The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance)

by Cameron, Collette

  The thought cheered him enormously. More than it ought. If he was so immersed in his shell of indifference, why did tantalizing visions of her in scanty nightclothes keep bumping around in his mind? He shifted on the seat once more.

  Vangie sat mute as he hid in the dark corner.

  He sent her a smile. “I can arrange to have the order sent straight away to London. New garments should begin to arrive within a fortnight.”

  “I have clothing, Ian.”

  “Not befitting your new station.”

  She flinched and shrank against the squab, averting her eyes.

  Curse his loose tongue.

  Smoothing her skirt, she lifted a shoulder and said, “As you wish.”

  Devil take it, he’d embarrassed her.

  Had he not been in such a hurry to uncover the truth about Lucinda and Charlotte’s blatant deception, he would have delayed his departure to Northumberland and purchased a new wardrobe for Vangie in London. With her aunt’s and cousin’s assistance, she would no doubt have enjoyed the venture. Instead, he’d reminded her of her prior status and humiliated her.

  So much for his vow not to hurt her again.

  Vangie repositioned herself on the seat, and though almost undetectable, a wince pinched her face.

  Other than offering Ian a half-smile, Vangie hadn’t bothered attempting to engage him when he’d first clamored into the carriage. Confounded lout.

  He’d been mounted on Pericles when she’d exited the inn this morning, a smile of excitement and anticipation on her face. Last night’s well-laid plans evaporated with the dawn’s dew. She’d fought back tears as, Malcolm, the driver, assisted her into the coach.

  One could only take so much rejection. The fragile shell of protection she’d carefully erected since this morning would crack and disintegrate if he rebuffed her again. W ith each saturated mile, her heart grew heavier, and her ire rose a bit higher.

  How could she bear a lifetime of this?

  There’s always the Roma—

  Stealing a glance at her husband lounging across from her, Vangie was certain Ian was none too pleased having to share the coach with her hours before he typically did.

  “Vangie, I meant no offense. I. . .” He stopped.

  Her gaze met his before skittering away.

  “Do you have any personal belongings you’d like to retrieve in Brunswick, before we continue on to Somersfield?”

  Startled, Vangie lifted her gaze to his. Nodding her head she said, “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble. I do have a few things I’d like to collect.”

  “No trouble at all. We’ll stop on the morrow as we pass through.” He bestowed a warm smile on her.

  Taken aback by his kindness, she searched his face for a long moment. “Thank. . .”

  Her thank you was cut off as the coach lurched and bumped to a stop, practically tossing her onto the floor. Only clutching at the seat prevented her from plummeting onto Ian’s booted feet. Her reticule and hat weren’t as fortunate. She bent over to recover them. Whatever caused them to stop so abruptly?

  Shouts echoed outside.

  Worried, she raised her eyes to Ian, then inhaled sharply. He’d pulled a mahogany gun case from a compartment beneath his seat. Removing one of the flintlock officer’s pistols from its royal blue velvet bed, he began loading it with practiced efficiency.

  “Ian?” Vangie was pleased she sounded poised. She was far from it. Her pulse beat an uneven staccato, and her breath refused to leave her lungs in a normal fashion.

  He smiled reassuringly, before returning his attention to loading the other pistol. “Most likely nothing to be concerned about. I’m only being cautious.”

  More shouting, then the unmistakable rocking of the carriage as a driver climbed down, caused her to doubt him. Her stomach caught and quivered. Stay calm, she told herself. Carriage drivers disembark for any number of reasons.

  Ian raised a finger to his lips and motioned for Vangie to stay still, mouthing, “Don’t move.”

  He quickly extinguished the lamp. From the edge of one of the carriage windows, he peered outside.

  Was he serious? Vangie had no intention of sitting demurely by while God only knows what was occurring outdoors. She bent forward to take a look herself.

  The murky twilight hindered visibility. All she could see were indiscriminate shapes and shadows. It was like peering into a deep, dark pond. One knew something was there beneath the surface, moving about, but one had no idea what it was—or whether it was dangerous or not.

  Ian opened the door, scarcely wide enough to squeeze through. Heavens, he wasn’t going out there? She swallowed the cry rising to her lips.

  Slipping through the opening with the pistols, he whispered, “Stay here.”

  The door closed with a soft click.

  Filled with trepidation, she scooted to the edge of the seat. Balancing awkwardly, her backside hanging halfway off, she poked her nose around the sash and watched him sneak around the rear of the coach on silent panther feet.

  A shot echoed, quickly followed by a profusion of cursing. Vangie’s ears burned with heat.

  Dear God, please keep Ian safe.

  An eerie silence descended. She strained her ears, clenching and unclenching her hands. Her uneven breathing was the only sound she heard.

  She jumped when another gun’s report disturbed the dusk’s tranquility. Her thoughts ricocheted round in her head. Whatever was happening? Where was Ian? Was he injured? Where were the drivers? Who was swearing such foul oaths? How many highwaymen were there?

  Then ludicrously—has the rain stopped?

  She stuffed her gloved fist in her mouth, muffling the hysterical giggle gurgling forth.

  Chin up, old girl. Gypsy blood. Sterner stuff and all that.

  Rot and rubbish. She was terrified.

  The door was wrenched open with such force, it cracked against the carriage’s side. Hitching in a great gulp of air, Vangie jumped backward, hitting the squab with a solid clunk and banging her head on the carriage wall. The air whooshed from her lungs with the impact.

  Clutching at the seat with one hand, she managed to right herself, while keeping her other hand hidden. Her head throbbed where it connected with the carriage. A surprisingly well-dressed man with a handkerchief tied over the lower portion of his face lurked in the opening.

  He held a pistol in his hand. Waving the firearm menacingly he demanded, “Where’s the gent?”

  Vangie’s gaze flicked beyond him. Nominal daylight was left. Where was Ian? Her gaze shifted to the highwayman, then sank to the gun in his hand.

  She inched away from him. Lifting her chin like the aristocratic dames she’d seen in London, she answered icily. “You, sir, are mistaken. As you can see,” she angled her head haughtily, “I am alone.”

  No lie there. She was in fact alone in the carriage.

  He laughed then, a malevolent, alarming rumble that sent a frisson of fear creeping across her skin.

  His cold eyes narrowed. “Ye be a clacky wench. Mighty pleasin’ to me eyes too.”

  Scots. Vangie swallowed against the alarm clawing at her chest. She edged her hand under her skirt.

  “I bet ye’d be a wild lassie to bed.” A lewd gleam entered his eyes. He licked his thin lips before his black eyes dipped to her bosom. “Och, tanight won’t be a total loss . . .”

  Her gaze locked on his leering face. She crept her fingers closer to her dagger. His gun pointed at Vangie, the gentleman robber moved forward, obviously intent on stepping into the carriage.

  Where was Ian?

  Why hadn’t he stopped this lecher? Oh God, he wasn’t hurt or. . .

  A deafening blast shook the carriage. The thief lurched to an abrupt halt. His eyes widened in astonished
disbelief before he toppled, face first, onto the coach floor. Dead. His lower body dangled awkwardly in the opening, a bloodied hole in his back.

  His clothing dirty and torn and his lip bleeding, Ian stood there holding a smoking pistol.

  Vangie slapped a hand across her open mouth to smother her terrified screech and to keep from being ill. Dear God—

  Her gaze riveted on the dead man, she gulped against a wave of nausea, then gulped again.

  Dead. He’s really dead.

  She’d never seen anyone killed before. Injured, yes—gruesomely at times in the Romani encampment—but not dead.

  As silently and as lethal as the panther Vangie likened him to, Ian had disposed of his prey.

  “You’ll never know, you filth,” Ian snarled, rage sparking in his baleful glare.

  Vangie swallowed again, a chill washing over her.

  He looked like the devil himself.

  “Vangie, are you—?”

  Ian watched, incredulous, as Vangie raised her dagger from the folds of her shabby skirt. She’d the strangest expression on her face—a curious blend of resolution and dread.

  Like a loadstone, his heart dropped to his boots.

  He’d die by his wife’s hand this day. She could blame his death on the robbers. How she must hate him. He deserved it, he supposed. Still, it took him by surprise.

  His gaze dipped to her trembling lips. He’d never kiss her again. Her mouth moved but no sound emerged. It was the subtle shifting of her gaze over his left shoulder that alerted him.

  Fiend seize it!

  That was twice now he’d been caught unawares because his thoughts had been consumed with her.

  He ducked and spun around simultaneously, just in time to catch a glint of steel from the corner of his eye. He jerked his head to the side, seizing the thief’s wrist. Ian slowed the plunging blade, but could not stop the descent entirely. Its finely honed tip scraped the length of his neck, leaving a stinging trail. Caught unawares, even with both hands gripping his opponent’s wrist, he was at a disadvantage.

  His adversary suddenly stiffened and issued a guttural grunt. Ian’s gaze flew to fixate on Vangie’s horror-stricken face. She was ashen, and she looked as if she were going to swoon or be sick, or both. Her shocked gaze never strayed from the man he was grappling with.

  Straightening to his full height, Ian let loose of the highwayman, and retreated a step. The robber swayed from side to side. His eyes glassed over before rolling back in his head. He slowly tipped over, bouncing against the edge of the carriage opening before landing on the soggy ground with a loud, heavy thud.

  Flabbergasted, his jaw hanging open, Ian gaped. Vangie’s jeweled dagger, impaled to the hilt, protruded from the robber’s back.

  “God, forgive me. Oh, God, forgive me.”

  Vangie’s hoarse whisper jolted Ian from his stupefied trance. Grasping the coat of the other dead robber, he yanked him from the carriage entrance, then dumped the man in an undignified heap on the ground beside his comrade.

  Ian bounded into the carriage, drawing his quaking wife into his arms.

  She buried her face in his shoulder, shaking and mumbling incoherently against his coat. “I had to, Ian. I had to.”

  He patted her back. “Shh, sweeting.”

  She sucked in a shaky breath. “He’d have killed you.”

  Raw regret laced her voice. She angled her head, her haunted eyes seeking his. “I couldn’t let him. I had to kill him, don’t you see?”

  She pleaded with him to understand, her trembling fingers clasping at his coat. Her tears flowing freely, she gulped, “I didn’t want to, but I’d no choice. I wouldn’t let him take you from me.”

  Closing her eyes, she pressed her face against him weeping softly, saturating his coat with her tears.

  Ian sat dazed. Vangie’s confession was far more staggering than the knife tip pressed to his neck mere moments before. Take him from her? Did she possess some minuscule degree of affection for him after all? Hugging her to his chest, he soothed her.

  “Shh, it’s over now.” He ran a calming hand down her quaking spine. “The drivers and I kept the first four from the carriage, but the other two must have been hiding.”

  Six highwaymen.

  Truly they were lucky to have all survived. He wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for Vangie. How could he have thought she’d hurt him? She was everything good and decent. And, she killed tonight—killed to protect him.

  He kissed the crown of her head, despite his stinging lip, and tightened his arms around her. Something sprang free in his chest. Its newness was initially painful, but the feeling resolutely exploded forth with a life and vigor of its own. Something marvelous, implausible, and consuming.

  This time, he didn’t call it rot and rubbish.

  Malcolm appeared in the carriage doorway, disheveled and holding his right arm. “My lord, my lady,” he said, “are ye unharmed?”

  “Shaken, but unharmed,” Ian said.

  Malcolm’s gaze meshed with his. “They was waiting fer us.”

  Chapter 16

  Vangie opened tear-blurred eyes to see the humble coachman, injured though he was, inquiring after her well-being. Gifford, the junior coachman, his face battered and bloody, hovered from behind. Lurching to an upright position, she began issuing orders while tearing at the hem of her petticoat.

  “Ian, have we any water? Mr. Gifford, I need light please, and my small box tied with the purple ribbon. Mr. Malcolm, do get in the carriage, so I can attend to your wound.”

  She shifted, then edged Ian’s cravat away from his neck. “It’s little more than a shallow cut, thank God. Best to clean it though.”

  She removed her gloves, then reached for the torn petticoat. The three men remained motionless, gawking at her open-mouthed. In the act of ripping her petticoat into strips, she paused, quirking a brow at the dumbstruck trio.

  “Faith, gentlemen. Don’t dawdle. Let’s be about it then!”

  Gifford and Ian obediently scrambled to do her bidding. In moments, she was hunkered over the bashful Malcolm, dabbing at his injured arm. Though she’d blanched at the blood when cutting away his shirt, she made quick work of dressing the wound.

  “Vangie, might I use a strip of your petticoat?”

  She glanced behind her at Ian. He was a sight. His left eye was swollen and starting to bruise. His lower lip was twice its normal size, and his neckcloth was stained scarlet. Her gaze dipped to her spencer. It was a wonder she wasn’t smeared with blood too.

  The coach reeked of blood, sweat, mud—she eyed the smears on the Malcolm’s boots—and manure.

  He pointed at his neck. “I’ll wash away the worst while you look after Malcolm.”

  “Of course. Here’s one for Gifford too.”

  She handed him two strips. “Wash your lip first, Ian.”

  From the corner of her eye she saw him divest himself of his coat, then his bloodstained neckcloth, which he tossed through the open door. Using a portion of the water, he cleansed the blood from his lip and neck.

  Vangie kept up a constant diatribe as she worked. Chatting calmed her nerves. “My puri daj, that’s grandmother in Romanese, taught me how to tend wounds.”

  She shifted, fully facing Malcolm, to take advantage of the lamp’s light. “I’m not as accomplished as she is, but your injury is not terribly serious, though I’m sure it hurts a great deal, Mr. Malcolm.”

  She swabbed at the injury with a damp cloth.

  “Just Malcolm will do, my lady.”

  She angled away to look at him. His features were a mask of confusion. He was staring over her shoulder at Ian. She twisted to glance at him too. A wide grin split his face. What was he so jovial about? There were six dead men outside. She darted a glance t
o the open door, then forced her attention back inside. She shook herself mentally.

  Never mind. Best to return to the task at hand.

  “Oh, very well then, Malcolm. The ball passed clear through, nice and clean. It’s fortunate I always carry my medicines and dagger with me. Puri Daj taught me the art of healing with plants and herbs. She taught me to use a dagger too.”

  “Too?” Ian threw the stained piece of petticoat he’d washed his neck with onto the ground outside.

  “Your grandmother taught you to use a dagger?” Astonishment tinged his voice.

  Vangie stopped her ministrations to stare blindly at the carriage upholstery. Wistfully, as if alone, she spoke, “The Romani should be arriving any day now.”

  She dipped her gaze to Malcolm for a moment and attempted a smile. “It will be the first time in my memory I’ll not stay with the travelers for a time.”

  She fidgeted with the cloth in her hands. “They are an honorable people but suffer much persecution because their ways are different.”

  The cramping in her bent legs drew her attention to the present. She stood halfway, then slid onto the seat beside Malcolm. Much better. Returning her focus to his wound, Vangie declared defiantly, “If I’d the means, I’d help them. They deserve to be treated with dignity.”

  She wrapped a length of petticoat several times around his arm. “Were you aware I’m part Roma—that gypsy ratti runs in my veins?”

  The question was for Ian. She lifted her gaze to him, regarding him guardedly, daring him to object to her heritage. How would he react to her startling revelation? How would she react if he rejected her . . . again?

  He leaned over and kissed her soundly on the mouth, despite the flabbergasted coachman’s twitching nose but inches from their meshed lips.

  An embarrassed, “Ahem,” caused Vangie to shift away. Ian stared at her as if besotted. Another discreet cough brought a flurry of heat to her face and another fool’s grin to Ian’s.