Read Anita Mills Online

Authors: The Rogue's Return

Anita Mills

BOOK: Anita Mills
4.1Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
THE ROGUE'S RETURN
THE
ROGUE’S
RETURN
Anita Mills
Copyright
Copyright

Diversion Books

A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004

New York, NY 10016

www.DiversionBooks.com

Copyright © 1995 by Anita Mills

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

For more information, email
[email protected]
.

First Diversion Books edition May 2013.

ISBN: 9781626810495

Also by Anita Mills

Duel of Hearts

Devil’s Match

Scandal Bound

Follow the Heart

Secret Nights

Bittersweet

Autumn Rain

Miss Gordon’s Mistake

Newmarket Match

Dangerous

The Fire Series

Lady of Fire

Fire and Steel

Hearts of Fire

The Fire and the Fury

Winter Roses

Dedication

This book is
dedicated to my friend
Sue Hughes

Chapter 1
1

Throbbing consciousness returned slowly, painfully at first, then with it came the memory of her abduction. Lying very still upon the wrinkled, mildewed bedcover, Anne Morland tried to think. Judging by the raucous sounds coming from what was apparently a taproom below, Quentin Fordyce had brought her to an inn of the worst sort, and as the distinct briny, fish odor of the room nearly overwhelmed her, she guessed it must surely be wharfside. Did he mean to carry her out of the country? And why? Not for even a moment did she believe his protestations of undying devotion to her. The foul taste of the drug rose in her mouth, forcing her to swallow.

Suppressing a groan from the ache in her head, she opened her eyes cautiously, just enough to escape notice, and looked through the veil of her lashes. The room was dimly lit by a cresset lamp that smoked badly, adding to the tawdriness of stained, cracked plaster walls. Above her the rain pelted the roof, and water seeped from the ceiling, dripping onto the bed beside her. A flash of lightning illuminated the figure of a man sprawled in a chair, a glass in his hand. As the clap of thunder followed, he set it down and rose impatiently to stand over her.

“Curst rain,” he muttered. “I’d thought to be aboard ere now, but there’s no sailing in this.” For a moment he stared downward, then reached to touch her shoulder, stroking it.

“Passably pretty—give you that. Ain’t going to mind this by half.”

To her horror, he sank down onto the bed beside her and leaned to whisper thickly above her ear, “No need to wait for the fun, is there? Marry you in France anyway.”

Stale wine soured his breath, nearly gagging her, and yet she was afraid to move, to betray that she was awake. But as his hand slipped lower to the small buttons at the nape of her neck, she stiffened, then rolled for the side of the bed. As he grabbed awkwardly for her, she managed to gain her feet and back away. Pain shot through her head, and the room reeled about her. For an instant she feared she would retch violently. She wiped her mouth as she retreated from her drunken cousin.

“No need to be missish, Anne, for I mean to wed you,” he coaxed thickly, following her.

“You drugged me, Quentin!” she spat at him. “You knew I would not come otherwise! You never intended to take me to my grandfather’s!”

“Will,” he promised. “When we get back. Wedding trip to France first, then go beard the old man. Come back as Mrs. Quentin Fordyce, and he’ll want to see you.” As he spoke, he moved closer. “You’ll like it—you’ll see.”

“I’d as lief marry a toad!” she shouted defiantly. Her heart thumping with the fear she tried to hide, she cast about for the means to escape and saw none. He was between her and the door. “You’ll let me go, else I shall scream for someone to fetch the constable—do you hear me, Quentin? I shall scream loudly enough to bring this rackety roof down! I have no intention of going to France or anywhere else with you—not now, not ever!”

Despite her angry words, he smiled smugly. “Ain’t nowhere to go, Miss Morland. For one thing, Mrs. Philbrook won’t welcome you back—ruined, don’t you know? And for another, you’d best hold your tongue, for there ain’t anybody downstairs as you’d want to encounter, I can tell you. Ought to be grateful, I mean to marry you.”

“You ought to be clapped up in Bedlam!”

Again he narrowed the distance between them. “Show you I ain’t half bad as a husband—be nice to me, and we’ll trip along tolerably well. Make the old man happy even.”

“To think I trusted you—to think I welcomed you as my cousin,” she muttered bitterly, backing up against the rough stone of the empty fireplace. “You, sir, are the blackest scoundrel of my acquaintance!”

“Told you—my intentions are honorable enough,” he protested, cornering her. “Ain’t as if you was likely to get another offer anyway, is it? And when you are married to me, your grandpapa ain’t going to cavil about your mama anymore. Make him forget she was an opera dancer.”

“Opera
singer,”
she said, shrinking away from him. “Mama was the toast of the Continent before she met Papa. And her family was as respectable as the Morlands, if you want the truth of it.”

“Didn’t come to talk about any of ’em,” he murmured, leaning into her. “Pretty Annie Morland. I ain’t going to repine,” he added.

“Touch me, and I’ll—”

Her words died as he caught her and bent her head back, forcing his kiss on her lips. She struggled, pushing at him as his insistent tongue darted between her teeth. Furious, she bit down hard, tasting salt. His hand caught in her hair, pulling it, but he raised his head to howl in pain.

“Ow! You little witch! What’d you do that for? Serve you right if I didn’t wed you!” With his free hand he wiped his mouth. For a moment he stared at the blood on it. “Damned vixen—that’s what you are.”

“Mr. Fordyce—Quentin—if you do not unhand me this instant, I’ll have you arrested. You cannot abduct a female in England!”

“Told you, this ain’t the kind of place where anybody’d care if I was to throttle you,” he reminded her sarcastically. “Come on, be a good girl. When the deed’s done, when the knot’s tied all right and tight—teach you to like it.”

Once again he bent his face to hers, and the wine on his breath nearly overwhelmed her. As his wet lips touched her mouth, she sagged in his arms. He staggered from the sudden shift of her weight, and she was able to feel for the iron poker behind her. Her fingers closed over it, and she brought it up, prong end out against the inside of his leg. He jumped back, releasing her, and she darted, poker in hand, for the door, but not quickly enough.

He caught her viciously, pulling her by the sleeve of her gown, growling, “Try that again and I
will
throttle you—half a mind to do it anyway—d’you hear me? Now …” The cloth of her gown gave way, baring her shoulder and the zona beneath. As she turned toward him, he leered at the swell of her breasts. His free hand reached to touch the zona. “I’m going to like taming you. I’m—”

She raised the poker and brought it down with as much force as she could muster, striking a glancing blow against his neck. His ardor forgotten, he jerked her around furiously, shaking her, shouting, “Drop it, damn you, drop it!”

For answer, she twisted free beneath his arms, and struck again, this time catching him squarely on the temple. His eyes widened in surprise, then his body seemed to fold like a marionette, and he fell at her feet, hitting his forehead against a chair leg. She stood over him, poker raised, waiting for him to rise. He did not move. For a time she waited, thinking he perhaps feigned unconsciousness, but his face was ashen in the faint, flickering light. Another bolt of lightning lit the room briefly, followed by a crash of thunder that shook the floor beneath him, and still he lay there.

Gingerly she bent down and touched him with her free hand. “Mr. Fordyce … Quentin …” Getting no response she pinched his cheek hard. He did not even flinch. She dropped to the floor and leaned over him, listening for his breath, hearing nothing. Panicked, she stared at his inert body. Had she killed him? She began pummeling him, hoping for some sign of life, until it became apparent that he would not respond; then she sank back on her haunches. She had to get help—she had to get help. But where? How?

Would any believe that she’d been defending her honor? She glanced at her torn gown, seeking reassurance, then considered how it must appear to a magistrate—opera singer’s daughter murders peer’s son, claiming he intended ravishment. When she told that he’d attempted to force her into marriage, a jury would laugh in her face—before they convicted her of killing him. For who would believe that he had abducted an unwilling indigent female? And Mrs. Philbrook would be certain to say that he’d called but twice, probably out of curiosity, and then only to claim he was her cousin on the side of the family that denied her very existence. No, she’d be branded a scheming adventuress, and there’d be none to defend her.

The wind and rain came down harder, rattling the window, and the water dripped steadily from several places in the ceiling. A sense of utter helplessness descended over her. She was alone in some wharfside pigsty, she knew not where, and when discovered, she would be charged with Quentin Fordyce’s murder. Unless someone had seen him carry her in. Unless someone could swear she’d been drugged.

She heard the stairs creak and the floorboards groan as someone came down the hallway outside. She rose and hurried to crack the door, then drew back. A lantern’s yellow light caught the face of a reeling fellow she’d not want to meet anywhere, and then another door opened close by.

“Wishful fer a tumble, air ye, dearie?” a female voice asked him. “Ain’t a fit night ter be alone, is it?”

No, she could expect no aid there. Instead, she listened as the man and woman haggled briefly before he disappeared inside. Dispirited, Anne stood there considering whether to throw herself on the mercy of the innkeeper. But if what she’d just seen was indicative of his custom, she feared the constable was the lesser threat. She would give Quentin Fordyce a little longer and hope he revived somehow. But if he did not regain consciousness, she would have to do something. She returned to kneel over her cousin’s body, listening again for some sign that he lived, but the raging storm drowned out everything except the pounding of her own heart. Finally she prayed.

In the taproom below, a solitary gentleman sat hunched over his rum-laced wine punch, apparently oblivious of the noise or the curious, speculative stares sent his way. As the wind hurled a spray of water against the thick, distorted glass panes behind him, he silently cursed himself for his folly. Even the weather seemed to mock him, offering scant welcome to the returned profligate, thwarting him instead. After a harrowing, storm-tossed crossing, he could discover neither a horse nor a rig to hire before morning.

His eyes focused on the reflection of the guttering candle’s flame in the cheap glass in his hand. The wine beckoned him seductively, promising the comfort of temporary oblivion. He drank deeply, then stared into the dark-flecked dregs as though they would give soothing answer to the doubts that plagued him. Ever since his cousin Trent’s messenger had reached him in the comparative safety of Lyons, he’d been either in the saddle or on shipboard, daring to reenter England, escaping the notice of authorities seeking his arrest. But now that he’d managed to arrive undetected, now that he’d come to this miserable, mean place, he had to admit a greater fear, not for his safety, but rather for his welcome.

If his mother yet lived, if she’d not already succumbed to the brain fever Trent had described, would she even care that he risked life and limb to come to her? Or would she turn from him, saying that her only son had died in the war?

Plagued by doubt now, he wondered if perhaps the greater mercy for them both would lie in his turning back to France before he caused either of them more pain.

As always, the wine gave him no answers. And this night, it was even a deuced poor balm. No, at dawn he would put this fleeting cowardice aside and heave his weary, aching body into a saddle and ride northward. And he would leave it to the vagaries of that most faithless of mistresses, Fate, to decide if he had been right to come.

Around him, there were those whose interest in him was more than perfunctory. Despite the drabness of his sodden cloak, despite the plainness of his coat beneath, he drew more than his share of decided measuring glances from several cutpurses come in to prey on the unwary. He was, to put it bluntly, the best prospect in the place.

“I dunno,” muttered one. “Mebbe. Big’un, though.”

“Gentry,” another observed succinctly. “Got clean hands.”

“Aye, a gentry cove,” a third agreed low. “But that don’t say he’s got a full purse.”

“Looks like a rum customer to me,” the first fellow ventured nervously. “Ain’t much ter pick from.”

“We got ter eat, ain’t we? And there ain’t a tuppence to spare ’twixt the rest, I’d say,” their companion asserted.

Behind them the door opened, admitting a cold gust of rain-laden wind, and a slender young man entered. Unlike the gentleman at the table, this one was obviously plump in the pockets, for everything from his caped greatcoat to his spattered Hessians bespoke Quality. As his eyes darted over the ill-washed assemblage, he hesitated as though deciding whether to enter. Outside, a bolt of lightning illuminated the sheeting rain briefly, then the thunder crashed with such force that those within jumped. Reluctantly the young man turned to close the door as those who’d been but moments before appraising the seated gentleman exchanged smug glances. He was, one of them whispered, a “blooming gift o’ Providence.”

Briefly Albert Bascombe considered fleeing again into the storm, but another, even louder clap of thunder, followed by the fearful neighing of his horses outside, decided him. Settling his shoulders manfully, he approached the slatternly woman whose ample stomach was covered with a soiled apron.

“Good dame, I’d bespeak a private parlor for supper,” he said with as much authority as he could muster.

“Ain’t no private parlors here,” she retorted. “ ’Tis the common room or none.”

Tired of wallowing in the morass of his self-pity, Dominick Devereaux had started to rise, but had sunk back when the door opened. He tensed warily, then eased back into the shadows to watch the newcomer with faintly amused interest, now noting the half-score and more assorted pickpockets and cutpurses who came to attention. The poor pink was, he considered dispassionately, a pigeon about to be plucked.

As a particularly ugly customer vacated a chair at the next table, Dominick appropriated it, pulling it toward him easily with a booted foot. Resting his leg across it, he continued to observe the newcomer until recognition dawned. He groaned inwardly. It was Haverstoke’s dim-witted heir,
Albert Bascombe—called Bertie or Birdie, depending on one’s opinion of his brain. An amiable bubble, Brummell had once labeled him. The notorious Viscount Westover’s empty-lofted but over-loyal friend.

Resolutely, the object of his scrutiny shook water from the greatcoat, then removed his soaked beaver hat to reveal disordered red-gold locks, and all the while his eyes darted about the room, seeking a friendly face. Even for Albert Bascombe, it took no great powers of perception to know he’d delivered himself into a den of thieves. The steamy bodies that occupied the room reminded him of the unwashed who circulated amongst the theater pits picking pockets. He felt the stiff points of his collar tighten, and he considered that he ought to have insisted on Cribbs and Davies coming in with him rather than ordering them to sleep in his carriage to protect it.

BOOK: Anita Mills
4.1Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Shamrock Green by Jessica Stirling
Malgudi Days by R. K. Narayan
Destination Connelly by K. L. Kreig
The Scepter's Return by Harry Turtledove
Eric 754 by Donna McDonald