by Anne Stuart
“Tony,” she said, her voice shy and hesitant.
“Yes, love,” he said, more alert than she would have guessed.
“I’ve enjoyed myself tremendously these last few days.” She had to say it, before she was too cowardly to do so, before she lost her only chance.
His wide, mobile mouth curved in a gentle smile, and she wondered, for one brief, self-indulgent moment, what that mouth would feel like, pressed against hers. The mouth of Alvin Purser had been soft and dry and flabby, his kisses few and chaste and respectful. She’d never been kissed with any ardor. She would go to her grave without being kissed with ardor.
“How can you say so?” he protested. “Thrown around in a coach for days on end, a succession of only mediocre posting inns, with the sleepy Miss Binnerston and your humble servant for company? I wonder you aren’t ready to scream from boredom.”
A sudden worry struck her. “Have you been bored, Tony?” she asked naively.
“Never for a moment.”
She believed him. Foolish on her part, wishful thinking, but she wanted him to enjoy being with her. As long as they were friends, at least she’d retain that portion of his life, to keep close to her heart and cherish.
“How will you survive without your valet?” she asked.
“I believe I’m more than capable of dressing and shaving myself,” he drawled, accepting her change of subject. “How will you do without Miss Binnerston to serve as your abigail? Assuming we fail to retrieve Ghislaine before nightfall.”
“Is there any doubt?”
“This entire enterprise is fraught with doubt. When you deal with someone like Nicholas Blackthorne, there are no certainties whatsoever. I’m hoping we’ll settle things by tonight, but there’s no guarantee.”
She accepted that, simply because she had no choice but to do so. “I’m sure I can prevail upon one of the maids at the inn to assist me.”
“Or I can assist you,” said Tony blandly.
She darted a look at him, wishing she could read what lay behind that smooth expression, those clear gray eyes. He might have been suggesting canary instead of claret for dinner, so innocent did he seem. And if he truly did see her in the light of a sister, his suggestion probably wasn’t as shocking as it first appeared to be. Was it?
“Thank you, but I think I can manage by myself,” she said, keeping her voice even.
He shrugged, and his smile was slight. “As you wish. If you change your mind, I’ve had a certain amount of experience helping ladies out of their clothes.” He leaned back again, looking lazy and dangerous. “Close your mouth, Ellen.”
Ellen closed her mouth.
The rain began by late afternoon, a steady, heavy downpour that turned the late spring highways into a sea of mud. Even Carmichael’s excellent equipage had a hard time navigating the road, and Tony watched his carefully laid plans dissolve in the downpour.
He viewed this with a fair amount of equanimity. His own coachman was a talented whip—there was no question but they’d be safe if the heavens opened completely. The slow progress was a necessary evil. Ellen had drifted to sleep, lulled by the steady beat of the rain on the roof of the carriage, and he’d tucked a lap robe around her, controlling his completely dishonorable and totally overwhelming urge to smooth it over her rounded breasts. The hour would be much advanced by the time they reached Blackthorne’s estate. While he had no very great faith in Blackthorne’s being reasonable, he also knew that the man was a rakehell, a care-for-nothing, and if by any chance he had absconded with Ghislaine against her will, it wouldn’t take much for him to relinquish her.
More likely he’d simply managed to entice her. Women had informed Tony, Ellen included, that Nicholas was a very enticing fellow, that a streak of madness and danger only added to his allure. By this time he’d doubtless grown tired of her—he wasn’t known for his long-term affairs. The news that Hargrove had succumbed ought to put all other considerations out of his mind.
Probably Ellen would insist that Ghislaine share her room that night. Probably Nicholas would put up a protest. Things were drawing to a rapid close, and it was past time for Tony to make his move. If anyone was going to share Ellen’s bedroom tonight, it was going to be he.
Tony could picture it now—the paneled bedroom, a warm fire blazing, a huge bed with clean white sheets. Thank God Blackthorne had his own house up here. Tony had gotten heartily sick of inns.
He glanced over at Ellen. Her tightly bound hair had begun to come loose from its pins, the golden strands framing her soft, pale face. The time for circumspection was past. By this time tomorrow they’d probably be heading back toward London. He needed to make certain she knew she was coming with him.
Clearly she’d forgotten the shy, tender feelings she used to hold for him in her heart. Clearly he needed to remind her. Gentle flirtatiousness had availed him nothing. It was time to raise the stakes.
Chapter 16
Tony had long lost track of the time. It had been dark for hours, the rain still coming down at a dismal rate, when the coach lurched to a sudden, abrupt stop. He couldn’t quite be sorry for it, since it sent Ellen hurtling across the carriage to land against him in a delightful, sweet-smelling heap. He caught her instinctively, holding her tight against him, telling himself he needed to protect her in case the carriage overturned. But the feel of her heart pounding through their various layers of clothes, the soft delight of her breasts against his chest, were decidedly distracting. She looked up at him out of startled, vulnerable eyes, her lips parted in breathless wonder, and he began to consider whether she actually saw him in the light of an uncle after all. It would be a simple enough matter to find out. Simply drop his mouth the few inches to hers and see how she responded. If she didn’t shy away in horror, he might even consider using his tongue.
She was watching him, mesmerized, as he slowly closed the distance between their lips, when the carriage door was yanked open, effectively destroying the moment.
His coachman, Danvers, was the most discreet of men, and if he noticed that Lady Ellen Fitzwater was lying on top of his master, about to be thoroughly kissed, he made no mention of the fact. Nor would he ever. “We’ve got a problem, Sir Antony,” he announced.
Tony released Ellen without the faintest show of reluctance. “So I gathered,” he said in his pleasant voice. “What’s the difficulty?”
“Left leader strained his hock. It’s too dark to tell how bad it is, but he’s not going any farther tonight, that I can tell you. We passed a farmhouse a ways back. I can see if they’ve got a spare horse, though I’m doubting they’ll have one trained to work in a foursome. At least they could offer us hospitality, or a ride to Blackthorne’s place. By my reckoning it’s not more than a mile away, perhaps less.”
“Just our luck,” Tony said grimly, staring past his coachman as he stood framed in the door. The rain was coming down in torrents, making the night impenetrable. “We’ll await your return. See if you can bring some warm blankets for her ladyship when we convey her back to the farmhouse.”
Danvers nodded and shut the door behind him, but not before Ellen said in a very calm, very determined voice, “I’m not going to the farmhouse.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard what your coachman said. Ghislaine is less than a mile away. If you think I’m going to spend the night at a farmhouse, knowing she’s in reach, suffering…”
“We haven’t ascertained that she’s suffering in the slightest. As a matter of fact, our arrival at this time of night might be decidedly de trop. We’d be much better off availing ourselves of the hospitality of the farm we just passed, and move on to Blackthorne in the morning, when we’re rested, and when this damnable rain has stopped.” Frustration was making him less than discreet with his tongue, but he decided he’d been around Ellen enough that he didn’t have to worry about an occasional damn here and there.
“No, Tony,” she said, pulling her cape more closely around her and lifting t
he hood over her head. For a moment he was too astonished to do anything but watch as she reached for the door handle, but then his wits returned, along with his reflexes, and he caught her slender wrist and yanked her back with little regard paid to gentlemanly behavior.
“You’re not going wandering off in a downpour alone, dressed like that,” he said, his voice growing sharp in the dark and damp. “You’d end up in a bog, or something equally distasteful.”
“I’m going after her, Tony.” Her voice brooked no arguments. “Tonight.”
“And how do you intend to find her?”
“Follow the road. I presume it will lead to Nicholas’s lodge eventually.”
“That, or to a bog. Listen to reason, Ellen.”
“I’m going.”
He cursed again. Not a polite damn or hell, but something vivid enough to bring bright color to her cheeks. Without a word he shrugged into his greatcoat, wrapped his muffler about his head, and kicked the door open, knocking the steps down into the rainy night. He sprang down, shuddering as the icy rain descended on his head, and held out his hand for Ellen. “Let’s go,” he said, having to raise his voice over the din of rain and wind.
She stepped down, eschewing his hand, and the storm hit her full force, knocking her backward slightly. He made no move to assist her, merely watching as she immediately became as wet as he was. “I’m not going to the farmhouse,” she warned.
He considered picking her up and tossing her over his shoulder. He could do it—she was a big woman, but he was a much bigger man, and he could handle her. In effect he had two choices. He could walk half a mile in a downpour, a large, angry woman struggling on his shoulder, or he could walk a mile with a determined young lady walking beside him. Since the bed and the meal that awaited him at Blackthorne’s estate would doubtless be far superior to the simple farmhouse fare, he decided he might as well give in with good grace. Besides, if he carted Ellen to the farmhouse, she was more than capable of taking off through a window and continuing her quest. Leaving him to follow in her wake.
“Danvers,” he said in a long-suffering voice, “you’d best take the horses back to the farmhouse and seek shelter for yourself. Her ladyship and I will continue on to Blackthorne’s.” He glared up at Ellen. “You’re a dangerous woman, you know that?” he said, doing his best to ignore the rain that trickled down the collar of his greatcoat. “Your cook had best be all she’s cracked up to be. I expect to be well fed when we get there.” He held out his arm, waiting for her to take it.
She did no such thing. She flung herself against him, her arms around his neck, and kissed him solidly, awkwardly, enthusiastically on his mouth. “Bless you, Tony. I knew I could count on you.” She released him before he could respond. Before he could discover whether they might generate a little body heat on this cold, wet night.
“I’m an absolute saint,” he grumbled, taking her arm in his. And together they set off into the water-logged darkness.
It was more than a mile. Not that Ellen was terrifically good at judging distances, but surely the endless misery of trudging through the icy rain, the mud soaking her boots and pulling at her, the wind whipping through her clothing until she thought her very bones might rattle together, surely that had to have lasted the length of a dozen hours. Tony’s arm was strong and sure beneath hers, steadying her when she wavered, hauling her upright when she tripped, half-supporting, half-dragging her through the icy hell. Why hadn’t Nicholas stolen Gilly away to Cornwall, where the sun always seemed to shine? Why hadn’t he carried her off to Portugal, to any place warm and summery?
She sneezed once, then again, but Tony didn’t slow his steady pace, and it was all she could do to keep up with him, her shorter legs moving at a swifter pace to match his long strides. Hot chocolate, she thought wistfully Or coffee, thick and sweet and black, the way only Ghislaine could make it. If she really had become Nicholas’s light-o’-love, she probably wouldn’t be cooking. That possibility didn’t bear thinking of, in terms of either Ellen’s stomach or Ghislaine’s soul.
“We should be there,” Tony muttered under his breath. “Where the hell could it be?”
Ellen cast a nervous glance up at him. His hat was pulled low over his head, obscuring his face, but she could well imagine the truly terrifying glower on his usually affable, handsome countenance. He hated her, she knew he did. And in faith, she didn’t blame him. “Do you suppose we took a wrong turn somewhere?” she suggested nervously, her voice barely audible.
“I have an excellent sense of direction,” Tony said flatly. “And according to my directions, we should be there. But there’s nothing here but an overgrown drive and a few abandoned buildings. There’s no sign of life anywhere.”
Ellen sneezed again. “I don’t know about you, Tony, but I need to get out of this rain. If any of these buildings possess a roof, I intend to get under it.”
She waited for him to remind her that it had been her own stupid idea that they come in search of the hunting lodge. He hesitated for a moment, and she steeled herself. “Come on, then,” he said instead, and within moments they were out of the rain, inside a tumble-down building that in the dark seemed scarcely more than a hovel.
She couldn’t see a thing, but fortunately Tony seemed blessed with better night vision, or at least unerring instinct. He took her cold, wet hand in his and led her through a maze of rooms, with gaping window frames letting in the storm, damaged roofs pouring rain down on their heads, until they finally found a measure of comfort and stillness in a small dark room at the back of the structure.
“Sit down,” he ordered her, his voice unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet. The sound of the storm was distant, muffled, and this section of roof held no leaks.
“Where?” she had the temerity to ask, rubbing her chilled hands together.
“There’s a bed behind you. Sit there, and wrap yourself in the covers while I see what I can do about a fire.”
“The chimney’s probably blocked,” she said, perching gingerly on the edge of the mattress she’d found by reaching around in the darkness.
“I doubt it. There are still coals.”
“You mean someone’s been here?”
“I’m afraid so. I don’t think our luck has held tonight, Ellen.” His voice sounded matter-of-fact in the darkness, and in a few moments a blaze of light billowed forth from the fireplace, dispelling some of the gloom. “Nice of them to have left some wood,” he muttered, dropping a few dry pieces onto the blaze before standing up. He looked at the mantelpiece and shook his head. “Our luck has definitely taken a turn for the worse,” he said, stripping off his hat and waterlogged greatcoat.
She was shivering, despite the quick burst of heat emanating from the fire. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, my dear, that this is the hunting lodge of the Blackthornes. There are no warm cozy rooms, no clean beds, no hot meals, and worst of all, no Nicholas Blackthorne or his hostage.”
“Are you certain?” She didn’t really doubt him, but the thought was almost too devastating to bear. All this way for nothing.
“Look at the coat of arms over the mantel. Do you read Latin? The motto of the Blackthornes is very simple: Prospero. ‘I prosper.’ Not that Nicholas or his recent kin live up to that one, though I suppose it’s astonishing enough he’s lived this long.”
She wouldn’t cry. It didn’t matter that she was soaked to the bone, starving to death, and so cold she thought she might break apart. She’d dragged Tony out here; she certainly wouldn’t compound her crimes by crying.
He crossed the room and squatted down beside her, taking her numb hands in his. “Don’t look so distraught, lamb,” he said in his kindest voice. “We’ll find them. They can’t have been gone long.”
“You mean they were here?” She hadn’t even considered that possibility.
“I assume so. Who else would have been here recently enough to have left coals? Let me see if I can find any candle stubs around. Who knows, they migh
t even have left us something to eat. In the meantime, why don’t you take off your cape and drape it near the fire? You’re going to want to dry it out before you wear it again.”
For a moment she didn’t move. Her hands were swallowed up in his large, warm ones, and his eyes were too kind. She wanted to fling herself against him, to absorb some of his warmth, some of his comfort. Instead she managed a shaky smile. “If you find something to eat,” she said in a soft voice, “I’ll be your slave for life.”
His eyes crinkled in a smile. “I’ll remember that promise.”
He disappeared into the next room while Ellen stripped off her cape, all the while taking stock of her surroundings. It was far from reassuring. The room was unprepossessing, with only a three-legged table, a couple of chairs, and a sagging rope bed for furnishings. There was an old carriage robe on the rough mattress, for which she thanked God. She didn’t care if it were infested with fleas, or even something worse. At least she’d find a semblance of warmth.
“We’re in luck,” Tony said as he came back in the room, his large frame throwing an even larger shadow against the wall. “There’s some stew in the bottom of a kettle, and a hunk of cheese. Best of all, I found this.” He held up a flask.
“Wine?” she asked in a rallying voice.
“Better still. Brandy. Take off your wet boots, Ellen. We’re not going anywhere for the next few hours.” He dropped down on the chair that held his steaming greatcoat and began removing his own muddy top boots.
“You don’t suggest we spend the night here?” she questioned, both aghast and not a little excited at the sheer impropriety of the notion.
“I certainly don’t suggest we go back out into the storm and retrace our footsteps, then travel an extra half-mile in this hellish weather. It’s cozy enough for the moment. Well take things as they come.”
“Tony, there’s only one bed,” she felt forced to point out.