Her Protector's Pleasure

by Callaway, Grace

  Numbly, she took the waterman's arm. They navigated around the remaining crowd vying to get on board. Sunny tones caught Marianne's attention.

  "Mademoiselle, have you ever seen a boat this large?"

  Marianne's skin prickled. She halted, looking wildly into the throng. Not seeing the source of that dulcet voice, she craned her neck, her senses straining. Another voice, with a heavy French accent, drifted toward her.

  "Hush, ma petite. We are almost there."

  Heart palpitating, Marianne pushed her way into the horde. She heard Johnno call out, but she ignored him, intent on finding the origin of those voices.

  Where are you, darling? Talk to me, Primrose. Talk to me ...

  "I'm hungry, mademoiselle. Will they serve us tea on the boat?"

  Marianne shoved her way toward the melodic tones. Paces away, she saw the pair. A straight-backed woman held the hand of a small girl whose head was obscured by a large straw bonnet. Marianne pushed forward, reaching out to grab the girl's arm.

  The girl started and spun around, clutching a doll to her small chest. Dark brown curls kissed her forehead ... but Marianne would know those eyes anywhere. Green as spring and flecked with gold. Eyes as bright as hope itself.

  "Primrose," she whispered.

  The girl's gaze widened further, her rosebud lips parting in surprise. "How do you know my name?"

  "Let her go!"

  The heavily accented words tore into Marianne's reverie, and Primrose was suddenly torn from her grasp. The Frenchwoman inserted herself as a barrier between Primrose and Marianne. Drawn to the unfolding drama, the remaining passengers formed a circle around them.

  "You leave her be." Beneath the dark brim of her bonnet, the woman's eyes snapped at Marianne. "Haven't you done enough?"

  "She's my daughter. My little girl. Give her back to me," Marianne said, her voice breaking.

  "Enough of this nonsense! I know what you did, you strumpet. Monsieur, he told me all about you." The woman's eyes were slits in her bony face. "Putain. You ought to be ashamed, showing your face in public."

  Marianne swallowed, but she refused to be cowed by shame any longer.

  Her gaze locked on her daughter's small face, she said softly, "I am your mama, and I have been searching for you for a long time. Please, come to me."

  The woman turned to Primrose, saying sharply, "Do not listen to her! You and I, we are getting on that boat as your guardian instructed."

  Primrose blinked, looking back and forth between her governess and Marianne. "But ... he said my mama was dead." The uncertain quaver in her voice stabbed at Marianne's heart. "That I became his ward after he rescued me from Mrs. Barnes."

  "He is right. This is a madwoman, and you must ignore her falsehoods," the Frenchwoman insisted.

  Marianne's mind raced. How much should she tell Primrose? She wanted to protect her daughter's innocence, for—miracle of miracles—Primrose did indeed appear innocent. Naïve, unsullied. Her eyes travelled over her daughter's healthy, glowing disposition, and she knew that whatever nefarious deeds Coyner had planned, he'd not yet put them into action.

  Relief filled her like sunshine, dissolving some of the shadows.

  "I'm not dead, my darling," she said huskily. "A bad man took you away from me, but I am your mama. Your hair, underneath that dye, it's golden like mine, isn't it?"

  Clinging to her doll, Primrose gave a tentative nod.

  "And your eyes,"—Marianne crouched so that she and Primrose were at eye level—"they're green like mine, aren't they?"

  Primrose let out a shuddery breath. "Yes."

  "You have a small birthmark. It's shaped like a flower. On your left knee."

  "H-how do you know that?" Primrose stammered.

  "Because," Marianne said in a suffocated voice, "for the first year of your life, I spent every minute with you. Before you were taken, you were my world. And even after …"—her voice trembled as she fought to maintain her composure—"oh, my darling, there hasn't been a moment in the last seven years when I haven't yearned to have you back in my arms."

  "She's telling you the truth, little miss." Marianne turned her neck to see Ambrose standing behind her. In calm, reassuring tones, he said, "I am a member of the Thames River Police. And we have been helping your mama look for you."

  Primrose's lashes lifted, her chin wobbling. A single tear spilled down her cheek, and Marianne's heart wrenched. It was asking too much for her baby to understand, too much—

  "Mama?" Primrose whispered.

  A sob lodged in Marianne's throat. "Yes, my precious girl. Yes." She opened her arms.

  The Frenchwoman stepped between them. "N'attendez pas," she said to Primrose. "These are all lies—"

  Ambrose gripped the governess' arm, pulled her out of the way. "Lady Draven tells the truth. It is you who has been told the lies. Unless you want to be charged as an accomplice to kidnapping, you will tell me where your employer is."

  "I will say nothing," the Frenchwoman spat.

  Marianne's gaze stayed on her daughter. Her entire being shook with the need to seize Primrose up, gather her close. Yet she feared that she would frighten Rosie further.

  So Marianne remained where she was, her heart and her arms wide open.

  Heartbeats passed.

  Then, like a miracle, her daughter ran to her.

  FORTY-TWO

  The return to London took two days. Throughout the journey, Ambrose kept close watch over Marianne and Primrose. Coyner, damn his eyes, had somehow managed to escape. Ambrose had questioned the governess, and she'd admitted that Coyner had planned to meet her and Primrose at a hotel in Calais. Sir Birnie had sent Runners to the French port to hunt Coyner down. In the interim, Ambrose remained on high alert; his instincts told him Coyner was an obsessed lunatic, one who would not easily give up on the object of his fixation.

  Looking at Primrose and Marianne now, Ambrose felt a fierce surge of protectiveness. Mother and daughter sat next to one another on the carriage cushions, and with the dye removed from the latter's hair, their heads resembled two bright blooms bent together. Marianne spoke in gentle tones, answering Primrose's questions. Over and again, her hand smoothed the girl's hair as if to reassure herself that her daughter was safe in her arms at last.

  Ambrose's throat thickened. By God, he'd do whatever it took to give Marianne the sense of security she deserved. To ensure that nothing and no one threatened her and Primrose again.

  "Are we almost there, Mama?" Primrose asked for the umpteenth time.

  "Nearly, my darling." Over her daughter's head, Marianne sent him a smile.

  A sweet, sharp longing struck Ambrose. Though he had no right to hope, he nonetheless did. He told himself to focus on the future one day at a time. First things first, he had to see Coyner captured and behind bars. Then and only then could he broach the topic of the future with Marianne. To convince her that he could be a worthy husband for her … and father to her little girl.

  In the short time he'd spent in Primrose's company, he'd come to adore the little imp, who shared her mother's beauty and charm … and strength of will as well. He listened with a faint smile as Marianne asked what Rosie would like to do in London, and the child rattled off a list that included everything from visiting Astley's Amphitheatre to acquiring a pretty bonnet to match her Mama's. Praise God, it appeared that Coyner's main sin—beyond kidnapping the girl—had been in overindulging her. Without a firm and steadying influence, Primrose would no doubt turn into a hoyden.

  "And will Mr. Kent be staying with us too?" Primrose said.

  Ambrose waited for Marianne's answer. In tacit agreement, he and she had been entirely circumspect in their behavior since finding Primrose. At the inn where they'd stayed last night, Marianne and Primrose had shared a room whilst he'd taken an adjacent one. Things were confusing enough for the little girl without her having to wonder about the state of affairs between her mother and the policeman who was guarding them.

  "Would you like
him to stay with us?" Marianne asked.

  Primrose's nod warmed Ambrose's chest.

  "Then he will, won't you, Mr. Kent?" Marianne said to him.

  "If it pleases Miss Primrose," he said, inclining his head.

  "And her mother," Marianne murmured.

  Desire curled in Ambrose's gut.

  "Mr. Kent's family is staying with us as well," she continued. "He has a sister named Polly the same age as you, and I think you two will get along famously."

  "I've never had a friend. Or been around other children." Primrose's voice lost some of its cheery confidence, and her small hands clutched her ever present doll.

  "You'll like Polly and my other siblings," Ambrose assured her even as he saw Marianne's lips form a tight line.

  In order to spare her daughter from further trauma, she hadn't revealed the full extent of Coyner's nefarious plan. She'd said that Coyner had stolen Primrose because he wanted a child of his own. At Ambrose's urging, Marianne had warned her daughter that Coyner was a dangerous man—that whilst he might seem kind on the outside, he was not to be trusted and under no circumstances should Primrose have any contact with him. Though Primrose's brow had furrowed, she'd agreed.

  Arriving at the townhouse, Ambrose disembarked first, and when he found no sign of threat, he escorted Marianne and Primrose into the house where his family was waiting. They were greeted with shrieks of welcome and the usual pandemonium. By the time the dust settled, Primrose stood sandwiched between Polly and Violet, her arms linked with the other girls'.

  "May we show Primrose her room?" Polly said.

  "We decorated it," Violet added. "Emma cut yellow roses from the garden, and Harry and I helped put up the new bed-hangings."

  Marianne smiled. "How lovely of you all. Would you like to go with them, Rosie?"

  "Yes, please," her daughter said with shining eyes.

  "I'll be along in a minute," Marianne promised.

  After everyone left, she turned to Ambrose.

  "What is it, love?" he said.

  "I don't know. Having Primrose here, at last, it's like a dream …" She trailed off, shadows darkening her gaze. "Oh, Ambrose, she's safe now, isn't she?"

  He cupped Marianne's face in his palms.

  "We'll keep her safe," he said. "You have my word on that."

  *****

  The next few days passed in a blur of activity. Ambrose insisted that until Coyner was caught, Marianne and Primrose remain in the house. Marianne agreed ... and, to his exasperation, proceeded to bring the world into her townhouse instead. Day after day, he and Lugo scrutinized a parade of dressmakers, shoemakers, and haberdashers as they tromped their way to the drawing room. Not only did Marianne outfit Primrose to the nines, but she insisted the Kents have the same royal treatment as well.

  Indeed, his family's future was looking as bright as their new buttons. Yesterday, Magistrate Simpson from Wapping Station had come to offer Ambrose reinstatement as Principle Surveyor. Apparently, his old superior Dalrymple had been investigated and sacked for malfeasance, and Ambrose and his team would now be working under Simpson. Simpson had given Ambrose a raise and assigned him as liaison to Bow Street during the ongoing hunt for Coyner. Shaking hands with his new magistrate, Ambrose had been reassured by the other's forthright grip.

  Then, at week's end, more good news arrived, delivered this time by a Runner named George Smythe. Ambrose had met Smythe before at the Bow Street offices; something about the fellow's pomaded curls and flashy waistcoat set his teeth on edge. It didn't help matters that Smythe was making eyes at Marianne as she opened the missive bearing Sir Birnie's official seal.

  "Have you been with Bow Street long, Mr. Smythe?" Ambrose said curtly.

  "A few months, give or take. Made my reputation as a thief-taker before that." Smythe winked. "But the ladies—they prefer a Runner, eh?"

  Ambrose scowled at the same time that Marianne said, "My God."

  "What is it?" he asked.

  "They've got Coyner." She raised glimmering eyes. "They found him in France, and they're bringing him back to face justice."

  Knots loosened in Ambrose's chest. He opened his arms, and Marianne walked into them, burying her face against his chest.

  "Welcome news indeed," he said hoarsely. "When did they find Coyner?"

  "Three days ago," Smythe said. "Accounting for the travel time, they expect to have him back in London by early next week."

  A shudder traveled through Marianne, and Ambrose held her closer.

  "Sir Birnie asked me to bring Lady Draven in to take an official statement. He wants everything in order so that the magistrates can try Coyner as soon as he arrives," the Runner added.

  Marianne drew a breath and straightened. "I can go right now."

  "I'll come with you," Ambrose said.

  She shook her head. "I want you to stay here with Primrose."

  When he tried to argue, she placed a finger to his lips. "Please, Ambrose. Even with Coyner in custody, I'd feel better knowing that you are here with my daughter."

  Ambrose frowned. "What about you?"

  "I'll take Lugo," she said. "We shan't be more than an hour or two."

  Ambrose hesitated. Reluctantly, he said, "Mind you go straight to Bow Street and back."

  She nodded.

  The Runner offered his arm. "Shall we, my lady?"

  *****

  An hour later, Ambrose stood on the terrace next to his father. His siblings and Primrose were present as well, and they all watched as Harry prepared to show off his latest experiment. On the outside, the invention looked innocuous enough: white paper tubes were strung together and suspended from a hat rack.

  "Behold the Chinese Firecracker," Harry said.

  As the others applauded, Ambrose said beneath his breath, "Are you certain this is safe, Father?"

  "Harry's been experimenting for weeks. I'm sure he has it down," Samuel whispered back. In a louder voice, he said, "Go on and give us a show, lad."

  As Harry reached for the matches, the door bell rang. Relief washed over Ambrose. Marianne was back.

  "Wait up," he said with a grin. "I'm sure our hostess won't want to miss this."

  He strode to the foyer, where Tilda was opening the door. The maid let out a gasp at the same time that a roar filled Ambrose's ears.

  Lugo stood there, disheveled, his face swollen almost beyond recognition. Blood dripped from the large gash on his cheekbone.

  "It was a trap," the African said hoarsely. "The note was forged. Smythe's working for Coyner—"

  "Where is she?" Ambrose snarled.

  "Coyner has her." Lugo held out a note. "Says to follow these instructions … or my lady dies."

  FORTY-THREE

  Marianne blinked, the world coming into focus in bits. Darkening sky. Lapping waves. A cutter anchored next to the pier where she was lying on her side, her cheek pressed against the rickety planks. She tried to move, but her hands and feet were tied. Everything returned to her. The ambush in the carriage. Coyner and Smythe holding Lugo at gunpoint whilst they beat him to a pulp. Her throat clenched. God, Lugo. She'd tried to scream for help, but Coyner had smothered her with a handkerchief, and the noxious fumes had sent her into oblivion.

  She fought the panic. Tried to think. Where was she ... where was Coyner?

  "Awake, are you?"

  A boot pushed her shoulder, rolling her onto her back. She stared up at the man who'd imprisoned her daughter for nearly four years—who'd meant to do unspeakable harm to her little girl. Hatred poured through her veins, dissolving her fear.

  "You won't get away with this," she said. "Kent will hunt you down."

  "That's the plan. I even gave him the directions." The maniacal edge of Coyner's laugh raised the hairs on her skin. "You're the bait, you see. He'd do anything for you. Because of that, he'll bring my treasure straight to me."

  "She's not yours, you perverted bastard," Marianne hissed. "She's eight years old—a girl."

  "Primrose is min
e, you worthless slut."

  Coyner grasped her by the hair and yanked her up. Tears of pain welled behind her eyelids, but she refused to cower, kept her gaze steady on her enemy's face. Coyner's eyes had a wild, glazed look. Spittle clung to his lower lip, dripped down the spotty stubble on his jaw. He looked and smelled as if he hadn't bathed in days. A lunatic on the edge.

  Could she push him over, gain the upper hand? Pendleton's revelations about Coyner rang in her head. "Why do you want my daughter, Jericho?" she said.

  His pupils dilated. "Don't call me that. My name's Coyner. Sir Coyner."

  "Do you want a girl … because you can't get it up with a woman?"

  "Shut up! Shut up, you whore!"

  His hands closed around her throat, yet she gasped out, "Couldn't fuck the tavern wench, could you? Everyone at Eton laughed about it. Everyone knows you're an impotent—"

  His grip choked her. Dots danced before her eyes.

  "They're here, sir!"

  The shout caused Coyner to release her. She fell to her knees, her lungs pulling for air. Through the strands of hair that had fallen over her face, she saw an approaching rowboat. Ambrose was rowing it with only one other boatman, and between them was a small blond head ...

  "No!" she shouted. "Keep her away, Ambrose—"

  Coyner backhanded her. The taste of pain flooded her mouth, and black waves split her vision.

  "Gag her," Coyner snarled.

  Smythe appeared and, though she struggled, he held her down and wound a length of filthy linen around her mouth. He hauled her back up, and panic clutched her heart: the rowboat had docked at the other end of the pier. Her daughter was within Coyner's grasp.

  She prayed that whatever Ambrose had planned would work.

  Because she'd die before she let Coyner get hold of Primrose again.

  *****

  As the boat bumped against the dock, fear and frustration scalded Ambrose's gut. This is my fault. I let Marianne go. If anything happens to her— Yet his self-directed anger was of no use at the moment. Later, he could berate himself further for his failure to protect Marianne. Right now he had to ensure her and Primrose's safety and to take care of Coyner once and for all.