The Accidental Abduction

by Darcie Wilde

  “Where’d you learn to drive?” he made himself ask.

  “Where I grew up in Devon, there’s a tradition of a girls’ race on Lady Day.”

  “I imagine you won quite a bit.”

  “Every year.” She sounded oddly hesitant as she spoke. Harry risked a glance over his shoulder. She wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze was on the road, and yet he had the strongest sensation that she wasn’t seeing it. She was lost in some memory. He wished he could see her face well enough to know if it was a good one.

  “You’ve come to London for your sister’s season, I imagine.” Harry cursed himself as soon as the words were out. Bringing up her sister was exactly the wrong thing right now.

  “That’s one reason.” For a moment, her shoulders drooped, and Harry cursed himself again. “What of you, Mr. Rayburn? What brings you to London?”

  “Oh, I’m quite the town man,” he said. “My father’s an importer. I work in his warehouses. I’m afraid, Mrs. Wakefield, your gallant knight is nothing but a coarse member of that class the haut ton are pleased to call the ‘counterocracy.’”

  “I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have with me.”

  The swell of pride that came with this statement was entirely unwarranted, and, unfortunately, his pride wasn’t the only swollen part of himself.

  You need to stop talking now. But Harry couldn’t be sure whether that thought was meant for her or for himself.

  “I did think you might be a merchant,” she was saying.

  “What gave me away?”

  “You smell of spices.”

  Something in those few words shot straight through him. She might have said “your coat,” but she didn’t. She said “you.” She was remembering being in his arms. They’d been close enough to breathe each other’s breath and feel each other’s heartbeat. Did she like it? Did she like him? Did she want to be near him again?

  “And you’re far too st— calm to be the usual ballroom beau.”

  She’d meant to say strong. He was sure of it. Yet more absurd pride sang in Harry’s blood and he found himself wishing something new would happen. Perhaps this Mr. Dickenson could turn up with a cutlass, or a pack of highwaymen.

  God in heaven, what is happening to me? I’m turning back into that damned schoolboy, just like with Agnes.

  Except what he was feeling for Mrs. Wakefield was nothing at all like what he’d felt for Agnes. When he’d gotten near the faint and dainty Agnes, he’d never dared to do more than kiss her hand. He’d always been worried he’d break her, or shock her. With Mrs. Wakefield, though, he felt the power of his own body. He felt quick and decisive and ready, not to mention rough, and he liked it.

  That thought was a slap in the face, and the heat in his blood dimmed. He’d felt this surge in his blood before, the dangerous delight that robbed a man of thought and restraint. It could be like a drug, and the touch of it could turn excitement to darkness in a single heartbeat.

  Harry cursed again, making sure to keep it all under his breath. It seemed that heaven heard him anyway, and decided to teach him a lesson for lust, and blasphemy. Because the clouds chose that moment to unleash their torrent of icy spring rain. Harry cursed in earnest now and the impatient off horse—Rumor?—pranced uneasily and shook the harness.

  Rain pounded in cold, hard drops on his skull and shoulders. Harry welcomed it. The cold and discomfort did a great deal to dim his undisciplined body’s more painful urging. But he’d no coat and his hat was long gone. His hair was soon plastered to his scalp and the drops hissed against the carriage lantern. The candles guttered. If they lost the light in this storm, they would be in genuine trouble. Harry turned, meaning to tell Mrs. Wakefield they should raise the barouche’s cover, so she could have some shelter. He could handle the horses without her on the box.

  “There’s a light.” She pointed up the road.

  Now Harry saw it, too, the glimmer of torchlight on the right-hand side of the road.

  “That’ll be the inn at the tollgate. The Three Swans, I think it’s called.” he said. “We’re there.”

  We’re done, said another part of him. Good. Because this night had turned him into someone he didn’t want to recognize, someone far different from the dependable Harry everyone believed him to be and who he wanted to be.

  And he’d liked it far more than was good for anybody.

  Six

  Leannah nearly cried aloud in relief as she saw the inn’s light.

  The rain soaked her to the skin and trickled down under the collar of Mr. Rayburn’s too large coat. The cold mixed with the pain in her hands, so that she could barely keep her fingers curled even loosely about the reins. Once, when Mr. Rayburn was watching the road, Leannah had looked down at her palms, and saw the cuts bleeding afresh.

  This was bad. Even if she got her hands bandaged, she might not be able to drive. She couldn’t control Gossip and Rumor with weakened hands. If she couldn’t drive herself, she was never going to be able to catch Genny. She also wasn’t going to be able to get away from Harry Rayburn. It was rapidly becoming clear that getting away from Mr. Rayburn was nearly as important as catching her sister.

  But it might all be over now, she told herself. Genevieve and Mr. Dickenson might be at the inn, waiting to change of horses or just taking shelter from this rain. Guilt at sitting on the box in a good wool coat while Mr. Rayburn walked ahead without even a hat was as cold as the rain. She’d have to find a way to repay him for his kindness.

  No. You mustn’t think about that.

  But it was too late. She knew what he wanted. She knew it from his ragged breathing and the flush in his cheeks. And yes, she knew it from that long, warm moment in his arms when she was close enough to feel the contours of his taut body against her. She knew that if there came a moment when no one could see, if she went to him, and she offered herself, Mr. Rayburn would say yes.

  At an inn, for instance, where they would be forced to wait while her horse was reshod.

  I’m a widow, murmured her needy self. The rules are different for widows. Widows’ affairs were daily winked at, provided there was some little discretion. She could lay down with Harry Rayburn and there’d barely be a murmur from society.

  Don’t. Don’t. Leannah closed her eyes against this new pain. It’s impossible. Even if Genevieve manages to get as far as Gretna and does in her reputation all on her own, I must keep some kind of respectability. There’s still Father, there’s still Jeremy, and heaven knows what will happen next. I have to keep us all together.

  Because that was what was important. That was what would always be important. She was responsible for her family, and she could never forget that, not even on a night like this. Especially not on a night like this. They’d reached the inn’s cobbled yard and Mr. Rayburn brought the team to a halt in front of the door. The sign swaying on its chains proclaimed the public house as the Three Swans, but except for themselves, the yard was empty. Disappointment rushed over Leannah. She’d been hoping so hard that they’d see some sign that Genevieve and Mr. Dickenson were inside.

  Now I’m just being ridiculous. No one could leave horses out in this weather.

  Leannah climbed quickly down from the box, ignoring the fresh pain in her hands as she did. She didn’t want to give Mr. Rayburn any excuse to touch her again. But it was no good. Now that they were face-to-face, she could see clearly how the rain had plastered all his fair hair to his head, and ran in rivulets down his wide brow. She resisted the urge to reach out and wipe the water away. She made herself drop her gaze from his fascinating eyes to his dripping and dispirited whiskers, which were really quite absurd. He wasn’t a perfect Adonis, this man. He was a nice, but bedraggled stranger with a sense of decency. That was all.

  He was also eyeing the inn door, and she understood at once why. “This could be awkward,” he bawled to be heard over the rain.

  She leaned forward to make her answer into his ear, which was another mistake, because it brought her f
ar too close for comfort. “We could say that I’m your sister.”

  He smiled ruefully. “I don’t think anyone would believe it.”

  She reminded herself sternly that he was speaking of their looks, but it was too late. The thrill was already threading through her blood, because she knew what he really meant. The way they looked at each other, the way they stood like this, so close and familiar and yet so filled with tension, this was not the way of a brother to his sister.

  “Wife then?” she said. Oh, this is dangerous. She shouldn’t think about being his wife, not even for a moment.

  Harry hesitated. “It might make it more awkward to explain to Mr. Wakefield later.”

  “I’m a widow.”

  She hadn’t meant to tell him, Leannah was sure of that. A husband, however fictitious, was protection from this man, and from her own overwhelming feelings. But the words were out before she could even think about stopping them. Something about being so close to Harry Rayburn stripped away her well-honed skills of polite deception as quickly as the rain had washed away any trace of warmth on her skin.

  Mr. Rayburn went very still for a moment. She watched him suppress some strong emotion. She reached down, to cover his hand with hers and say it was all right. For tonight she would gladly be his wife. Here in the dark, even in the rain, there was no one to see them . . .

  Except of course there was. The door of the house flew open, unleashing a flood of firelight, as well as the solid silhouette of the landlord, with an umbrella in one hand and a lantern in the other.

  “There you are, sir!” he cried. “We been expecting you hours since! Trouble with the horses is it? That explains it all.”

  “We’re expected?” Leannah asked sharply as she ducked under the umbrella the landlord held out. Reality had returned, and it was both hard and unwelcome.

  “Of course! Of course! Your message came to us in good time, and everything’s in order.”

  Which could only mean Genevieve had planned this elopement further ahead than Leannah had given her credit for. She owed Meredith Langley an apology for dismissing her warnings so casually.

  “Martin!” the landlord bellowed over his shoulder. “Get your lazy carcass out there and see to the gentleman’s horses!”

  The landlord kept up a solid stream of orders to the unfortunate Martin, who ran out into the deluge with a tin lantern gripped in one hand to take Gossip’s bridle from Mr. Rayburn.

  “Careful, there,” Mr. Rayburn said. “She’s got a temper. Has anyone else passed this way?” he asked as he followed Leannah and the landlord inside the blessedly warm public room.

  “No, sir,” the landlord replied. “Been a quiet night and likely to stay that way.” He nodded toward the rain as he shut the door. “You needn’t worry about anything along those lines.”

  No, there’s nothing to worry about, except that Genny is out in that storm, and I’m stuck here.

  The landlord evidently saw her distress, and quite mistook its cause. “Now, miss, don’t you fret. All’s just as it should be. We’ve your room ready, and my missus’ll be right out to see to what’s needful.”

  But his reassurance did no good at all. Leannah began to shake. She clutched Mr. Rayburn’s sodden coat closer around her shoulders. The cold had gotten into her blood and bones. It filled her, as heavy and solid as the mass of guilt, anger, and fear that lodged itself under her ribs.

  “Now then, now then, you just step through there, miss.” The landlord set his lamp down on the oak bar. “The fire’s good and warm in the parlor, and I’ll send Mrs. Jessop to you right away, as I see your servant’s yet to catch you up. An’ I suspect you’ll be wanting some tea?”

  “As well as whatever’s on the fire in the kitchen.” Mr. Rayburn fished about in the pocket of his dripping coat and laid several coins on the bar. “With our thanks.”

  “Yes, sir. Very good, sir.”

  The parlor was plain, but neat and well kept, with several slat-backed chairs beside a round table for dining, as well as a pair of armchairs before the fire and a sofa beneath the window. Mr. Rayburn did not accompany her into the room, which was just as well. Leannah needed to collect her wits, and stop this ridiculous shaking, and Mr. Rayburn’s presence would be a decided impediment to both processes.

  A brisk woman—presumably the landlord’s wife, Mrs. Jessop—bustled in and immediately began to poke up the fire. She chattered comfortably as she worked, about how she’d have tea and a bowl of good hot stew in just a minute, and wasn’t this the worst of nights, but still, mustn’t grumble, and if Miss would just give over that nasty wet coat, the girl would be bringing in towels and a dry shawl presently.

  Leannah wasn’t listening. She sat in the chair nearest the fire and held her hands out to the flames. The rain drummed relentlessly against the shutters, and Leannah trembled from the strength of her fear as much as from the cold.

  This is my fault. Why didn’t I just let them all know I’m happy to accept Mr. Valloy? We’d be settled again by now, and Genevieve could finish up the season without any of us having to worry. What am I going to do? Jeremy’s going to wake up and find us both gone. No. Jeremy will be fine. He won’t think to try to come after us.

  Except he would. At twelve, her brother very much felt himself to be the man of the family. Leannah squeezed her eyes shut at the thought of clever, stubborn young Jeremy calmly distracting the servants and walking out the door. He had the family way with horses. He’d have Bonaparte saddled up before anyone knew he was missing.

  My fault. All my fault.

  But she hadn’t wanted to marry Terrance Valloy. She’d entered into her first marriage because her father had arranged it for the good of the family. It hadn’t been so bad. Elias Wakefield was a good man. It had taken her years to discover exactly how good, but she’d felt his innate kindness from the moment she first met him. She had no such feeling about Mr. Valloy. In fact, it was the reverse. There was something about the way he looked at her and about the way his hands felt against her when they waltzed that left her profoundly uneasy.

  But what else was there to do? The money was gone and Father wasn’t getting any better. She couldn’t be weak, or sentimental. That was a luxury allotted to young girls, and more particularly girls with fortune, education, and suitors in some combination. Sentiment, romance, even simple desire had no part and could have no part in her life. There was no good lamenting about the unfairness of it all. It simply was. This extraordinary meeting with the undeniably attractive Mr. Rayburn changed nothing.

  There was a soft knock at the door. Leannah looked up, expecting to see Mrs. Jessop again, but instead, it was Harry Rayburn who shouldered his way into the parlor. He had doffed his rain-drenched coat and now wore just his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. The wooden tray he carried was loaded with clean cloths, towels, a steaming kettle, and a tin basin. He’d draped a thick, white wool shawl over his arm as well. She noticed how his fair hair was badly tousled from having been rubbed dry, as were his whiskers. Really, they were a sight to behold. Despite her worries, Leannah felt herself smile.

  “I’ve had a word with the stable lad, Martin,” Mr. Rayburn told her as he set the tray on the table by the fire. “He confirms what the landlord said. The only trade this evening’s been the mail coach and some farmers stopping by for a pint before the rain came on. But they were, in fact, expecting a Mr. Dickenson and a young lady, and they were to have separate rooms ready.”

  “Which means Genevieve at least planned to come this way.”

  “And that this Dickenson meant for them to stay the night, within bowshot of London.” Mr. Rayburn frowned as he poured hot water into the basin. “Not something I would have expected for an elopement.”

  Genny, what are you doing? Leannah automatically pushed her hair back from her cheeks and winced again. Mr. Rayburn moved toward her, but stopped in his tracks. Their landlord might be mistaken as to their exact identities, but they weren’t alone anymore. He couldn’t casually
touch her now. Someone might see the violation of propriety.

  Leannah didn’t want propriety. She wanted someone else to be strong, just for a minute. She wanted to collapse and cry. But that wasn’t allowed either.

  “However, that’s neither here nor there,” Mr. Rayburn went on. “It’s safe to assume they’ve been delayed by the rain. All we have to do now is wait for them to turn up.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Leannah repeated wearily. “I’d rather be trying to run them down.”

  “Believe me, I understand the sentiment. Here, you’d better get this shawl around you.” Mr. Rayburn was trying to sound brisk but the words kept catching in his throat. “Mrs. Jessop is seeing about some dry clothes. I told her the luggage was delayed with the servants. And we need to get those cuts washed.” He indicated the basin. “It’s been my experience that dirt can slow down the healing.”

  “Thank you.” She stood to reach for the shawl he held out at arm’s length. It was thick, undyed wool, made soft by time and much wear. She took it carefully, so as to not let her hand touch his. Her body had come too close to betraying her enough times tonight. She could not court fresh temptation. “I seem to be thanking you a great deal, but you’ve done so much.” She drew the shawl close about her.

  “All part of the service,” he answered with what she was coming to think of as his habitual smile.

  Leannah found she did not want to look at Mr. Rayburn anymore. She did not need to see him with his collar and cravat loose, exposing the intricate lines of his throat with its sprinkling of golden stubble, or the swell of his Adam’s apple. She especially did not need to see the curve of his shoulders and arms beneath the plain white linen of his shirt. Instead, Leannah got to her feet and turned her attention to the basin of steaming water. She plunged her hands into it. The heat was scalding, and Leannah hissed and jerked her hands back.

  Of course Mr. Rayburn was right there. “Here,” he said and she knew she did not imagine the tremor in his deep, patient voice. “Let me.”