She gaped at the silhouette of the driver, stunned. How had she not realised?
“James! Where is William?”
He slanted her a quick glance over his shoulder. “At home, in his nice warm bed over the stables.”
“But I don’t understand? How did you…?”
“My staff are loyal to me. And to you, if you could but see it. They care about you, so of course they told me what you were planning. I decided to…intercept you.”
“This is outrageous. I insist you stop at once. I want to get out.” She grabbed the door handle and rattled it hard, but the door remained closed.
He shrugged. “Locked from the outside,” he informed her. “And I could not advise getting out, Clarissa. The weather is atrocious, and we are a long way from home.”
“We must be close to London by now, even in these conditions. I shall walk from here.”
“We are nowhere near London. Indeed, we are traveling in the other direction entirely. We are going north.”
“North? North?” she repeated, in utter disbelief. “What on earth is there in the north?”
He chuckled. “Quite a lot, actually. Specifically, we are going to Derbyshire. I own a rather nice hunting lodge there, not far from Ashbourne. It’s somewhat isolated, but a lovely spot. I thought it would be an excellent place for you and I to pass a few days talking things over. It’s almost Christmas, and we could spend the holidays there. We have a lot to talk about, after all.”
“I have nothing at all to say to you. Take me back. At once. I want to go to London. People are expecting me.”
“And that’s not happening, so get used to it. I sent word to Miss Carter that you had changed your plans, so you need have no fear that she will be worried. If you don’t want to talk right now, fine. I really should concentrate on the road in any case. You can get some more sleep, and I’ll wake you when we arrive.”
“This…this is abduction. I shall report you to the police.”
“Feel free. You can do so the moment we arrive back at Smallwood, after the holidays.”
Desperate and incensed at this hijacking of herself and her plans, Clarissa dived again for the door handle. It rattled uselessly as she shook it.
“I told you, I took the precaution of locking the doors from the outside. You are not getting out until we reach our destination, which should be in about three hours. I suggest you settle down and get some rest.”
“I… I hate you,” she spat, her impotence to change matters at last sinking in. “You are an arrogant, overbearing bully. I—”
“So you told me once before, but I hoped we were past all of that…” He leaned forward to wipe the inside of the windscreen with his sleeve. “Now, if you have nothing new to say, I really would appreciate it if you would pipe down and let me concentrate on getting us there in one piece.”
“Bastard,” she muttered under her breath.
His answering chuckle infuriated her even more. She let out a shriek of frustration, flung herself down in the seat, and pulled the blanket up over her. She would spend the next three hours planning exactly what she would do to him, once she finally got him to let her out of this bloody car.
Chapter 8
Have I done the right thing? Probably not.
Judging by the thunderous expression on her face when she’d realised what had happened, Clarissa would never forgive him. And when, acting mainly on impulse, he’d opted to bring her here, to his lodge in the Peak District of Derbyshire, he certainly had not bargained on this damned blizzard. He reduced his speed even more, barely trundling along at more than ten miles an hour. The three hours he had predicted had already stretched into more than five, and they were still a good thirty miles from the lodge. Provided the weather did not worsen, he thought they might make it by dawn, but the roads in this part of the country were not great at the best of times.
Mercifully, and despite her boiling anger, Clarissa had fallen asleep almost at once and had barely stirred since. He gritted his teeth and ploughed on.
The first slivers of grey light started to pierce the rolling, snow-laden clouds as, almost three hours later, he drove through the small, picturesque town of Ashbourne. If the narrow road leading to his property was impassable, he would cut his losses and take rooms for them at the local inn. The Royal Oak was a decent house. He was known there, and if it came to it, the landlord would not be too inquisitive regarding the presence of a belligerent and decidedly reluctant young lady as his companion.
He turned the corner into the lane and heaved a sigh of relief. He was in luck, and even though the snow was becoming thicker by the minute, the wind was blowing much of it into large drifts on the fields. The lane itself was sheltered by high walls on both sides and remained fairly clear, added to which the route took them downhill. Aided by gravity and a fortuitous wind, James at last pulled the vehicle to a halt in front of his own lodge.
He retained the services of a woman in Ashbourne to keep the place spotless and nicely aired for him. Ample firewood was always piled just by the back door, there would be tins of food in the cupboards and clean linens ready to make up the beds. He could obtain fresh supplies from the nearest farm, a hike of just over a mile away.
First things first, he had to get Clarissa inside, and get a fire lit.
“We’re here. You wait in the car until I get the door open.” He braced himself before clambering out into the teeth of the snowstorm.
The key was kept under a bucket at the side of the substantial cottage. He took a minute or two to locate it, now buried under several inches of snow, but eventually he had it in his hand. He let himself in, then sprinted back to the car to get Clarissa’s bag from the boot. She was peering out of the window, taking in her surroundings. She did not look happy.
“Come on. Make a run for it. It’s dry and warm inside. Or it will be warm, once I get the fire going.” He opened the door and offered her his hand.
“Don’t even touch me.” She slapped his hand aside and got out on her own, only to find her feet going from under her as soon as her shoes made contact with the slippery ground.
James grabbed her to stop her from ending up on her backside in the snow. “Okay, let’s not run, then.” He steadied her, then insisted she hold on to his arm as they made their way to the cottage door. He helped her inside, then slammed it behind them, locking the weather out and them in.
“You sit down. I’ll just light the fire.” He crouched to put a match to the kindling already laid in the hearth. As soon as he had a merry blaze going, he flung a couple more logs onto it from the pile next to the grate. He straightened, rubbing his hands together in appreciation of the warmth already starting to fill the room. Then, he turned to face the music.
Clarissa glared. Simply. Glared.
There were words, probably, to describe the boiling, impotent rage coursing through her veins, but she could call none to mind. So she glared.
“Clarissa, sweetheart… Cassie, I need you to listen to me.”
His smile was nervous, beseeching almost. If anything, that enraged her more
How dare he? How bloody dare he kidnap me and bring me here, to the back of beyond, then expect me to listen to anything he might have to say?
“I need the toilet,” she ground out. Anything to get away from him for a few minutes, at least.
“It’s out the back. We don’t have the modern facilities you’re used to at Smallwood, I’m afraid.”
She got up from the hard little chair she had selected when he’d told her to sit and stomped off in the direction he indicated.
“You’ll need the key, to the back door. It’s hanging up—”
Clarissa slammed the door leading from the kitchen and heard nothing more. She found herself in a short, narrow hallway which was obviously used to store outdoor clothing and equipment—boots, waterproof jackets, large-brimmed hats, walking canes. All were stacked on shelves to the right-hand side. A bench was on the left, and above it, as promised
, hung a large key. She yanked it down and fitted it into the lock of the door at the end. Moments later, a blast of icy air hit her full in the face.
Clarissa stepped outside and turned her back on the swirling snow. The blizzard was relentless, but she could just make out the silhouette of the small outhouse adjacent to the main cottage. She made a run for it, this time managing to keep her footing. She yanked the door open and flung herself inside, then shut it with a resounding crash.
She was slamming a lot of doors just now. A bad habit; she needed to stop it.
But he infuriated her so.
A few minutes later, and somewhat more composed, Clarissa made her way back into the cottage. She locked the door behind her, hung the key where she had found it, then ventured back into the kitchen where she had left James.
He was rooting through cupboards but paused to acknowledge her return. “There’s plenty of food here. I hope you like beans.”
Clarissa seriously contemplated braining him with a can of beans. So much for composure.
“I want to go home. As soon as the snow stops, I want to leave.” She flung the words at him, still glaring.
He swung an arm in the direction of the window. “You’ve seen what it’s like out there. The snow won’t stop for hours yet, possibly days. And the roads will be impassable for at least a week. I didn’t exactly plan it like this, but it seems to me we’re stuck here, together, for a while. Might as well make the best of it.” He shifted his attention back to the cupboard. “We have beans, corned beef…not exactly a traditional breakfast, but it will do. Later, if the weather eases a bit, we could hike over to the farm about a mile away and buy milk, eggs, maybe some cheese.”
“I’m not hungry,” she lied, just as her stomach let out an almighty growl.
“Right, beans and corned beef it is,” he replied with a smile. “You sit by the fire, and I’ll sort that out. We can chat while I cook.”
For want of a better option, she took one of the comfortable fireside chairs this time but resolved not to speak to him.
A week? A whole bloody week…
“You were intending to go back the London. And join the women’s campaign again.” He made the statements as he opened a can of beans and tipped the contents into a small pan. “I thought we agreed there was a better way to make a difference.”
“You agreed,” she spat.
“We talked. I thought you saw the logic, realised that you could better serve the cause with a pen, not a petrol bomb.” He prised the contents of a tin of corned beef onto a plate and started to cut generous slices. “That article in The Times was just the start. There have been more since, an editorial and a leader article in the Evening Standard. Both were sympathetic to the cause of votes for women. I tried to tell you about those, but you were too upset over Mary-Belle.”
“I’m not interested in what the papers have to say. I’m done with all of that.”
“I see. And does Mrs Pankhurst know of this change of heart?”
“Not yet.”
“She may have other ideas, once she finds out.”
“No, she won’t. Deeds, not words. That’s her motto. I’m done with words. Deeds are what matter.”
“Mrs Pankhurst believes in direct action, that much is obvious. But I am sure she can also see the value of the right words in the right place. I thought you could, too, but it seems I was wrong.” He shared the slices of corned beef across two plates, then poured a portion of heated beans next to the meat. “Here you are. Eat up.” He set the plates on the small table and sat.
Clarissa pointedly ignored the food he had prepared, despite her growing hunger.
“I’m not going to hide away at Smallwood while other women are dying for our cause.”
“You mean Mary-Belle?”
“Of course I mean Mary-Belle. She was a heroine, a martyr. I wish I had a fraction of her courage—”
“If she had had a fraction of your talent, she might have still been alive to continue the fight.” He forked a mouthful of corned beef and beans up. “You know, you should try this. It’s not so bad…”
Now she did surge to her feet to glower down at him. “How dare you? You never even knew her. Mary-Belle had talent, plenty of it. And she was brave, loyal. She never gave up.”
He set his fork down. “I’m sorry, I meant no disrespect. But there are more ways to win a fight, and—”
“You have no idea. And who do you think you are anyway, to belittle her memory? Or to organise my life for me? You may be my cousin, and a viscount, but that doesn’t mean you get to tell me what to do, what to think. You come swanning in, interfering, throwing your money and your lofty status about, getting your posh lawyer to do your dirty work, but really you’re no better than the rest of us. If I want to go to London, I will. If I want to be a suffragette, I will. If I want to throw a petrol bomb at the prime minister himself, I will.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “I would not worry too much about the force-feeding in Holloway if I were you. You won’t be there long enough for it to matter. You’ll get yourself hanged.”
“Well, that’s my business, isn’t it?”
“No! No, dammit.” He shoved the plate away and got to his feet, too. “It isn’t just your business, because I love you, and I can’t, I won’t stand quietly by and let you be injured or killed. I don’t want to attend your funeral, in a church decked out in purple, white, and green, and wonder what more I could have done to stop you.”
“Don’t you get it? You can’t stop me. It’s up to me what I do, my choice.”
“Then for Christ’s sake choose something worth having.”
“You bastard!”
She might, after, describe it as a red haze which descended and engulfed her. Rage, frustration, sheer bloody fury robbed her of words, of arguments, of any remaining remnants of rationality. Fists curled, she flew at him, punching, kicking, screeching. Ferocious passion, a volatile blend of grief, loss, sorrow, guilt, and frustrated wrath, drove her forward. If she could tear him limb from limb, in that moment she would have done so with glee.
James was bigger, stronger, and still thinking straight. He managed to wrap his arms about her and stopped her flailing fists. Her boots were another matter entirely. She kicked at him, connecting more than once with his shins before he managed to wrestle her to the floor and slung his large thigh over both of hers to stop the onslaught. He secured both her wrists in one hand and dragged them above her head.
Tears filled her eyes, but he knew they were of temper rather than grief. She continued to hurl epithets at him, calling down all manner of death and damnation upon his head. He could have stopped her mouth with his free hand, but he settled on a better course. He covered her lips with his and swallowed her frenzied insults.
She went silent. Lay unmoving beneath him as though stunned. James was stunned, too. He had not intended, never planned…
He deepened the kiss, slanted his mouth over hers, and drove his tongue inside the moment she opened for him. Still she did not protest. There was no struggle, no fight left in her.
James lifted his head, murmured her name. “Clarissa? Cassie…?”
She wrestled her hands free, and he no longer sought to hold her down. She grabbed at his face, framed his jaw between her palms, then leaned up to seal their mouths again. She shoved him, hard, and he rolled over. Clarissa followed to lie on top of him, her legs between his thighs. She was kissing him now, her pent-up passion—anger, grief, lust—pouring into the frenzied joining of their lips.
He had taken off his outdoor jacket, but she tugged at the buttons on his shirt, freeing the top three before the press of their bodies prevented her going lower. Now James shifted, sitting up and reaching for her wool coat. He undid the top button, then she shoved his hands away and unfastened the rest herself. She threw the heavy garment off, then started on the buttons down the front of her fitted cotton blouse.
James made short work of his shirt, then his boots and soc
ks. His trousers came next, to join the rest in a crumpled heap. Clad in just his underwear, he reached for Clarissa. She had managed to divest herself of her blouse and slim-fitting skirt but was struggling with the corset beneath. He let out a low groan. She was exquisite, so beautiful…
He turned her in his arms in order to reach the laces which held her corset snug. He loosened them, and the panels fell away to release her full breasts into his waiting hands. He cupped the soft orbs, lifted them, squeezed them together.
Clarissa allowed her head to drop back against his chest. He leaned in, suckled on the tip of her shoulder, at the same time rolling both of her nipples between his fingers and thumbs. They were a delicate shade of pink, as he had always suspected, and they hardened under his touch. Soon they were stiff, swollen, teasing him to fasten his lips around each in turn and suck.
The temptation was too much. James quickly fashioned a nest of sorts from their discarded garments and laid Clarissa in it. He took the time to slide the remnants of her corset down over her hips to leave her just wearing her knee-length underdrawers. They were made of some sheer fabric, and he could just make out the darker shadows between her slender thighs.
“You take my breath away, so…lovely…” he breathed. “I want to—”
“James, now!” She leaned up on her elbows, demanding, impatient. “Don’t make me wait…”
He needed no further urging. He locked his mouth on to her right nipple, and she fell back into the cocoon of clothing with a low moan. He followed, sucking hard, his tongue wrapped around the delicate bud while she writhed under him. He released her and shifted to the other, treated it to the same sensual onslaught as she squirmed and arched her back, pushing her breasts at him.
Her drawers were fastened with a tie ribbon at the waist. He found the end and tugged. The garment came loose, and he slipped his hand inside.
She was smooth, shaven just as he liked. It was as though she’d read his mind, understood his most intimate fantasies. He pushed the sheer lacy knickers down her legs, and Clarissa kicked them free.
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