You needn’t concern yourself over Lady Rabble-Rouser’s recent ramblings. Raven’s skill at avoiding danger is unmatched. He will throw off this unwanted attention without trouble.
—Peregrine
Chapter 10
He must get rid of her.
He could not wait on Carlyle’s arrival at the rendezvous place he’d indicated in the note sent with young William. He must be rid of her now before she invited him to take greater liberties with her. Before she made further plans.
Dear God, she could drive a man mad with her eager hands and ripe lips and the hunger in her mouth. If she offered him herself again, he wouldn’t even bother resisting. Nine girls in ten years, and he’d never been truly tempted. But now the bottle called to him more stridently than it ever had before too. Undoubtedly, he was slipping. His desires were not entirely within his control any longer.
But if he could keep temptation distant he could fight it. Riding provided some relief. When she rested from driving, however, and he tethered Galahad behind the carriage and took up the ribbons, she did not retire to the back of the carriage with Mrs. Polley. Instead she sat beside him, her arm brushing his with each bump in the road, and she told him stories obviously intended to amuse that gave him opportunity to watch her supple lips move, her hands that had clutched him gesture. She spoke with warmth and laughter, frequently darting glances at him. Despite her open manner, she was not at ease; her eyes shone in a manner they had not before.
He did not trust her not to come at him again. And so, rid of her he must be.
Opportunity presented itself mid-afternoon as the sun dipped, hovering over the hills of the Welsh marches as it did so often in his dreams. Years ago, smothered in the heat of the East Indies, during fitful nights he’d dreamed of this temperate, emerald land, the land he’d come to know in his youth, moving from farm to farm as he found work, carrying only his strength, a pack full of books, and the anger in his heart. During those years he had occasionally allowed himself rest. Every six months or so he visited the single place he’d ever felt at home. The only place he had ever been safe. The place he hadn’t allowed himself to go now in five years and to which he had intended to take Miss Lucas until Carlyle came to retrieve her.
Now he could avoid going there. This was not the opportunity he would have chosen, but he couldn’t throw it away. She seemed shy of nothing and her dedication to her mission was high. But when faced with true danger, she would not continue.
Duncan Eads would assist. Unintentionally. The Highlander had found them. Now he trailed them on the road, never approaching close. But soon Wyn would allow him to come close—not close enough to truly threaten her, but enough to frighten her into being eager to return home.
The man in brown pursued too, albeit less subtly, in plain sight throughout the morning. It was frankly a miracle Eads hadn’t yet dispatched his competition.
They stopped to eat the lunch Mrs. Bates had prepared, pulling the carriage into the shade of a copse of pine and oak in a shallow valley dominated by a mill. The place was deserted, miller and laborers at home for their midday repast. Nothing stirred now but the wooly denizens on the hills and the wildflowers that carpeted the valley fields in yellow, blown by the autumn breeze.
“The birds sing in every voice imaginable here.” She tossed the reins into his hands and hopped off the box. “At home I only ever hear endless crashing waves, and gulls.” She opened the carriage door and, as though she were the servant, hooked her arm beneath Mrs. Polley’s to support the elder woman. “At the Park it’s even worse up on that rock. Mrs. Polley, you must come visit Savege Park someday. It is far too grand for my tastes, but my stepsister is a countess. Truly! I knew you would never believe it, so I didn’t mention it before.”
Mrs. Polley patted her charge’s arm. “I’ll believe anything fine of you, miss. You’re such a sweet one.” She climbed stiffly from the carriage, nevertheless managing to glare at him. “Isn’t she, sir?”
“She is, indeed.” Sweet to taste. Sweet in his hands.
He glanced down the road. Eads would come along soon.
“The two of you will flatter my head into enormity.” She dimpled but her gaze skittered away from him. She did not believe the praise. All the better.
She led her companion to a stone seat devised from a wall of the mill. The building was high-roofed, the wheel turning as the little river snaking through the valley rushed beneath it, washing the place with sound. Within the hour the miller would return and again set to work on the mounds of freshly harvested grain stacked beneath the roof. Wyn knew the rhythm of harvest season in this country as well as he knew the workings of a pistol and precisely how to employ it to his advantage. For now they were alone, appealingly isolated.
He uncorked the bottle Bates had given him that morning and made certain she saw him drink from it. White gin, poorly distilled, it burned his throat and empty stomach. But it served the purpose. Within minutes the tremors in his hands would cease, and within half an hour she would believe what she must to make this charade a success.
Pretense and lies, masquerades and subterfuge. The stuff of his life. He swallowed another mouthful, peace streaming through his veins at last.
It was a damn good thing his great-aunt had died when she did, before she knew the truth. She would never have believed it. Or she would have, and it would have broken her heart.
Diantha watched him covertly. She was accustomed to covert watching. Discouraged by her mother from putting herself forward among her parents’ friends, and perfectly aware that behind her back the other girls her age were poking fun at her, she’d learned how to watch and listen without being seen. With one exception: Serena had always seen her. Her stepsister, the kindest person she had ever known, had eyes in the back of her head. If she’d learned anything good in life, she’d learned it all from Serena. But when she found her eavesdropping, Serena’s loving looks always made Diantha feel guilty as sin.
But her mother was a sinner, so she clearly had gotten that in her blood.
She laid out the picnic, serving Mrs. Polley from the loaf of bread and crock of soft cheese, watching out of the corner of her eye as Mr. Yale again eschewed food for drink. She didn’t blame him. Her appetite had fled, though undoubtedly for another reason than his.
The butterflies in her stomach would not cease. Even prattling on about thorough inconsequentials while he drove hadn’t distracted her. His hands holding the reins looked so strong and they had been on her. On her waist. Nearly touching her breasts. Recalling it made her short of breath. And recalling his tongue in her mouth made her very hot, especially in her most intimate quarters.
She was a thorough wanton.
He reclined now in the rear seat of the open carriage, a bottle in one hand. Beneath hooded lids, he watched her. With an indolent grin, he lifted the bottle in salute to her.
A strange pulse went through her. It was not his usual smile, not the slight smile that gave the butterflies wing. This one made her feel a little sick.
She glanced about her. The brown horse grazed peacefully in the shade at the edge of the trees. But Galahad’s head was up, his ears perked high. Diantha threw her escort another glance. His eyes were closed now, his hand slack about the bottle. Mrs. Polley snored, propped up by Diantha’s folded cloak, Ramses curled in a ball at her feet, worn out too.
She slipped off the bench and crossed to Galahad, passing the carriage and the sleeping man. Diantha knew little about horses, but he was certainly alert. Perhaps a rabbit had caught his attention, or the miller had returned. Galahad turned to glance at her approach, his ears flickering, then shifted his attention ahead again.
“What is it?” She changed direction toward the corner of the mill, the ground beneath her feet damp in the shade of the trees abutting the far side of the building. “It must be very—”
She froze.
Her first reaction should have been to scream. Her sisters would have. They would respond appropriately to encountering a villain. But all Diantha could think was how huge the man was. At least a head and a half taller than her, he was not fat but thick in his arms, chest, and neck. Even the pistol he pointed at her looked burly.
“Whisper a breath o’ sound,” he said in a deep, quiet voice, “an A’ll shoot ye.”
