Patrica Rice Page 5

  “And what of that note?” she asked. “She said something of the sort last night, something about despising the men in Parliament but not wanting anything disastrous to come of it. Is she insane?”

  “No, frightened out of her mind, possibly, but not insane. Parliament can take care of itself. I doubt our Fiona can say the same.” He looked grim. “Let’s not argue now, my lady. I’ll take one of your horses and search the village. Even if she found a ride, she cannot have gone far. It’s only been a few hours.”

  “With a good horse she could be in London in a few hours! I’m going with you. I’ll have Nethers call my carriage around.” Blanche tugged the bell rope.

  “You will do no such fool thing,” he exclaimed. “It is best if you stay where your men can report to you. There’s no need for your haring off across the countryside.”

  “My men may report to Nethers. I know the people here, O’Toole. They trust me. They’ll confide in me if in no one else.” Striding back and forth, more confident now that she had a direction, Blanche ignored Michael’s furious expression.

  “You are making a mountain out of a molehill,” he declared. “The chit isn’t worth your time. Go argue with your steward and keep your man of business from exploiting miners. That is of more importance than a runaway.”

  “She’s a child!” Blanche cried. “An unprotected, terrified child heading for a city she doesn’t know. What do you think I am that you assume I would so heartlessly dismiss her?”

  “I think you scarce older than she and less able to protect yourself,” he said dryly.

  Furious, Blanche glanced up at the stoic butler waiting in the doorway. “Have them fetch my carriage ’round, Nethers. I shall be going into the village, and then following the London road.” As the butler departed, she vented her fury on her antagonist. “I daresay I have a good many more years of experience than Miss MacOwen, and I am not frightened.” With that, she strode out of the room.

  She showed no surprise half an hour later as she left the house to enter her carriage and found Michael waiting with one of her best geldings. She had traversed the road to London a million times in her life. She didn’t fear traveling alone. She hadn’t asked for his company.

  She gave him no greeting and he returned the favor. He merely mounted the horse as the carriage door closed behind her. She couldn’t recall ever seeing O’Toole on horseback. Actually, she couldn’t recall ever seeing him arrive or depart. He just appeared and disappeared like the songbirds. She cast a surreptitious look in his direction as the carriage rolled down the drive. He handled the horse as well as any gentleman. Aware that she was admiring the straight set of his back and the width of his shoulders, she sat back and glared at the empty seat opposite.

  She had the carriage stop in the village so she might climb out and speak with the shopkeepers and housewives. She thought it more likely that Fiona had taken to the fields, but her footmen and grooms hadn’t found a farmer who admitted seeing her. Perhaps the child had boldly come into town looking for a ride.

  Too small to boast a coaching inn, the village possessed one main street of shops and a square of sorts where cattle grazed. Leaving the carriage near the parsonage, Blanche began with the first shop and worked her way down the street. Michael left his horse grazing with the cattle and roamed idly in and out of the shops and alleys as she methodically worked her way through town.

  She finally struck luck while talking with an elderly widow. The woman nodded her capped head. “Knew no good could come of them scoundrels sneaking about. Saw them when I milked Bossie this morn. They slinked back into the shadows, they did, but I knew they was up to no good. Told Melinda about them, but she didn’t pay me no mind. Them young ’uns of hers got the croup and she can’t attend to nothing else.”

  “What kind of scoundrels, Mrs. Blake? Did you get a good look at them?”

  “City scoundrels is all I can say. They don’t belong hereabouts. Big one had a cap pulled down, so I couldn’t see more than that. My eyes ain’t what they used to be.”

  “Where did you see them, Mrs. Blake? On the square?” If the widow had been milking the cow, it would have been too early for her to have seen Miss MacOwen. According to the maid, Fiona had been asleep when Blanche came down for breakfast. But the village seldom saw strangers.

  “Over by the churchyard, they was. Vicar keeps that empty carriage house of his open. Mind you, I’ve told him time and again it’s an invitation for trouble, but he thinks it’s an inn for those down on their luck. Says the Lord was born in a stable, and he could do no less than offer his for others in need.”

  Blanche sympathized with the vicar’s generosity, but she feared Mrs. Blake had the right of it. That empty carriage house would be an ideal hiding place. No one ever used it.

  Seeing Michael step from the dim interior of the blacksmith shop, she reluctantly signaled him. She wasn’t so foolish as to search the carriage house on her own.

  “Mrs. Blake says she saw two strangers near the vicar’s carriage house this morning. Do you think they may still be there?” she asked as Michael joined her. He’d removed his high-crowned hat, and the sun glinted off his thick locks, making them appear nearly as copper as Fiona’s. Blanche struggled to breathe evenly.

  “If not, they may have left clues,” Michael answered. “I’ll take your driver and search the place. It’s possible someone followed me, but not likely.”

  He strode off in the direction of the carriage and the parsonage, leaving Blanche to thank Mrs. Blake and hurry after him. She wanted to curse Michael for his ungentlemanly behavior, but she much preferred a man of action. She just wished he wouldn’t ignore her so completely when he acted.

  Her driver had unhitched the horses from the carriage near the water trough on the square. At Blanche’s signal, the driver led his horses across the grassy square to meet her and Michael. Holding her skirts, she was hurrying to catch up with Michael when he shouted in alarm.

  “Get down, man! Cover your head!” Michael yelled, racing toward driver and horses.

  Frightened, Blanche scanned the scene for the danger as heads popped from doorways all around, everyone eager for a little excitement to stir their day. The coachman dove for cover. And then Blanche saw what Michael had seen first: a snake of fire sizzling toward the underside of the carriage on the far side of the square.

  Her first instinct cried for water to douse the flames as Michael raced toward the horses. Michael grabbed the bridles from the coachman and ran with them down the street.

  The carriage exploded in a giant fireball.

  Screaming, Blanche stood paralyzed in the middle of the street. In her mind, the conflagration roared around her, scorching her hair, blinding her eyes, filling her lungs with breath-stealing smoke. She couldn’t bear it. She covered her eyes, screaming and praying for the fire and noise to go away, until reassuring hands caught her arms and shook her.

  “Snap out of it, Blanche. It’s just a coach. No one’s hurt. You’re all right. I won’t let the fire touch you again.”

  The words held no meaning, but Michael’s arms wrapping around her held her steady. Shaking, she clung to the cool unscorched cloth beneath her fingers.

  Michael held her close and rocked her, repeating meaningless phrases until she quieted in the strength of his reassuring embrace.

  “Come, let me take you inside. Someone will find you a glass of canary. Just hold on, my lady. It’s all right. You’re strong. You won’t let anyone frighten you that easily.”

  Michael’s words slowly sank in as he led her toward the village bake shop. The cool interior brushed her skin like a refreshing breeze. The fire had not touched her. Her clothing was unburnt. She was safe, just as Michael said. She wanted to cling to Michael’s hand, but she’d already made fool enough of herself. She sank into the chair offered and sipped from the glass handed to her. Michael’s look of concern vanished beneath his usual insouciance the moment she met his gaze.

  “You’re all r
ight?” she whispered. “And the coachman?”

  “Everyone is all right,” he said firmly. “Even the horses. If you’ll just sit here a moment, I’ll see to everything. I suspect your driver was a trifle shaken and may need some reassurance that he did nothing wrong.”

  She didn’t argue. The coach driver had more need of him than she did. Shame washed through her, and she could not meet the eyes of the concerned villagers. The vicar rushed in, murmuring comforting phrases as he attempted to persuade her from the shop to the safety of his home until she called for a new carriage. Blanche shook her head. She didn’t want a new carriage. She wanted to childishly yell that she wanted her old carriage, but she held her tongue as an idea formed in her brain, spinning to conclusions she didn’t like.

  The driver entered the bake shop, holding his cap against his chest. “There’s naught can be done for it, my lady, ’tis blown to bits, it is. They’s some as gone to fetch the phaeton. ’Twill be but just a few minutes, my lady. I can’t say as I know what happened. I didn’t see nuthin’. It was there, and then it ’twasn’t. Never saw the like in all my born days.”

  He would no doubt have rambled on in this fashion, but Blanche had recovered enough to know what she must do. Setting aside the glass of wine, she thanked the proprietor, murmured a few reassuring words to her driver and told him to sit and have a glass of the excellent wine. Then she strode past all her protesting protectors to the street outside.

  As she expected, she found Michael crawling around the remains of the demolished vehicle. The horses calmly munched oats someone had provided. Kicking the sole of his boots, Blanche ignored his oath as Michael bumped his head on the underpinning. “What happened?” she demanded.

  He slid from beneath the charred wheels, dusted himself off, and stood before answering. Michael wasn’t a large man. He didn’t tower over her as so many men did, but his chest had been wide and solid when she’d rested against it. And she shouldn’t be thinking these things when she wanted to kick him.

  “Someone planted gunpowder under the carriage, ran a fuse into the vicar’s garden, and set fire to it,” he stated bluntly.

  The knowledge struck Blanche like a blow, even though she’d mentally prepared for it. “Why?” she asked.

  “Neville may wish to wring your neck, but I can’t think he would resort to blowing up your carriage,” Michael said dryly. “It’s not quite his style. Whoever blew it up knew you weren’t in it. They just wanted to terrify you. Or slow you down. I don’t like thinking I’ve led you into trouble by bringing Miss MacOwen to your home, but that’s the way it looks right now.”

  Blanche studied his troubled expression. Michael didn’t mind lying to suit his cause, but she didn’t think he was lying now. “Fiona’s in danger. I knew she was. We must find her, Michael.”

  “I must find her. You are going home and locking all the doors and windows and setting guards around the clock.”

  Two years ago, there had been a time when everyone had feared for her life, rightfully so, since she had almost died. But the villain had been caught and the reason for his villainy no longer existed. She would not return to those horrible days of hiding.

  Blanche waved an impatient hand. “That’s ridiculous. They don’t want me. They want Fiona. If they think I have her, the first place they’ll look is Anglesey. I’m going with you.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. You can go to Dillian if you fear Anglesey.”

  Blanche couldn’t remember ever actually arguing with Michael before. He usually avoided arguments by disappearing into the woodwork anytime someone disagreed with him. She supposed he could find no woodwork to hide behind here. His light eyes burned with the fire of determination, but she had no intention of standing around listening to male ultimatums. She would go with Michael, just as Dillian had once gone with Gavin. The idea buoyed her immediately.

  “If you will not take me with you, Michael Lawrence O’Toole, I shall take myself. I know where Half Moon Street is as well as you. I’ll find Elton Alley easily enough. I can hire Runners and search every house if I wish. I can do anything I blamed well want to. Now what do you think of that?”

  “Faith, and I’m after thinking you’re needing that caning your faither never gave ye,” he mocked. “And I’m knowing just the man to do it.”

  “You wouldn’t lift a gun to a tiger,” Blanche answered scornfully. “I’ll ask the vicar’s wife for a habit and sidesaddle. It won’t take me ten minutes. And if you don’t wait for me, I’ll go on my own. I have no intention of sitting here surrounded by Anglesey crests, waiting for someone to take another shot at me. I can assume a new identity as easily as you. I think I shall be your sister.”

  Wonderfully enough, no curses rang out over her head as she marched toward the vicarage. Michael never cursed. That was one of the marvelous things about him. Although right about now, his curses might reassure her a great deal more than his silence.

  A silent Michael was a dangerous thing. She would best hurry before he devised some devious plan for ridding himself of her company.

  Seven

  She had the right of it. He couldn’t stop her.

  Watching morosely from the shadows of the apple orchard, idly fingering the coin that never left the chain at his neck, Michael saw Blanche mount a nag provided by the vicar. She had chosen to disguise herself in a shabby riding outfit, no doubt outgrown by the vicar’s plump wife, and a flat cap with a veil for keeping the dust of the road from her eyes.

  She appeared more the baker’s daughter than aristocrat. But Michael’s eyes saw beyond the obvious. Her straight, elegant seat in the saddle spoke of years of training. She had kept her own gloves, and the expensive lambskin clung to long shapely fingers holding the reins with practiced ease. The partial covering of the veil cast a shadow over delicate skin seldom kissed by sun, and did little to disguise the silken blonde locks carefully arranged beneath. Anyone with half an eye could see a duke’s granddaughter.

  Anyone with half an eye could see her groom, too, Michael snorted to himself. She’d concealed the man in shabby coat and trousers, but he sat his horse with as much confidence as his employer. The village men didn’t own horses or know how to ride them. And if she had some funny notion she could play the man as a relation, she had bats in her belfry. The groom’s harsh, weathered features, bandy legs, and rough hands belied any such possibility.

  The pair stood out like songbirds on a winter’s day. Scowling, Michael led his horse through the orchard. He wanted to get on with the business of finding Fiona, but he couldn’t leave Blanche exposed and unprotected, not after what had happened today. He felt responsible for the incident, even if he had no proof of any relation between the explosion and Fiona. These were troubled times. He could think of any number of men angry at the wealth of a dukedom. There had been worse incidents throughout England.

  Moreover, he couldn’t forget the feeling of Blanche trembling and terrified in his arms. He’d once held a shivering and dying baby bird in the palm of his hand. The experience was much the same, except he knew Blanche, knew the brave woman who had rescued a house full of servants before saving herself, knew what it must have taken to reduce her to hysteria. He had a passion for fixing things, people as well as objects. He felt compelled to right wrongs. But with Blanche, it went well beyond that particular obsession. He wanted her whole again because she was the only perfection he had ever found in this world.

  He wanted her whole because he couldn’t imagine his arms around any other woman. Glumly, Michael accepted that unwelcome piece of knowledge. He had held her, and she had molded perfectly against him, her head bumping just along his chin, her slender waist swaying like a reed between his hands, her soft breasts pushing against his coat, and she aroused him as no other woman could.

  He snorted in self-deprecation. Blanche could test the mettle of a monk.

  He mounted his horse and followed behind the odd couple. There was no sense in torturing himself. If fate or the gods
had any sympathy for him at all, they would arrange to discourage Blanche before she reached the city. A pity he had no confidence in either fate or gods.

  She stopped and spoke with every farmer on every wagon, every housewife in every cottage along the road. They all greeted her warmly, spoke to her with deference, and every single one of them reluctantly shook their head in negative response to her questions. They all wanted to help, but none had help to offer.

  Michael concluded the little brat had slipped across the fields, found herself a stranger passing through, and rode into town unnoticed in her boy’s breeches and coat. For all he knew, Fiona could have stolen a few shillings and caught the mail coach. Someone might have noticed her, but Blanche hadn’t seen Fiona in male garb. She wouldn’t know how to describe the urchin she appeared.

  When they reached a town with a coaching inn, Michael gave up his hidden pursuit and rode boldly into the inn yard behind Blanche and her groom. She gave him a look of annoyance and proceeded to question the ostler without acknowledging Michael’s presence. As did everyone else, the ostler knew the Lady Blanche Perceval despite her disguise, and he tried desperately to find answers to please the lady, but he had none.

  Michael swung down off his horse beside her. He hid a smile at her blue-eyed glare and doffed his cap at the ostler.

  “The child the lady’s looking for bears a strong resemblance to myself. She may well have dressed as a boy and covered herself with mud. She’s a few inches shorter than my lady here. Would you have noticed her if she joined the mail coach?”

  The ostler studied Michael’s auburn-haired appearance a moment, scratching his beard stubble as he thought about it. “There’s a youngster on the coach this morn, right enough. Didn’t get a good look, but the size is right, I reckon. Had a boy through here some weeks ago looked just like you, exceptin’ he wasn’t so tan colored. Irish, I thought at the time. Didn’t speak so fine as yourself.”

  Michael caught Blanche’s arm, warning her to silence. He wanted to immediately jerk his hand away from the shock of electricity at the touch, but his fingers wouldn’t let loose. “Did they both take the coach into London?”