Patrica Rice Read online

He twitched his shoulders restlessly beneath his tight coat. “That’s neither here nor there. Tonight, we’ll reach the village where I found Fiona. My inquiries into how she arrived may take a while. Shall I arrange for a post chaise at the next inn and return you to London?”

  The idea of returning to London alone chilled her. She’d enjoyed traveling with Michael, even if he was the most frustrating, irritating man alive. And last night...she couldn’t stop thinking about last night. She didn’t want to give up that beautiful connection. How could she find a way past Michael’s remarkably odd code of honor? Forgery and theft didn’t stop him, but he drew the line at bedding willing women. She would never understand the man.

  “I thought it unsafe for me back there,” she answered stiffly.

  “It’s obviously unsafe for you with me,” he said dryly.

  She caught a fleeting glimpse of remorse in his expression and hope rose. He wouldn’t deny last night, then. “Or do you feel unsafe with me?” she asked with more boldness than she would have dared had she given her retort any thought at all.

  His gaze lowered to her bodice. “I’ve spent these last hours wondering what else you wear between that pretty blue gown and your skin.”

  He said that deliberately to scare her. And it did, just a little, at the realization he’d been mentally stripping off her clothes. At the same time, her breasts tightened against the fabric of her chemise. She daringly rubbed a pointed nipple concealed in velvet. “I can feel you inside even when you aren’t touching me,” she said with wonder.

  He groaned low in his throat, and closed his eyes again.

  “Does your head still hurt?” she asked guiltily.

  “Among other things,” he muttered. “Unless you’re willing to climb on my lap and service me now, I wouldn’t repeat that little maneuver anytime soon. Why don’t you read a book? We’ve a long day ahead.”

  Her cheeks flamed. Michael was no gentleman to say anything so crude, except she wasn’t thinking like a lady. She actually tried to imagine his proposition, but she thought such a position would be more than a trifle awkward. Michael’s stiffly uncomfortable posture warned her not to ask about kissing instead.

  When he closed his eyes again, she darted a glance at his tight trousers, and the color rose in her cheeks again. He’d meant what he said, if the bulge there was any indication. He’d take her like a whore anytime she was ready.

  * * *

  The next inn they stopped at had only one room available, and Michael signed them in as Lord and Lady Michael Lawrence. Blanche watched with trepidation as he ordered their baggage carried up. The wheels of his formidable mind had had hours in which to spin plans he wouldn’t explain to her. He seemed entirely too calm after the anger of earlier.

  This inn lacked the amenities of their earlier stops. She wondered how many coins they had left. She supposed if she really wanted to know, she could check the hem of her skirt and cloak. She’d long since given him the money in her bag.

  Michael escorted her upstairs and disappeared immediately thereafter. Since they’d reached the town where he’d found Fiona, Blanche had hoped she could help in his inquiries, but he didn’t ask for her help, and she didn’t dare put herself forward after what she’d already done. She eyed the lumpy mattress askance and removed her pelisse.

  She ate her supper alone. No doubt she tried Michael’s patience as much as he tried hers. They didn’t suit, except in bed, she amended, glancing in that direction. And even then, she supposed he could find more compatible women. She was the one so isolated she could find no one to suit her taste but Michael.

  After supper, she read for as long as she could stand it, then washed and donned her nightshift. She smoothed the soft linen over her body and wondered if she would ever feel Michael’s touch again. Watching his hands as he juggled silverware, disappeared cards, and produced roses in winter had excited her imagination long, long ago. He had magic in his fingertips, and she coveted their touch.

  Of course, she coveted a child, too. If he’d succeeded in giving her one, she would have to go to the Continent for a year or so. She could easily acquire a paper husband and become a paper widow while there. She’d known other women to do the same, although most just gave their children away and never admitted having them. She wouldn’t do that. She would admit it for all to see. By that time, Michael would have gone on to other places, other activities, and would never know the difference.

  But as the night grew late, Blanche gave up the hope that Michael meant to return to her bed. She watched out the window for a while but saw no sign of him in the sleepy little village. A tavern down the road spilled light onto the roadway. People came and went from there, but none resembled Michael’s familiar silhouette.

  She turned down the light and crawled between the fresh linens. The bed wasn’t as large as the one last night. If Michael returned, he’d have to lie close to her. Only that thought let her drift into sleep.

  Michael returned some hours later. His loins quickened as he stared longingly at the fall of golden hair across the pillow. He’d almost succeeded in shutting this amazing woman from his mind as he’d searched for Fiona’s transport. For a short while, he’d almost felt himself again, wearing his juggler’s clothes and taking handouts. But watching Blanche like this, he didn’t know who he was any longer.

  He’d welcomed a gentlewoman into his bed, filled her with his seed, and now he must pay the price. He’d given marriage an idle thought or two upon occasion, but he’d never dreamed of a wife so far above him. Well, he’d dreamed of Blanche. He’d done nothing but dream of her since he’d first laid eyes on her standing frail and wistful in her garden and immediately set out to put himself into her employ. He’d just never dreamed of her as wife.

  Of course, he hadn’t really won her. He knew how Blanche’s mind worked. She didn’t have marriage in mind. He didn’t fit her plans any more than she fit his.

  But there were some things in life that one had to do, regardless of the consequences. The minute he’d planted his seed in her body, he’d sealed their fate. He wouldn’t renege on a solemn vow just because neither of them had known what they were doing. Blanche would be his wife, and any child she bore would be his own.

  They would reach Scotland on the morrow.

  Eighteen

  The Duke of Anglesey paced up and down the richly hued Oriental carpet. “Dashitall, Effingham, if you are making up this sorry tale just to distract me from that labor bill, I will have you strung up! Men are entitled to make a profit as they will. It is none of our concern how they go about it. And if we raise wages, the cost of everything will escalate, and then no one will afford anything.”

  “You mean the cloth for your fine cravats will cost a penny more and you must find some better way of persuading the coins out of Blanche’s bottomless purse,” Gavin, the Marquess of Effingham replied, twisting a letter opener between his fingers. “That’s nothing to do with anything at the moment. You have not told me: do you know where Lady Blanche is?”

  “I’d thought her returned to the country,” Neville replied crossly. “I’m not her keeper, after all. She’s a headstrong baggage, thanks to your wife. She never consults me on any matter, and she particularly delights in thwarting me when she can. She hired that wretched aunt of hers as companion, then never takes her anywhere. The old hag is currently ensconced in one of my best guest rooms because she claims her rooms are being refurbished. And I have an important dinner planned in a few weeks. How does one go about telling a lady she is not welcome at the table?”

  Effingham hid a grin at His Grace’s dilemma. As the elder by some years, Gavin thought Neville as badly spoiled as his lady cousin, but the duke held a powerful position that Gavin did not. As an outsider, an American who had come into his title only recently, Gavin lacked influence.

  “We will worry over the lady’s companion after we’ve decided what to do with our wayward relations. I suggest you find out if Lady Blanche is at Anglesey or in D
orset. She can probably answer our questions.” Effingham sent up a prayer that Lady Blanche was right where she should be, but in his heart, he knew better.

  “And you think some of those radical labor leaders may have set that carriage explosion?” His Grace asked.

  “I come from a country that became independent through such violence,” Gavin reminded him. “England is ripe for revolution. If those old bastards in the Lords don’t pull their collective heads out of the sand, the radicals will tear down the walls of parliament just as the mobs tore down the Bastille in France.”

  “That is why we must not give power to mobs!” the duke replied indignantly. “If we let them have what they want, they’ll only demand more. We must use military strength to keep them under control and in their places.”

  The ivory letter opener in Gavin’s hands snapped, and he rose angrily. “You damned conceited young pup! Do you not think mobs are made up of people? Why should those thousands of British citizens suffer to enable a few narrow-minded bigots like you to stay in power? Had you listened to their rational concerns from the start, there would be no mobs now. We’re talking of men who have reached the point of desperation, women whose children die of exhaustion and starvation. They are not just mindless mobs!” He snorted in disgust. “I’ve half a mind to find the radicals and join forces with them.”

  His wife’s bouncing dark curls and troubled eyes peered around the corner. “I just put Madeline to sleep. Must you shout? And I daresay the radicals need money more than your bluster. They would sooner welcome Blanche than you.”

  That ridiculous observation drained some of the tension. The duke bowed. “Lady Effingham, it is good to see you looking well. I understand you have not heard from my cousin recently?”

  “It’s not been quite a week, and the mails from the village can be dreadfully slow, you know. I should think you ought to take precautions for yourself more than for Blanche. The message from Fiona sounded as if anyone in your vicinity might be in danger.”

  “And that is another thing.” The duke swung around to confront Gavin. “Why must your brother bring a dangerous Irish female into my household? I cannot believe he didn’t know she was some part of this nefarious plot. I’m going to advise the Home Office to have that alley taken apart brick by brick until we find her.”

  Gavin sank tiredly into his seat. “We have no certainty that there is a plot. We only have an eccentric message from a Bow Street Runner and a few suspicions. I am sending a messenger after my brother as we speak. We might deploy a few more men in the alley to keep an eye on what’s happening there. You must see if you can locate Lady Blanche.”

  The duke’s glare didn’t waver. “How long will it take to find your wretched brother?”

  “Michael always leaves a trail I can follow should I need. It’s just a matter of thinking as he does. My cousin Marian says her husband’s stable is untouched. If none of your carriages or horses are gone, he’s taken coach or shank’s mare. I have men checking the coaching inns now. If you will start looking on your end, we might make some progress.”

  Dillian sent him a worried look as the duke bade his farewells and departed. “Do you think there is any chance that they’re traveling together? If so, sending Neville looking for them is not a wise idea.”

  “Even Michael isn’t that big an idiot,” Gavin said. “Neville would cut out his throat. No, he’s stashed her somewhere safe. It’s this Fiona who concerns me. If Neville won’t hire more men to help that Runner, then I will.”

  Dillian didn’t look reassured.

  * * *

  “Rise and shine, my lady,” the maid called cheerfully, setting a tray on the bedside table and pulling back the draperies. “His lordship’s already eaten and gone to call up the carriage.”

  Prying her eyes open, Blanche scowled at the maid and the otherwise empty room. If Michael had come in last night, she’d seen or heard none of him. So much for any hopes of his taking advantage of their new disguise.

  She frowned again after she’d dressed, broken her fast, and proceeded to the inn yard. Michael awaited her on the back of his horse. He wouldn’t even ride inside with her.

  Trying not to notice the way the sun played on the dancing auburn highlights of his hair, Blanche glared up at him. “You may as well send me home if you won’t tell me what you found or where we’re going.”

  “We’re going to Scotland. It’s a long day’s ride to the coast where they picked her up. There’s rumors of more unrest in London. I’ll not send you back there.” His posture was stiffly correct on the back of the prancing horse.

  Blanche wanted to make him notice her the way she noticed him. She wanted him to talk to her, to discuss what had happened the other night. And if all else failed, she wanted to knock him off his high horse. Instead, she smiled, bobbed a docile curtsy, and stalked back to the carriage. She would get even somehow. It would just take thought.

  Steaming, she sat in the carriage with arms crossed, not even glancing up as Michael rode beside her window. He hadn’t needed her for this trip. He’d simply kept her out of trouble. She didn’t suffer fools gladly, and men who thought they ran the world were fools.

  Unable to keep from looking out as the coach rolled down the road, Blanche admired the way Michael’s muscled thighs gripped the horse, emphasized by his tight breeches. She remembered how his naked legs had parted her knees without effort and held her positioned so she could have done nothing to fight him had she tried. She shivered and picked up her book.

  She read the same page a dozen times before giving up. She watched the rolling hills and the bleak clouds scuttling in to obscure the sun. She prayed the rain held off until they arrived. The roads this far north were insufferable.

  The innkeeper had provided a basket for a mid-day meal, but Michael didn’t allow the coach to stop until they reached an inn to exchange horses. She had already nibbled her share of the meat pies, but she was thirsty. When they halted, she didn’t wait for permission to leave the carriage. She signaled the driver to set down the steps.

  She smelled rain, but a brisk wind held off the clouds. The ancient stone inn appeared as if it had stood since the Picts controlled the northern lands. No other carriages or horses idled in the yard. Picking her way across the mud, she headed for the door where she assumed she’d find Michael.

  Inside she regarded stone walls scarred with fires of long ago and a rough plank floor worn from centuries of boots. A cheerful woman bustled out, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Aye, and it is your ladyship! Your man was to bring ye a wee dram shortly. Have a seat, my lady, and aren’t ye the daintiest thing I’ve ever set eyes on?”

  Unable to distinguish more than one word of three through the woman’s heavy burr, Blanche took a seat on a long bench while the woman rushed to find a drink. A moment later, Michael appeared from the rear of the inn, followed by a burly man with a beard. The man nodded, holding out his hand and saying something in the same thick accent. She deciphered what sounded like “Lady Michael,” but she saw no point in correcting his usage.

  “Mr. Malcolm welcomes us to Scotland. We have crossed the border,” Michael explained as the innkeeper’s wife hurried out with glasses of water. He leaned over and whispered, “We’re MacDermots here, for the record.”

  Unsurprised that he preferred to register under an anonymous name, delighted that she finally visited another country, Blanche listened as Michael spoke to the innkeeper, but she could understand little.

  “Mr. Malcolm inquires if we will spend the night here. He has a clean room available, and the next inn is some distance. With the rain, we might not arrive until late.”

  She couldn’t believe he actually asked her opinion. She stared, waiting for the jest, then responded warily to his tense eagerness in awaiting her response.

  “If you think it best to stop early, of course,” she agreed. “Do you think we might explore the countryside before it rains?”

  “If you so de
sire, my lady. A brisk walk before we’re confined to the inn, by all means.” He helped her rise and nodded to the innkeeper. “We’ll take the room, sir. My wife wishes to explore your hills. Is there a path you might recommend?”

  Still suspicious of his sudden good humor, Blanche tried following the discussion. She gave it up after a while, letting her attention wander to the thick glass in the mullioned windows and to the huge book the innkeeper’s wife laid on the table.

  At a nod from the innkeeper, Michael signed them into the inn. The woman held out a pen for Blanche to do the same. Finding that quaint, Blanche boldly signed herself as Lady Blanche MacDermot. She refused to lower her rank for an imaginary husband.

  The woman nodded and bustled off again, returning moments later with an armload of fresh linen she carried up the stairs. Well, at least they would have clean beds.

  “Shall we bring the lunch basket with us then?” Michael asked, taking Blanche’s arm and guiding her toward the door.

  As they exited the cozy inn for the brisk, raw day, he brushed a kiss across her cheek, and smiled when she touched her cheek wonderingly. He retrieved the basket from the coach, took her hand again, and led her up the hill.

  “You’ve been to Scotland before, haven’t you?” she asked as they strolled up the path. She brushed an unruly strand of hair from her face to admire the luminous green of Michael’s eyes against the background of billowing gray clouds.

  “Aye, a dozen times or more, I ken,” he answered mischievously. “It’s a braw enou’ country.”

  Blanche playfully slapped his arm. “And I suppose now you’re a MacGregor or some such. When will you decide who you want to be when you grow up?”

  “When I find out who I am, I suppose. Do you think we might stop here by this hedge to eat? I’m that famished, I am.”

  The rough hedgerow sported several flat stones at its base that would serve nicely as table and chairs. And the hedge formed a windbreak. With Michael’s aid, she arranged herself on a wide ledge and set the basket on a rock. To her surprise, Michael sat beside her rather than on the other stone. While Michael ate, they gazed over a panoramic landscape. Blanche thought she might enjoy the life of a shepherdess if it meant living this simple beauty every day. The April wind carried the first scents of spring, and the signs of the earth’s awakening appeared in patches of gold and green.