The Accidental Abduction

by Darcie Wilde

  But she didn’t do that either. “My younger sister’s run off to Gretna Green with a man named Anthony Dickenson.” Condescending, priggish, Anthony Dickenson, who spent half their conversations subtly reminding her that he was the one with money and that she should be grateful he even consented to be seen with Genevieve. “I thought I might be able to catch up with them, but now that’s gone and she’s out there alone with him and . . . Oh, the little IDIOT!”

  All her hard-won calm shattered and Leannah clapped her hands to her face. She was shaking and the tears had started all over again. This was a scene, she realized dimly. She was making a pitiful, pointless scene, but she couldn’t stop herself. She had worked so hard and so long to keep the family together; to give Genny and Jeremy a chance at some kind of life, and now her sister did . . . this . . .

  Leannah felt herself being pulled forward. Sweet warmth enveloped her as the man wrapped his arms around her. He held her gently. She could step back at any time. But she didn’t want to. She pressed her face against his shoulder and let him—this perfect stranger—hold her. He was once more breathing slowly and evenly, and she had the very keen sense of him controlling himself. It was grossly indecent to be out here in the dark of the highway in a stranger’s embrace. Leannah found she did not care. Her palm rested against the hard plain of his chest. The worsted cloth stung her ungloved hand badly, but she didn’t care about that either. She wanted to stay here just as she was. She wanted to relax her body against his, to tilt her face up, to look into his eyes, and then . . . and then . . .

  Slowly, painfully, her hand curled into a fist where it rested against the man’s chest. No. I must stop this at once. I cannot be the thoughtless one. I do not have time.

  At least she had stopped crying. She had also regained enough control over her limbs to step away. Her stranger let her go, as she had known he would. But he was breathing fast now, and his face was entirely flushed. He also was looking down the road rather than at her.

  “What kind of start does your sister have?” he asked.

  “An hour, maybe two.” She’d have been on the road much sooner if she hadn’t had to deal with all Mrs. Falwell’s stammering evasions. Then there’d been all the delay of getting to the stables, and convincing the manager that this really was an emergency, not just an attempt to get the horses away without paying the bill, not to mention getting the horses brought out and harnessed.

  Her—passenger? victim? Leannah had no idea what to call the man—unhooked the right-hand carriage lantern and held it up to peer into the darkness. He was still breathing far too quickly for a man who’d done nothing but stand still for the last few moments.

  He’s also putting distance between us, murmured that treacherous, trivial part of her, the same part that had let her be held by this stranger. He doesn’t trust himself.

  She had to think clearly. She could not, however much she wanted to, fall to pieces again, or waste time yearning after things she could not have, like another moment in this man’s arms. Leannah made herself look past his back, a feat almost as difficult as stepping out of his arms had been. The highway was empty. The silent countryside spread out black and gray in the last shreds of moonlight still able to find a path through the gathering clouds.

  “There’s still every chance,” he said. “It’s a dark night, and we’re on the edge of rain. It’s some three hundred miles to the border. They’ll have to stop somewhere. If nothing else, they’ll need to change horses frequently if they’re to go at any kind of speed. We can ask at the gatehouse if they’ve been seen. We might even find them at the inn there.”

  She couldn’t help noticing the way he said “we.” Leannah opened her mouth to tell him she could manage very well, thank you, but at the last moment decided against it. She might not want him here, but here he was and she could hardly abandon him by the roadside, even if Gossip hadn’t thrown her shoe. If he could be useful, she shouldn’t discard his help out of hand.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Harry Rayburn.” He performed a credible bow. “At your service, I suppose, Miss . . . ? Or is it Lady?”

  “Missus,” she answered. “Mrs. Wakefield.”

  “Mrs. Wakefield.” The surprise and disappointment in his voice were positively flattering. Leannah wished she had time to enjoy them. The trained reflexes of courtesy made her hold out her hand. That, however, proved to be a mistake. When he took her hand so that he might bow over it, she winced. Mr. Rayburn, who could apparently number quick observation among his fine qualities, turned her hand over. The lantern light showed harsh lines along her palms where the leather reins had bitten into her skin. A dark smear of blood spread across her skin. Leannah pulled her hand away and hid it in her skirt.

  “Is she all right?” Leannah nodded toward Gossip. Of course she’d check for herself, but for reasons she could not quite understand, she did not want Mr. Rayburn to be looking at her just now. The rush of the drive and the distraction of Harry Rayburn’s touch were fading, and the pain had begun to creep up past her wrists, into her arms. It would be bad later, but she couldn’t worry about that either.

  Mr. Rayburn quirked a brow at her, as if to let her know he understood this was meant as a distraction. Nonetheless, he did move carefully around Gossip, who stamped and whickered at him. He patted her shoulder, murmuring soothing nothings as he ran his hand slowly down her leg. Whatever his station in life, Mr. Rayburn was a patient man, and one who understood horses. Probably she’d gotten hold of some Newmarket dandy, or member of the sporting set who would be all too delighted to regale his comrades about his midnight ride, probably expanded and improved upon to tell how he’d stopped the runaway team and saved a damsel in distress.

  Then she remembered his rough hands with their controlled and well-judged grip. Those were not a dandy’s hands at all.

  “I think she’s all right,” Mr. Rayburn said as he straightened up. “I can’t find any swelling or tenderness. Just lost the shoe.”

  She nodded. Despair threatened again, but she pushed it aside, hard. “We’re about two miles from the tollgate, I think. It makes more sense to head there than try to turn back to town.”

  “I agree.” He raised the lantern a little higher and met her gaze. “There’s still every chance we can catch up with your sister. If this fellow she’s with is in a great rush, he’s just barreled up the high road, and we’ll get word of them at the inn. If he decided to be evasive and take the side roads, we will be ahead of them.”

  Unless Gretna wasn’t their destination after all. Unless there was no marriage planned. Leannah couldn’t believe that of Genevieve, despite her radical, bluestocking views. But what of Anthony Dickenson?

  Leannah drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. It would do no one any good to say so much now. “We should be on our way at once.”

  He nodded briskly. “I think this one . . .”

  “Gossip,” she told him. “Gossip and Rumor.”

  He cocked his eye at her again. She shrugged. “They’re the fastest things in the world.”

  That earned a startled chuckle, and despite everything, Leannah felt herself smile. “Gossip here will walk, if we take it easy. I’ll lead,” he added before Leannah had any chance to protest.

  She shivered. “All things considered, you’d be within your rights to leave me here.”

  He didn’t answer that, at least not directly. “Have you a shawl or any such?”

  He’d seen her shiver. He was too observant by half, this Mr. Rayburn. She was going to have to be very careful around him, or she’d give something important away.

  “I left home in rather a hurry.” Without gloves or a hat or . . . oh, no, without any money. She’d been so intent on catching up with Genevieve before the worst happened that she hadn’t even paused to consider such things. Leannah shuddered again.

  “Here.” Mr. Rayburn stripped off the caped overcoat he wore. “Take this.”

  “You�
��ll be cold.”

  “Not as cold as you’ll be up there. Come now. You’ve wounded my pride by abducting me, you can at least permit me my chance to play the gallant.”

  He settled the coat around her shoulders and she felt the barest brush of his fingertips against the bare skin of her throat. The coat smelled of whiskey, salt water, and, surprisingly, spices. A treacherous shiver trickled down her spine.

  Oh, don’t, she whispered in the dark of her mind. I mustn’t be curious, or intrigued.

  If Mr. Rayburn thought this latest, so very treasonous shiver might be anything more than cold, he was gentleman enough to remain silent. He held out his hand, and Leannah realized belatedly that he meant to help her back onto the box. She let him, noticing he took her arm, not her injured hand. His own arm was steady as a rock as she leaned on him. For a brief moment she imagined having those arms around her again, and she thought of how those hands would feel as they settled against her waist to pull her close, here in the dark, where no one could see, no one could know.

  I should leave you here, Mr. Rayburn. Gossip could run a little way at least, if I gave her her head. I could leave you behind and let you walk back to town and away from me.

  But Mr. Rayburn already had Gossip’s bridle. “Come on, old girl. We’ll take this nice and easy. Here we go.”

  Leannah took up the reins. The pain of the leather against her bare palms nearly made her gasp, but she swallowed the sound and gave them a single shake. Rumor snorted in complaint but took up a walking pace at Gossip’s side.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rayburn.”

  “For what?”

  She thought she’d spoken too softly to be heard, but apparently she’d failed in even that much. “For not saying if I’d driven less like a maniac, my horse wouldn’t have cast a shoe, and I still might catch up with my sister.”

  “All part of the service, Mrs. Wakefield. For what it’s worth, I’ve a sister, too, and I’ve had to make a mad drive or two myself on her account.”

  “Why do they do it?”

  “If I knew that, I’d write a book and make a fortune. Are you going to be all right?”

  “I’m going to have to be.” Again.

  I must stop this. Leannah scolded herself at once. Feeling sorry for myself is not going to help. She drew in a deep breath. Vanilla, cinnamon, sandalwood, and oranges hung in the air around her. Whoever Harry Rayburn was, he carried the world with him. A sailor? A merchant man? It would explain his steady nerves, and strong arms.

  I’m a widow, she wanted to tell him. I have been for over a year. There’s no living husband, or anyone else to protect me, or protest what I do. There was Terrance Valloy, but she did not feel she could count him.

  But she must count him, and all the other people who in their turn counted on her. She had no business fantasizing about a stranger, no matter how warm his embrace or gallant his manner. This wasn’t a ballroom where she could watch the men and dream about them later. Genevieve’s future was at stake. Every second was precious and their walking progress was excruciatingly slow. And yet, she couldn’t help looking at this man who turned from being abducted by a stranger—a woman no less—to playing the rescuer and barely batted an eye.

  Who are you, Harry Rayburn? Leannah inhaled another deep breath of spices. Where are we going together?

  Five

  Harry had never once had cause to be grateful for a thrown horseshoe in his life, but he was now. That shoe let him lead Gossip the mare, instead of requiring him to ride up on the box next to Mrs. Wakefield.

  If Harry’d had any breath left after that carriage ride, the sight of Mrs. Wakefield by lantern and moonlight would have knocked it clean out of him. From his vantage point during their wild ride, he’d had an idea his abductress might be good-looking, if a trifle mad and rather unconventionally accurate with the butt of her whip. Because she wore no coat or cape, he could plainly see she had the full curves of a well-grown woman. He’d watched with interest when her mane of hair tumbled down her back to be tossed and teased by the night wind. But those hints and glimpses were nothing compared to his first, full look at her.

  For one thing, Mrs. Wakefield must have been married right out of the schoolroom. If she was more than twenty-five, he was a codfish. For another, she was almost as tall as he was. He’d spent so much time stooping down to talk with Agnes, and his sister, he’d more or less formed the idea of all girls being tiny things. To be able to stand with straight back and see something other than the top of the other person’s head was comfortable, and surprisingly enjoyable. It made him feel more himself. It also allowed him to see the flush in Mrs. Wakefield’s cheeks and the flecks of brightness that glimmered in her green eyes. Whatever had brought her out onto the road at this hour, her outrageous drive had left her not frightened, but invigorated. Her magnificent hair curled wildly about her shoulders and down her back—all the way down her back to the swell of her derriere, he could not help noticing. It was fair hair, with hints of red, he thought, although the light was not good enough to be sure. He did know for certain she smelled of lemon and jasmine.

  But as arresting as the sight of her beauty had been, it was nothing compared to the sensation of embracing her. God! What had he been thinking! He hadn’t been thinking. He’d seen her distress and he’d taken her in his arms. At the moment, it had seemed quite simple and natural. But what he’d felt as her full breasts pressed against him was anything but simple. His body had been instantly on fire, and hard as stone. The whole of her delectably curved form felt soft and luxurious, and yet he knew how strong she was. She’d scarcely seemed to notice how badly she’d cut herself by driving without gloves.

  The sight of Mrs. Wakefield’s wounded hands had bitten into Harry almost as hard as his sudden need. The moment he saw those cuts, he wanted to embrace her again. He wanted to swear to protect her forever, just as soon as he hunted down this Dickenson who’d caused her to be out on this road alone at night. He’d teach the fellow to never again cause a woman—this woman—pain. She’d tip her face up toward his, and those gorgeous eyes would be alive with gratitude. He’d see how much she wanted to be in his arms again and then . . . and then . . .

  Harry’s mouth went dry and his breath came shallow. If his breeches didn’t loosen soon, he’d strangle himself.

  Once, home from school for the holidays, he’d overheard Fiona and some of her friends reading some story from a lady’s magazine. He remembered, quite clearly now, how he’d laughed up his sleeve. After imbibing such tales of overblown rescue and harebrained gallantries, the girls would be shocked to find that no real man would be so stupid. Why would a real man risk his neck over some silly girl? Especially one he’d just met?

  It seemed he was finding out.

  Stand down, he ordered his overeager member. Stand down. She’s alone, and in trouble and she’s married.

  Which was just as well, because at the moment the thought of her husband was all that kept him walking down the highway, leading this stumbling, complaining, entirely too high-strung mare. Who in God’s name let a woman drive such a creature? Harry’s opinion of the as-of-yet-unknown Mr. Wakefield had not been terribly high to begin with, and it dropped a little further with each yard they progressed. Where was Mr. Wakefield anyway? What kind of man let his wife go tearing about through the streets of London alone to chase down her eloping sister? Was he overseas?

  Perhaps he was in his grave. Perhaps this mysterious beauty was a widow.

  The thought sent a shudder straight through him that was equal parts desire and disgust. How could he, of all men, wish someone in their grave? Especially over a woman he didn’t know?

  It’s the dark, he told himself. It’s the isolation and the excitement of that ride, and all after being turned down by Agnes. That’s what this is. That’s all.

  Because under normal circumstances there was no possible way he could come to feel so much so quickly. He wasn’t a man to fall in love at first sight. He didn’t believe
in that nonsense. Which did not change how intensely he wanted to kiss Mrs. Wakefield. He wanted to kiss her hands, right across the welts left by the reins. He wanted to kiss the worried lines on her wide, pale brow and to discover the taste of her lips and the sensation of her tongue sliding against his. He wanted to surround her with his embrace and discover what those luscious curves would feel like crushed tight against his body as he slowly, tenderly, took the chill from her skin and the pain from her hands, replacing both with warmth and with pleasure.

  “Was she all right?” asked Mrs. Wakefield suddenly.

  “Sorry?” Startled, Harry stumbled over a loose stone. Gossip made a sound very close to a snicker and Harry swallowed a curse.

  “Your sister, the one you said caused you such worry. You seemed so well acquainted with, well, circumstances, I thought, perhaps . . .”

  “Oh. You mean did she elope? No. Fi—my sister, Fiona—she wasn’t doing anything so conventional as eloping. She was chasing after someone.” He was babbling. He was thoroughly aware of the fact, and yet couldn’t seem to stop. “And yes, she’s fine. Married to a future baron just last June.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Mrs. Wakefield fell silent again, which dried up Harry’s own stream of conversation. Say something! He ordered himself. Put her at her ease. Be witty, charming, soothing . . .

  But he did not feel any of these things. He felt cold and bereft, not to mention randy as a prize bull, and absolutely helpless to do anything about any of it. The more he tried to steer his mind away from the lush beauty holding the carriage reins with injured hands and making no complaint at all, the more his mind’s eye showed her to him as she’d been before—wild as a barbarian queen, lighting down easily from the carriage to stand in the circle of the lantern light.

  She was also quite naked in this vision, and she seemed to be holding her arms open for him. She had skin of honey gold, he noticed, and her nipples were dark buds at the tips of her beautiful, full breasts. Harry bit down on another curse.