The Accidental Abduction

by Darcie Wilde

  “What am I to do in the meantime?”

  “Get Mrs. Jessop to lay out breakfast in the parlor, and stop making up fairy stories about me and Mr. Rayburn. We have to get home before anyone else unwelcome turns up.” Or before I lose my resolve with Harry. Again.

  Fortunately, Leannah was not given time to brood on this possibility, or any of its most likely consequences. Mrs. Jessop arrived a short moment later, bringing them clean water and fresh cloths. Leannah was a little embarrassed to find Harry’s caution with her hands had been warranted. She had broken open her scabs and blood stained the bandages. Mrs. Jessop tut-tutted and helped rebandage her palms. Then, between the two of them, they wrestled Leannah’s hair into some semblance of order, and dressed her again in her own simple, powder blue dress. The garment was a bit worse for the wear, but it had at least been shaken out and aired.

  When she finally descended the stairs, Leannah found Genevieve enjoying, or at least eating, breakfast in the parlor. Like the night before, the food was simple but hearty—porridge with treacle, fresh brook trout, more of the good bread with fresh butter, as well as strawberry preserves.

  Leannah had just settled herself at the table when Mrs. Jessop bustled in with a pot of piping-hot tea.

  “The gentleman’s outside,” said Mrs. Jessop as she filled their cups full of tea so dark it was almost black. “He sends his compliments and asks if he might come in and say good morning.”

  “Oh, yes!” cried Genevieve before Leannah could answer. “I do so long to see how Mr. Rayburn does this morning.”

  Mrs. Jessop ignored this too bright and too quick exclamation, and looked to Leannah.

  “Please show Mr. Rayburn in,” said Leannah.

  She thought she’d spoken quite coolly, but there was so much good-natured understanding on Mrs. Jessop’s face as she exited the parlor, Leannah could not escape the realization she had made a bad job of it. This was not helped by the infuriatingly knowing look Genevieve leveled at her.

  Leannah ignored her sister and concentrated on schooling her features into an appropriately bland and polite expression before the door opened to admit Mr. Rayburn.

  Harry looked as rumpled as she felt. He’d had some sort of rough wash, and his hair was plastered back against his head. Golden stubble gleamed on his chin. It was everything Leannah could do not to reach out and straighten his cravat for him. But they were no longer alone together, draped in a veil of moonlight and shadows. The sun was up. Genevieve was sitting right here. She must return to being Leannah Morehouse Wakefield, and quickly.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Wakefield, Miss Morehouse.” Harry bowed. “How are your hands this morning, Mrs. Wakefield?”

  He spoke politely, almost casually, but there was nothing casual about the look in his eyes. His eyes were filled to the brim with the memories neither of them could mention.

  “Much better thank you,” Leannah answered with equal politeness. But she turned her own eyes toward his. Please, she begged silently. Please see that this polite conversation is not what I would choose.

  “Won’t you join us, Mr. Rayburn?” inquired Genevieve, gesturing to the empty chair.

  “Thank you.” Harry bowed once more. “That is most kind, but I’ve already had my breakfast, and must make an early start of it. It has been a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Wakefield,” he said, and again there was that burning glance, and the clear wish to speak.

  A sick pain rose in Leannah’s chest. The contradictions of needing him to stay and wishing desperately he would go squeezed her heart and lungs. But he must go and she must let him. She couldn’t be herself when he was near. He turned her into something, someone quite different.

  You only play the martyr because you haven’t the heart for anything else.

  Leannah pushed Genevieve’s accusation aside, again, and steeled herself for the final end of this—what to even call it?—this scene? It certainly wasn’t an affair. She parted her lips. She had the polite farewell ready on her tongue, but the plodding sound of heavy horses’ hooves coming through the open window interrupted her as surely as Genevieve’s delighted squeak.

  “Anthony!”

  Genny jumped up and ran from the parlor. Harry ducked back reflexively to avoid being bowled over.

  “Surely not,” murmured Leannah. Mr. Dickenson was far too proud to come back after being knocked down, unless he had a plan of some sort. Leannah got to her feet and brushed past Mr. Rayburn. Even though her thoughts whirled with all manner of improbable scenarios involving Mr. Dickenson, she was very aware how Harry followed close behind her.

  But it wasn’t the return of Anthony Dickenson that created the racket. A massive, antique travelling coach creaked across the yard, pulled by a pair of shaggy cart horses. As soon as the slouching driver halted his team, the coach door opened and a spry old man dressed in clergyman’s black popped out. He clapped one hand to his head to keep his broad-brimmed hat from flying off, grabbed up a black bag in the other, and scampered to the doorway where Genevieve had stopped, stunned.

  “Oh, my dear Genevieve, I am so sorry I’m late.” The Rev. Clarence Morehouse grasped his niece’s hands and planted a kiss on her brow. His white hair stuck out in every direction from under his hat, an indication of the speed with which he’d taken to the road that morning. “There were so many delays with the horses, and then my man declared with the rain we risked overturning. We were forced to take shelter until day. But, I’m here now and I have the license and . . .”

  Leannah glanced up at Harry to see him with his brows raised and a small, wry smile on his face. Then, she stepped into the doorway. “I’m here, too, Uncle Clarence.”

  Uncle Clarence froze, blinking his round eyes and looking for all the world like Jeremy when he’d been caught raiding the pantry, again. “Oh. My. Leannah.”

  “Just so.” Leannah felt her own tight smile form. “May I have a word, in private?”

  “Of course, of course.” Uncle Clarence reclaimed his bag, but paused to squeeze Genevieve’s hand once more. “Don’t you worry, my dear. Everything will be right, I promise.”

  Leannah cast Harry another glance. In answer, she received a slight nod. He would not leave Genevieve unsupervised. Her sister would have no chance to take to the road again.

  Leannah led her uncle into the parlor. She liked Uncle Clarence, she always had. He might have gotten a very good living out of his London parish. But Clarence Morehouse was not one of that species of clergyman who preached bland and reassuring sermons about the importance of obeying one’s superiors, made themselves agreeable in the fashionable drawing rooms, and kept the fees that should have gone to their curates. Rather, her uncle took the Gospel’s instructions to love one’s neighbor and succor the needy quite seriously. He also could not refrain from saying as much. This combination meant that what little extra money came into his church went out again just as quickly.

  “Now, you’re not to worry about anything at home, Leannah,” said Uncle Clarence as he hung up his hat by the door. “I sent Mrs. Morehouse round this morning, to offer whatever help might be needed.”

  “Thank you,” she said, thinking again of Jeremy and Father. Did Father realize she and Genny had been gone all night? He’d be distraught. Jeremy would be furious, if only because he was missing out on the excitement. Guilt washed over her. She had been so wrapped up in her encounter with Harry Rayburn, she’d all but forgotten about how Father would be worrying about them. What if it brought on another attack?

  Uncle Clarence saw her distress and hurried to her side. “Now, don’t worry, Lea. It’s much better that you are here.” Uncle Clarence took her hand and for the first time noticed her bandages. “Oh, my dear, what’s happened?”

  “It’s nothing, truly.” She drew away and she sat down by the fire. She also hid her hands in the folds of her skirts. Uncle Clarence drew his own chair up close to her.

  “Lea, please believe me, had Genevieve not told me of her circumstances in strictest confid
ence, I would have laid the whole of the matter before you. I did try my best to convince her she should speak to you herself. I knew you would understand and support her completely.”

  “There’s no baby,” said Leannah. It was a much blunter revelation than her uncle deserved, but she could not think of any other way to say it.

  “What?” Uncle Clarence drew back.

  “There’s no baby. Genevieve was never in love with Mr. Dickenson, nor he with her.”

  Uncle Clarence was silent at this. He blinked at the fire for a long time. Leannah watched, angry and weary beyond description. How could Genevieve do all this without her seeing? She should have known. She should have been able to put a stop to the matter before it went anything like this far. That was, after all, her reason for being. She was the one who saw the family disasters coming and stopped them.

  She knew she was being unfair to Genny and to herself. She could not be expected to know everything in the minds of those around her. Except it seemed that sometimes that would be the only way to keep them all safe and together.

  “I seem to have been imposed upon,” said Uncle Clarence finally.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle. If . . .”

  “No, no.” Uncle Clarence waved her words away. “I should have realized. She’s been so worried, about, well you, and your situation.” He looked up at her again. “She meant well, Leannah, I’m sure of it. You must try to forgive her.”

  Which was exactly the sort of charitable response she expected from him. At the same time, it strained her patience to the breaking point. There always seemed to be so much to forgive and always something new she must come to understand.

  But all Leannah said was, “I’m sorry you were brought out all this way for nothing. We’ll pay for the license, of course.” After we’ve paid Mr. Rayburn back for this night, and paid the farrier for Gossip’s shoe and . . .

  Uncle Clarence waved her words away. “You mustn’t mind that. Can you tell me how matters currently stand?”

  Instantly, Harry Rayburn’s face rose up in Leannah’s mind. But she did not speak of that either. “Mr. Dickenson has taken to his heels. Genevieve is angry, and although I can’t exactly blame her, I can’t say I’m sorry, either.”

  “I do understand. How may I best be of assistance?”

  “I will have to ask you to take us home. Gossip cast a shoe on the road, and with my hands, well . . .” She spread her bandaged palms. “I may have to stable the team here until someone who can handle them can come fetch them.” Another expense, more arrangements.

  “Naturally.” Uncle Clarence nodded vigorously. “Would you like me to speak with Genevieve? Perhaps I can help her see that while her intentions may have been excellent, her methods were not of the best.”

  Leannah smiled. “You’re welcome to try. I’ve had very little success. Still, you can sit with her while I go see about Gossip and Rumor.”

  With Uncle Clarence still making all manner of reassurances to her back, Leannah took herself out the side door and made her way around the inn to the stables. Gossip and Rumor snorted in greeting from their boxes, which were, she noted, roomy and comfortable. She petted their noses, held out her empty hands to be lipped and to prove that, unfortunately, she had neither apples nor sugar.

  A shadow fell across the floor. She knew it was Harry. She didn’t need to see him. After last night, her skin had become perfectly attuned to his presence. She wondered how long it would take for that sympathy to fade.

  “Good morning, again, Mr. Rayburn.” Leannah was pleased with how calmly she was able to speak his name. It gave her the courage to turn her head to look at him. He was smiling, gently, wistfully.

  “Good morning again, Mrs. Wakefield.”

  “I imagine it’s you we have to thank for Mr. Dickenson’s absence?”

  “I’d love to be able to take credit for running the gentleman off the premises, but no. He took himself away in the wee hours.” Harry paused. “You seem well acquainted with the clergyman.”

  Leannah sighed. Gossip, bored and seeking attention, shoved at her arm. She petted the mare’s ears. “He’s my father’s brother. I could absolutely murder Genevieve for involving him in this business.”

  “But she needed him to obtained the license for them, so he could perform the marriage on the spot, no matter where they met up.”

  Leannah nodded. “She thought I might catch her if she had to go all the way to Scotland.”

  “Given the way you drive, she was probably right.” Harry moved closer. Anticipation prickled across Leannah’s skin. But Harry did not touch her. He simply stood beside her, breathing deeply, steadily. She could feel the strength it took for him to control himself. Almost as much as it took to make her keep her eyes on his when a wicked portion of herself urged her to glance at his breeches, to search for the most definite evidence of his arousal.

  “Well,” Harry said. “Now that you’ve your family with you, I can relinquish my role of hero and protector.”

  “Which you performed admirably.” She said this more to Gossip than to Harry. “I shall be sure to recommend you to all my acquaintances who find themselves in need of rescue.”

  “You can assure them my rates are entirely reasonable.”

  Leannah tried to find a witty response, but there was none. Her whole body ached for Harry’s touch. She wanted to take him into her arms and discover all the pleasures they’d left unexplored last night.

  “I wish I could think of a way to take that look from your face,” he breathed.

  She shook her head. “I’m just tired.”

  “It was a very long night,” he breathed.

  “And a maddening drive.”

  His hand moved. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached for her. Leannah’s throat seized tight. Move away, move away. Speak. Tell him he must not do this. But she let Harry take her hand with that gentleness of which he was so capable. His breathing grew ragged as he raised her fingers to his lips.

  He lifted his eyes, and she saw the mischief there, the bright understanding. He ran his thumb across the very tips of her fingers, and Leannah had to clamp her mouth shut against the sigh.

  “Maddening,” he drew the word out. “Yes. My thought exactly.”

  “We . . . we should probably be grateful we are at the end of it.”

  He had been so quick on the uptake at every other point she could not believe he misunderstood her now. He was ignoring her, quite deliberately. Exasperation flared up in her, but it swiftly died, because he still had not let her fingers go. In point of fact, he kept right on rhythmically brushing his thumb across her fingertips. The soft caress threatened to reach directly into her blood and brain, and drain away her ability to think.

  “Are we truly at an end, Leannah?”

  “Where else could we be? My sister is safe. My uncle is waiting to take us home. Where else is this to go?”

  Harry made a great show of considering her words, without letting go of her hand, or ceasing the thoughtful brush of his thumb across her nails.

  “You may be right,” he said reluctantly, but she didn’t believe for a minute he meant it. “Unless you’d like to go to Gretna?”

  The suggestion was plainly meant to be absurd and Leannah made herself laugh. “But who would drive? My hands are a ruin.”

  Harry raised her hand a little higher. “You think I couldn’t handle your team?”

  His breath was warm against her hand. Leannah’s heart stopped and started again at a frantic gallop. With that infinite attention and gentleness, he pressed his lips to her fingers, kissing each one in turn. She was melting inside. The whole of her was softening, warming, growing at once relaxed and eager.

  She had been selfish long enough and taken much more than she should of what Harry offered. But she would take just a little more, just one more moment to store up against all the lonely nights that would follow this one.

  “No, I actually rather think you could handle them.” She stepped closer until her he
ms brushed the tips of his boots. Leannah let her free hand brush his curling hair and trail across his brow. She wanted to memorize the particular blue of his eyes, with that dark ring around the iris and those tiny flecks of steel gray. “You seem very comfortable with spirited creatures.”

  Harry lifted his other hand and let his fingers trace a line of warmth down her cheek. Now she did sigh and tilt her head toward him. Harry answered by opening his palm so he could cradle her cheek. “Comfortable is not how I’d describe myself feeling around you.”

  “No,” she agreed. He touched the curve of her throat now, right above her shoulder. She closed her eyes so she could better concentrate on the exact spot.

  “So, shall we go?” There was a smile in his voice, but a hitch in his breath. If she took one more step forward, she’d press against his body. His warmth would wrap around her, and his arms would follow a moment later. “Your uncle can take your sister home.”

  She could picture it—the pair of them side by side on the barouche box, with Gossip and Rumor tearing down the highway at the limit of their speed. She and Harry would laugh and shout and passersby would stare. They’d clatter over the bridge that marked the Scots border and he’d leap down and catch her around the waist and . . .

  “Please, Mr. Rayburn, don’t joke. You have no idea . . .” She couldn’t finish that sentence. You have no idea what you’re doing to me. What you’re turning me into.

  But the truth was worse. This was not something Harry Rayburn did to her. Her heart, her passion, her most secret self reached out to the impossible idea of being with him.

  “What if I’m not joking?”

  He’d lifted his hand away from her throat, but he did not let go of her fingertips, neither did he step back. She could not miss or mistake one nuance of his expression, and his face was as serious as his voice. He meant it. Heaven help them both.

  “I can’t.”

  He was smiling again. While Leannah watched, the idea took hold in him, and he welcomed it. In answer, Leannah’s fear rose up just as quickly. But it was not Harry’s seriousness that frightened her. It was that she could feel the terrible, wonderful temptation of his words.