herself to "fan-waving and tea-sloshing" the past two weeks. He just hadn't mentioned that when they went for this wild ride she would be in full feminine regalia on a shiny new sidesaddle he had commissioned.

  Even from his own chambers he had been able to hear the row she'd kicked up with the servants, but after almost a month of being without a horse he had trusted that Beau would do anything to feel one beneath her again. Even if she had to be "trussed up like a cursed partridge" to ride.

  Griffin warmed, remembering the first time he had seen Beau hurtling down toward his coach, her cape whipping back in the wind. She had ridden as though she were born to the saddle. And yet, if any of the London set were to see her riding that way, reckless, her slender, breech-clad legs clamped about Macbeth, they would regard her with rigid scorn.

  Griffin was determined that Isabeau would master the art of riding as a lady—master it so well that she would again have the freedom to race headlong into the rushing winds, sailing over fences and streams and the trees that had tumbled to the turf.

  If it bloody well killed them both.

  He patted the neck of his own gelding, Brutus. Griffin supposed it would be small comfort to Isabeau, but he would not be riding his first choice of mounts this morning either. His favorite blood bay stallion would have interfered with the secret part of this morning's agenda that he knew would throw Isabeau into absolute ecstasies.

  Before dawn he had sent a running footman to the inn where he'd first taken the wounded Beau. The footman had carried specific orders for the inn's hostler, commanding him to prepare the night-black stallion Griffin had been stabling within the establishment's sturdiest stall these past weeks.

  Macbeth. It was fitting that Isabeau should ride a stallion named for one whose hotheadedness had cost him a crown. And it would be most interesting to see what havoc the half-wild beast would wreak on Darkling Moor's stable, and on Griffin's own stallion as well.

  "Most likely the pair of them will eventually cut each other to ribbons," Griff muttered, removing the tricorn from his head. "God knows I'll most likely live to regret—"

  "—the day you were bloody born!"

  At the angry words Griffin wheeled toward the house. The figure stalking toward him was a vision of loveliness—vibrant blue molding to delectable breasts and a trim waist, petticoats tumbling to the ground like a waterfall. The hat brim perched on red-gold curls dipped rakishly over glittering green eyes, the porcelain-delicate features beneath flushed with a stunning beauty.

  But Griff was certain that if the king's entire army had been confronted by such a scowl upon the field of Culloden, the lot of them would have fled in terror.

  "My lady," Griffin said, making an elegant bow, "you look uncommon beautiful this morning."

  "I look an uncommon fool, you mean!" Beau hurled him a glare. "You promised we were to go riding. Riding, for God's sake. I fluttered my fan and swooned and traipsed around suffocating in silk for two whole weeks. I haven't belched at the table, flung any of the servants out the window, or shot your infernal grandmother. Last night you smiled at me and told me I'd earned a reward, a respite from my labors. A ride across the heath. I was so hungry for the wind in my face I could hardly sleep last night. And now... now, you bloody bastard, I wake up to find that you've been plotting against me with the whole bloody household!"

  She stalked over to him, nearly stomping on his toes. Her anger-flushed features were inches from his own. "How the bloody hell do you expect me to ride in this... this... thing!"

  "Riding habit. It is called a—"

  "I know damned well what it is called, you arrogant oaf. It is an abomination rigged up by a pack of men to keep women from outriding them."

  Griffin choked out a laugh. "Come now, I hardly think—"

  "Do you see any men dangling half-on, half-off their horse's backs in sidesaddles, my lord Stone? Do you see any men riding with their legs all tangled up in whatever the blazes this blue stuff is?" She swiped a hand over the rich fabric as if it were the most odious of rags.

  "Isabeau," he began patiently, "one cannot ride astride garbed in petticoats."

  "My point exactly! How the devil can one ride at all if she cannot even use her knees?"

  "There is a recent invention called reins, " Griffin said, struggling to keep his voice stern.

  "Don't patronize me, Stone!" The words were accompanied by a wallop in his chest; her small fist held a surprising strength. "If you think for one minute I am going to mince about looking like a bloomin' idiot on some... some half-dead nag fit only for the Tenderer's pot, you can go to hell."

  "I had rather thought that we would go to an inn."

  "An inn?"

  "Ay
e. I seem to remember that we left something there. A piece of your property. Unless, of course, you had stolen it."

  "Stolen it? What—" The eyes that burned with anger shifted, green-gold sparks of hopefulness, happiness, stirring in their depths as she seemed to read something in his face. "Macbeth! We can go get Macbeth?" She let out a whoop, hurling the beaver hat high.

  "Aye. Providing, that is, that you make a sincere effort to ride to and from the inn in a manner befitting one of your station."

  "My station?" Delicately arched brows crashed low in a scowl. "I—"

  "I mean it, Beau. You are one of the finest riders that I've ever had the privilege to see. And that beast of yours—he is magnificent as well. I don't give a tinker's damn if you want to slip away sometimes and race through the woods like a wild Indian, but when we go to London"—he saw her pale slightly—"you cannot dash about St. James with your skirts flying up about your ears."

  "London?" She licked her lips, the gesture her single betrayal of nervousness. "I... I think I rather... rather like it here better, even with your grandmother witching her way about. I was hoping we could postpone going there for a while yet. Ten years, perhaps?"

  Griffin felt a wave of empathy, hating the thought of plunging his fresh-faced, unspoiled Beau neck-deep into lead paint and patches and Hungary water. London was a veritable sea of intrigue, and the ton practiced a cunning, subtle, and cutting cruelty. The most elegant society could be a poisonous labyrinth for those who were not used to watching for daggers thrust at one's back.

  God’s teeth, Griff chided himself inwardly, the girl was a blasted brigand! Surely she can dispatch a roomful of sharp-tongued misses.

  And sly monsieurs? a voice inside him mocked.

  But despite his niggling doubts, he reached out one hand, tugging on a bright curl. "You will adore London," he said cheerily. "I shall take you to the theater, and to Ranelagh. We shall go off to St. James and feed the swans. And if you are good... if you are very, very good, I might try to arrange a tour of the Tower for you, so that you can pore over the armor and swords and suchlike. I know how much you adore swords."

  Beau's mouth puckered with distaste. "Waste of precious energy, they are," she said. "All that dancing around, thrusting and parrying while one good shot would rid you of the nuisance once and for all. But"—she fretted her lower lip—"maybe if you took me dicing at White's..."

  "I think not, babe. It wouldn't do for you to fleece half of the ton before you've been presented. It would put your prospective suitors in a very bad skin, I fear. And speaking of bad skins, I think that stallion of yours is probably flaying the flesh from every stable boy at that inn by now. I sent ahead and told them to make him ready, but I much doubt Macbeth has enough patience to wait very long."

  Beau's lips compressed, her fingers fiddling with the fall of lace at her throat. "They would not be so foolhardy as to tie him, would they? I fear Macbeth has a most violent aversion to hitching places."

  Griffin shrugged. "Considering how long you've been huffing about losing your temper, the poor horse could have felled the whole inn by now and torn up every bit of fencing."

  Beau scooped up her hat and jammed it on her head with resolution. She started toward the mare she had previously eyed with contempt. "What are you waiting for, Stone? An engraved invitation?" she called back to him.

  Griffin made a heroic effort not to laugh, managing only to give a choked cough as Isabeau hauled herself awkwardly onto the horse's back. Her petticoats snagged about her legs as she struggled to settle herself in the sidesaddle.

  If the high-bred Moonshadow had understood the king's English, she would have been outraged at the imprecations her rider uttered. Beau questioned everything from the silver horse's parentage to the depth of her intelligence. But within moments Griffin found that Isabeau had again managed to master a seemingly difficult feat, making it seem simple.

  "Race you," Griff could not resist goading her, expecting some sharp rejoinder. But Beau merely gave him a look of challenge and brought her gold-plumed hat down on Moonshadow's rump.

  The mare lunged forward, and for an instant Griff feared Beau was going to tumble backwards or pitch flat onto her face in the turf. But though she cursed, swore, and blasphemed in a way that would make a vicar swoon, she stayed on the horse's back. Stayed on it while urging the mare to skim, neck or nothing, down Darkling Moor's winding drive.

  Griff swung up on his own mount and kneed Brutus into a run, but he held his horse back slightly while he savored the sight Isabeau made, a splash of sapphire and flame and sleek, gleaming silver on the emerald velvet hillside.

  The miles that had seemed so tedious while they'd traveled within the coach melted beneath the horses' fleet hooves. The morass of problems that still awaited Griffin within the vast manor house seemed to evaporate like the morning mists beneath the sunshine of Isabeau's laughter, her teasing, her smiles. Aye, and that endearing unease that still puckered her brow, caused, Griffin was sure, by her dread of the impending trip to London.

  Far too quickly the inn's ramshackle frame shone against the sky, but Isabeau fairly flew from the saddle, scarcely taking time to rein the winded mare to a halt. Griff shouted warning, tried to vault from his own mount to help her, but there was nothing he could do as her petticoats caught on the saddle. A moment later she'd tumbled into the dirt.

  Griff was beside her at once, fully intending to ease her to her feet and brush the dirt off of her petticoats. But Beau merely wrenched away from his grasp, all but flinging herself against the solid warmth of the ebony stallion prancing about in the care of a terrorized stable boy.

  "Milady! Nay!" The lad shrieked, trying to guard the delicate woman from the frenzied stallion. "He nearly broke Jimmy's arm."

  "Bah!" Beau said, catching at the horse's nose, forcing the stallion's massive head down until she was peering into its eyes as though it were a recalcitrant child. "It is a fine stir you've kicked up here, sirrah! Continue this way and Lord Stone will send you off to Tattersalls, and then what will you do?"

  Griff watched her, his heart lurching, as she reacquainted herself with her perfect mount. He'd long remember this incident—this one perfect moment.

  It was as if a hand tightened about his throat, as if sea spray stung at his eyes. He turned away, mumbling some excuse about having settle to his accounts within.

  Beau watched him go, her cheeks burning with shyness. Clearing her throat, she shifted the reins back into the stable lad's reluctant grasp, bidding the stallion to behave himself as sternly as any governess instructing her charge.

  "Griffin?" she called, hastening to catch up to him. But he was already beyond hearing, lost amid the bustle of morning travelers readying to be on their way.

  "Griffin, wait!" Beau scooped up her skirts and rushed toward the door. Just as she reached it two figures spilled out. One was a girl garbed in garish colors, her face done up in lead paint beneath a wide-brimmed bonnet; the other was an odious teamster.

  Beau gasped, startled. She attempted to avoid the ill-matched pair, but she slammed headlong into something that seemed nothing but birdlike bones, frail, trembling.

  "Watch where ye're goin', doxy mine!" the man said, nearly yanking the girl's arm from its socket as he righted her. "I'd not like t'turn ye back t'Nell damaged!"

  The words sliced through Beau, rapier-sharp. She caught quickly at the girl's sleeve. Beneath the brim of the huge bonnet the girl cast a mortified glance at her, her angel-sweet features awash with shame. Shame, and yet not even the slightest shading of recognition.

  Molly! Beau tried to squeeze the name through her lips, but she was struck dumb. The girl tore away from her grasp, stumbling down into the stable yard. Molly raced to a waiting coach, climbing inside, slamming the door closed before the man could enter, and it was as if she would have crawled into the very earth itself rather than gaze into the face of—of whom? Her dearest friend? Her protector?

  No, the face of the woman who ha
d left her to the likes of the loathsome beast even now digging at his crotch with blunt fingers.

  But Jack... Jack vowed he would take care of her! A voice cried inside her. He promised...

  Promised when you had crushed his pride? Hurt him? Promised when you had hurled his love back into his face?

  God, I have to find her, Beau thought desperately. Molly would go back to Nell's: If Beau cut across the woods, she could reach there before Molly did.

  "Isabeau?"

  She jumped at the sound of Griffin's voice. He looked down at her so solemn, concerned, tender... so tender that it seemed the cruelest of condemnations after the bestial face of the man who had been at Molly's side.

  "Nay, Griff... I cannot... cannot... stay... go with you." Her voice cracked, torn, ragged with a sob. "God, what have I done?"

  Anguish raked through her. She had betrayed Molly and now must betray this dark-haired nobleman whom she had come to... to love?

  She sank her teeth into her lower lip to stifle the racking sobs building inside her. And suddenly she was running, fleeing across the yard, vaulting astride onto Macbeth's massive bare back.

  The stallion reared, essaying a whinny of fright as Beau's petticoats ballooned around her, snapping in the wind. The hands that had always been so skillful on the reins were shaking in a way that broke the skittish horse's trust in his rider for the first time. Her heels dug into the horse's sides with a force that sent the stallion shooting from the stable yard in a blur of equine power.

  She clung to the horse's back, driving him to breakneck speed, bolting through tangled trees, over stone fences, nearly crashing into a curricle racing toward the inn. But she saw nothing except Molly Maguire's pinched face and the lewd slavering of the man who had put her through hell.

  A shout of alarm rose from behind her. Griffin commanded her to halt, but the sound only blended with the curses and shrieks of those within the inn yard. She raced faster, harder, as if she could escape the image that had seared itself in her mind, burned there with acid guilt.