Dangerous Alliance

by Jennieke Cohen

  “You. Fell. Off,” he interrupted, “not I.”

  She wrinkled her nose but held his gaze. He was so insufferably . . . correct. Yet she absolutely refused to be cowed by his reasoning. If he thought she was about to apologize for something so inconsequential as this when he hadn’t apologized for the past, he was sorely mistaken. She raised her chin even higher.

  “I should go. I must tell my father about the brute who assaulted me. Not to mention tell our shepherd the sheep have gotten into the clover in your field and inform the steward about the wall.” She slowly put one foot on the ground to stand up. “So, if you and my friend the puddle will excuse me . . .”

  He seized her arms and leaned back until she stood. But when she was steady, he didn’t release her. She couldn’t bring herself to look into his eyes again, but as she stood there, the heat of his hands seeped through the leather of his riding gloves into her forearms. Warmth spread across her neck despite the chill leaching into her legs and shoulders from the mud. She stared into his white cravat, which was nothing more than the simplest knot, and realized he stood half a head taller than she remembered.

  He pulled at her left arm, and her body pivoted to the side. The scent of toast, newspaper ink, and something else—cinnamon?—wafted toward her as he stepped closer. She craned her neck up in confusion and realized he’d turned her to inspect her from behind. His eyes traveled down her mud-caked, respectably clad back to her mud-coated breeches now adhering to her thighs. Blood rushed to her cheeks.

  “What are you—”

  “You need a physician. Where do you hurt the most?” he asked, turning her forward to catch her attention.

  She cleared her throat. He’d been inspecting her for injuries. What else would he be doing, you ninny?

  His brows were pinched in the middle, his brown eyes serious. She could almost swear he looked concerned. For her.

  Then his gaze shot away, and she remembered he’d been the one to toss her aside as though nearly thirteen years of friendship had meant nothing.

  She tugged her arms away from him, but his grip did not loosen. “I am quite well. You needn’t trouble yourself.”

  His eyes bored into hers. “If you think I’ll let you gallop all over creation alone after you . . .” He looked away and released her. Her arms fell to her sides. “After you made me lose that criminal, then you are mistaken.”

  She felt her ears burning now. He may be right about her getting in his way, but it wasn’t very gentlemanly of him to keep reiterating it. “You wouldn’t have caught him anyway. He was lengths ahead.”

  He glared at her again, his eyes hard. “I was close enough to almost run you over. I would have caught him, Victoria.” His cold stare made her want to squirm.

  “We could debate this matter for the rest of the day, to be sure. If you wish to inform the magistrate of this incident, please do so. I shall tell my father, but I must go now and attend to my responsibilities. Kindly step aside,” she stated with a scowl she knew barely rivaled his for intensity.

  Tom’s jaw hardened. “Whether you care for my company or not, I will accompany you home.”

  She bit her lip. “That is . . . kind of you.”

  “As a gentleman I can do no less.”

  She bristled and turned away with an irritated huff. Of course. No real gentleman would leave an injured lady on a muddied stretch of road without ensuring her safety. But the way he’d phrased it implied she was no more than some stranger he’d encountered whom he felt duty-bound to assist.

  In some ways, she supposed she was.

  Ever since Tom had stopped responding to her letters in what would otherwise have been a lovely summer in the year ’12, Vicky had wondered what she could have done to drive him away. She’d moped around the house for weeks and neither her parents nor her sister had been able to cheer her. Then Tom’s father had banished him to the Continent. Vicky had no way to contact him, no way to fix things.

  She’d gone about her life at Oakbridge and tried, rather unsuccessfully, to forget him. But when his father died last year and Tom returned home as the new Earl of Halworth, he’d taken every possible measure to avoid her—no small feat since their estates shared a mile-long border.

  Fine. It was all perfectly agreeable to her. He’d cut her off, after all. If he didn’t care for her company, then so be it.

  She pressed her lips together. Who needed him anyway?

  She moved toward Jilly and took her reins in hand. As she searched for a stump or rock to use as a mounting block, Tom walked behind her and offered his hands as a step. She sighed. She couldn’t see another way to mount the horse. With a reluctant murmur of thanks, she jumped into the saddle, wincing at the pain in her backside.

  Too mortified to do anything but look at the reins in her hands, she slumped in relief as he turned away.

  She could pout at the unfairness of it all. She’d missed him so much during those years he’d been away; she’d missed their talks, their ill-advised adventures, and even their arguments. And now he was here, escorting her home—indeed, offering to help her—and all she wanted was for him to leave her alone.

  She tried to imagine what her sister, who always knew just how to behave, would do in such a situation as this. Then she realized Althea would never find herself in such a situation. Vicky bit her lip, wondering what Elizabeth Bennet might do. But not one incident in Pride and Prejudice coincided to any degree with being knocked over the head by a masked man in a black greatcoat.

  Vicky forced her spine straight. Surely any lady of society would be cordial and gracious if she found herself being escorted home by a gentleman who had tried to capture such a ruffian. So despite looking very little like a lady at the moment, and despite their past history, Vicky would act the same as any other lady. She absolutely would not broach the subject of him apologizing for forsaking her all those years ago. No, indeed. No matter how much she wanted to. No mature, evolved lady would do that.

  Vicky raised her chin. In fact, she’d sooner ride her father’s ox backward through the village on market day.

  Peeking at Tom through her lashes, she noted the firm set of his jaw as he strode to his horse.

  Her lips thinned to a tight line. She’d gotten along without him for years and would doubtless continue to do so for years to come. Which was just as well; she suspected she’d be hopping onto that ox long before Tom apologized for anything.

  Tom inhaled slowly as he walked to his horse, attempting to calm the thundering in his chest. He cursed under his breath and jumped astride Horatio.

  The image of that masked man bludgeoning Vicky with a tree branch replayed in his mind, doing little to slow his pulse. The villain would have done it a second time if Tom hadn’t yelled across the field and kicked his horse into action. The second blow surely would have done permanent harm.

  No matter his intentions, the stranger had felt no compunction hurting Vicky to achieve them; a fact he’d doubly proven when he’d ridden straight toward her and not toward the gap between her horse and the trees. What the devil could it mean?

  Tom ran his hand through his hair. He nudged Horatio forward and looked back. Vicky and her horse moved up beside him. Her hazel eyes focused straight ahead, refusing to meet his gaze. He assessed her horse. It walked along without any ill effects. Well . . . at least none that were visible. Unlike Vicky. She was almost certainly concussed after the blow to the head and the fall from her horse. By tomorrow she would likely be bruised all over.

  He huffed out a breath and faced forward. He’d been a bloody idiot to imagine she’d stay where he’d told her. Maybe some part of him thought she would have grown up in the last five years—that she’d be able to listen to reason—but it seemed she’d changed little.

  He glanced at her again. The cupid’s bow of her lips was pursed, accentuating the chin that formed the point of her heart-shaped face. His eyes traveled to her chestnut-and-copper-brown hair. The waves that had escaped her pins fell to the m
iddle of her back, but the majority of them were caked in mud, punctuated by the occasional leaf. Her clothes had fared no better. She’d often worn boys’ clothing as a child when they went fishing or tree climbing, so he wouldn’t have given her attire a second thought if not for the fact that in his absence she had gained curves in certain . . . areas. And the spencer and breeches, currently earthen brown from all that mud, hugged those areas in such a way that any fellow in possession of his faculties could not ignore.

  He forced his gaze away from her legs and back up to her face. Despite her efforts to remain expressionless, she couldn’t hide the occasional crinkling around her lips and at the bridge of her nose. Her attempt to mask her aches and pains didn’t really surprise him. She was as headstrong as ever.

  Those first years of his exile, thoughts of Vicky, his mother, and his brother had caused him nothing but pain. So he’d learned to lock all those memories away and had rarely given himself the liberty of using the key. He’d long since stopped imagining what Vicky had been doing back home. Her carefree smile and fits of giggles had been the final pieces he’d banished to oblivion.

  Without warning, she raised her head and caught him staring. He looked away.

  “You needn’t gawk. I feel ridiculous enough as it is.” She sounded angry, but her words said otherwise.

  “I was contemplating why that man wished to harm you.” Not an utter lie.

  She frowned. Whether it was because she regretted her comment or because she wondered the same, he could not tell. “He must have been some sort of thief,” she pronounced.

  “Why was he out on the edge of the estate where there’s nothing of value but sheep?”

  “A sheep thief, then. Or maybe he was taking a circuitous route to the house?” Even she didn’t seem to believe that conclusion.

  “He would have hit you again if I hadn’t alerted him to my presence.”

  Her brows knit. “It makes no sense for this to have happened here—we’ve never had any crimes of violence in the area.” She shook her head as though it were too strange to contemplate.

  How little she knew. Tom swallowed.

  “Did you see where he came from?” she asked. “He wasn’t there when I arrived.”

  “I saw you down in that valley. Then I looked away, and when I looked back, that man stood a few feet from you with a branch. He must have been hiding on my side of the wall, but I didn’t see him until that moment.”

  “Perhaps he’d been where the wall curves.”

  That would explain why Tom hadn’t seen him. Still, if the sight of her hadn’t surprised him, he might have noticed the fellow—in what should have been a conspicuous black greatcoat—crouching behind the wall.

  Tom had failed to protect her. Just as he’d almost failed on that appalling day five years ago.

  He shook his head. To be fair, he was almost certain Vicky hadn’t understood all she’d witnessed then. Yet she’d suspected enough to ask for answers Tom couldn’t give. So he’d driven her away. Then his father had banished him from the house.

  “For that matter, what were you doing out there?” she asked, turning her face his way.

  “I have a perfect right to inspect my land.”

  She made a frustrated noise. “I meant, what were you doing out so early? In the whole year you’ve been home, not once have I so much as glimpsed you at such an hour.”

  She was right. He generally avoided venturing too close to Oakbridge in the early morning. Whether he did so because his mother had mentioned Vicky’s habit of riding early, or because he preferred to tackle other business at that hour, he could not say. Since his return, he’d attempted to repair his relationships with his mother and brother—to fix his fractured family—but he still found himself turning the other way when he saw Victoria.

  In addition to depriving him of his home and his family, Tom’s father had cost him his closest friendship. Now the old man was gone, and Tom should be happy. He could regain what he’d lost. Tell Vicky the truth about the past. But as he looked out over the green fields and hills of the country they’d ridden roughshod over as children, he felt nothing.

  He didn’t realize he’d been clenching his fists until the reins bit through his gloves into the flesh of his palms. Vicky murmured something, but he couldn’t make it out.

  She’d ridden closer so only a foot stood between them. In his peripheral vision, he saw her peering at him with concern.

  “What’s the matter?”

  He shook his head and relaxed his grip on the reins. “Nothing at all.” Then he said the first evasion that came to mind. “I have matters at home to attend to.”

  Her jaw tensed. “I told you you needn’t accompany me. Especially if you have such pressing matters desirous of your attention.”

  He’d wounded her pride. “My affairs can wait. I said I would see you home and I shall. I must speak with your father.”

  “There is no need to speak with Papa,” she said with a petulant shake of her head.

  “We must both tell him what we saw so he may take appropriate precautions for your safety.”

  She huffed as they reached the ancient oak bridge from which the estate derived its name.

  They had ridden around the west side of the property through the fields, and now Tom saw the cream-colored stone manor for the first time in five years. Oakbridge House’s two-story Palladian facade of impeccably white Ionic columns and high-arched windows stood like a sentinel in the countryside. Sculpted gardens and an expanse of lawn framed the mansion on either side. Mature trees peered down at the house and gardens from atop a gentle hill. It all looked just as he remembered.

  At least something did. His family home had not fared so well. Though in his opinion, Halworth Hall had never looked attractive when compared to Oakbridge. Sixty years ago, his grandfather had used his wife’s dowry to convert the house’s outdated Tudor architecture into an imposing and formidable gray monstrosity that was now in need of repairs.

  Their horses’ shoes clacked on the wood of the bridge as they crossed. Tom glanced beyond the house and caught sight of the colossal oak tree still standing patiently up beyond the water garden. A small part of him itched to ride there now. To climb those sturdy branches with Vicky at his heels. But he was no longer a child. He steered Horatio toward the stables.

  Vicky pulled her horse to a halt as a groom emerged. At least the fellow had the good grace not to make a face at Vicky’s disheveled appearance.

  Tom dismounted and gave Horatio’s reins to the man. Without waiting for anyone’s assistance, Vicky hopped to the ground with a grunt.

  Tom winced. “Your pride is one thing, Victoria, but when you give it more weight than your health, you do yourself no favors.” He reached her side and offered his arm for her to lean on.

  She turned on her heel and marched toward the house. He watched her take two purposeful strides, which then transformed into a series of limps.

  He ran his hand through his hair and let out a breath. He caught up to her and grasped her upper arm. “I beg your pardon.”

  She half turned. “Do you mind—”

  “Not at all.” He bent, put one arm under her legs, his other around her waist, and lifted her. She was remarkably light in his arms.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” she sputtered.

  “If you won’t have a care for your person, you leave me no choice but to carry you to the house.” He strode forward.

  “I am perfectly capable of walking. Put me down this instant!”

  He glanced down at her but continued on. Her hazel eyes met his with defiance as she raised her chin.

  “Will you take more care?” he asked.

  She looked away. “I’m under no obligation to answer to you.”

  He frowned at the words, but he knew she was correct. He caught her gaze once more, inclined his head, and gingerly lowered her feet to the ground. Pieces of dried mud flaked off onto the sleeves of his coat. He exhaled. It was one of his few newer
coats, but the damage was done. He had only himself to blame.

  Vicky cast her head about, and Tom realized how scandalous this might appear to an onlooker. Victoria was a beautiful young lady in breeches. Whom he’d been cradling in his arms. An unscrupulous fellow wouldn’t have hesitated to use such a situation to his advantage. But he was a gentleman. And she was . . . well, Vicky.

  Still, as she was injured, he had done no wrong.

  Vicky started toward the path that led to the main door of the house without sparing Tom a glance. He followed a short length behind her. Despite her protestations, he did think she walked with slightly more attention than before.

  She was limping again when they reached the massive iron door. It was nearly as tall as a man standing on another’s shoulders and just as thick. Tom remembered it well.

  Vicky faced him with a glare. “You needn’t feel obligated to help me just because you happened to be there.”

  Her eyes were hard, but something in the tremor of her voice blew a pin-sized hole through the cold fog surrounding him. The old Tom—the Tom he’d been before his exile—would have told her he would always come to her aid if she needed him. But the words stuck fast in his throat. Instead, he said, “Anyone would have done the same.”

  She pivoted away and opened the door.

  As he followed her into the marble-floored grand entryway, he knew he couldn’t fault her.

  Chapter the Second

  Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance.

  —Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

  As Vicky trudged through the front door of Oakbridge House in her mud-caked hair and clothes, clumps of dirt fell from her boots, besmirching the gleaming ivory marble entryway. Her whole head pounded and her left hip throbbed with every step she took. She winced as her mother turned the corner into the foyer.

  Her mother always dressed impeccably, as befitted her status as the Countess of Oakbridge, and today, as usual, she had not a pin out of place. Her indigo-blue morning dress fell in perfectly straight lines down her perfectly svelte hips; her coffee-brown curls sat in an elegant coif on the crown of her head. Vicky grimaced as her mother’s green eyes narrowed on her disheveled state, flitted over to Tom, and settled back on Vicky with dissatisfaction.