Forget Me Not (3 page)

With effort she ignored him. He pulled her safely through the stable door into the starry night. Her heart soared. The openness of the yard left her with a heady sense of freedom. The manor was on the opposite side of the barn, but surely—

Instinctively Lydia turned as a fleeting shadow touched the corner of her vision. Too late she saw yet another of Felix’s men stealthily swing the butt of a musket downward catching Brian in the back. He grunted and jerked forward, dragging Lydia with him. A second blow sent him to his knees, the arm slid from around her waist, pulling with it the warmth and security his simple touch instilled within her. Spirits plummeting, Lydia dropped to her knees beside him, hoping to shelter him from further harm. “No,” she cried, her sole ally was frighteningly motionless.

His sea green eyes fluttered open locking momentarily on hers before turning to the man who’d struck him. “Roark?” he groaned. “How could you?”

“You should have joined us, Brian.”  The man stood menacingly over them, holding a musket with militaristic efficiency.

“And be a part of killing innocents like the general’s daughter?  I think not. Sir William saved yer life the same as mine, Roark. I had thought ye better than Felix Keith’s money grubbin’ schemes.”

“I’d wager Sir William has not thought a wit about us since the day we left h
is service to muck his stalls.”
Roark planted a foot firmly in Brian’s chest as he began to rise. “Don’t be thinkin’ you’re so high and mighty for refusin’ Mr. Keith’s offer. He tossed a glance to one of the men emerging from the barn. “Fielding, bind Donnelly and take care of the little lady.”

“Lay a hand on that girl and I’ll kill ye myself.” A palpable danger emanated from Brian’s body. It was as though his life force reached out physically to surround her, for half a heartbeat she was so attuned to him she would swear she could hear the steady strum of his heart and the draw of his breath. Brian’s broad, calloused hand clasped her fingers briefly, and for a fleeting moment she wondered at the defensiveness he displayed toward her. Was it merely the same chivalrous act he would perform for any woman in danger, or could it be more?  Did Brian Donnelly remember their brief encounter?  Dare she hope?

Roark smirked, reaching for her. “Is that a promise, Donnelly?  Sweet on the General’s daughter are ye?”  Brian lunged forward, and Roark cracked the rifle butt along the side of his jaw. Brian collapsed limp to the ground beside her. “Unlucky son of a bitch,” Roark muttered. She scrambled for the plank lying a few feet away, but a set of arms clamped cruelly around her.

“No!”  Lydia jerked wildly against the brute, hot tears dripping down her cheeks, as a second set of hands shoved filthy rags into her mouth and secured a gag before binding her wrists. The cords bit into her flesh, driving home the realization she was about to die. Not an hour earlier she’d believed her life over should she follow through marrying the viscount, now she understood the crippling reality of a true threat on her life.

Chapter Two

The cart bounced and rattled along the dusty road. Time was impossible to gauge beneath the dirty tarp stretched across the wagon bed, but Lydia would guess near twelve hours had passed since being abducted from the abbey.

The cold, stiff body of Lucas MacGregor tilted into her. Lydia shuddered, battling a wave of nausea, and scooted closer to Brian’s still unconscious form. The fact he was still out couldn’t be good. She longed to call out to him, roust him from the deep slumber but the gag stuffed in her mouth made speech impossible.

Panic welled and threatened to consume her for the umpteenth time that day.
Concentrate, Lydia. Concentrate.
On
what
was the real question?  How many hours did she have left? 
One?  Five?

Regrets pooled in her mind.
Never kissing a man…  Never falling in love…
Her gaze fell to Brian… not real love anyway. If she survived this ordeal she would apologize to Olivia and her father. She would write her grandmother every day, well… at least once a week. Lydia sighed. She just wasn’t ready to die. Not at twenty. Not before she’d done anything of consequence with her life. One regret in particular stood out, like a little piece of her soul, empty and unfinished.
             

Lydia closed her eyes, vividly remembering the forbidden moment four years ago when she’d stood alone on the terrace with Brian…

“Will you forget me once you’ve gone away to France?” she asked boldly, gazing into his markedly piercing eyes.

“Forget  ye, love?  Never. A man would prove a fool to be forgettin’ a lass the likes of you.”  The lilt of Ireland ran thick through his words, sending her pulse to a run, and as he
reached out to pluck a single flower from the stone planter nestled against the matching terrace rail she was convinced the strumming beat was audible to his ears…

Distinctly Lydia recalled how tall and indestructible Brian, then Captain Donnelly, had appeared leaning close to bequeath her the
Forget-me-not
. Far too close by the standards of propriety. Close enough in fact to kiss her…

Lydia’s lips tingled in silent yearning.

He would have kissed her too, she was sure of it, if not for the impeccable timing of her stepmother, Olivia. The older woman had the uncanny ability to find Lydia when she least wanted to be found—which was of course the point. In any case Olivia had erupted through the terrace double doors, threatened to swoon at her daughter’s deplorable behavior, and promptly hastened her back to the ballroom. Thus Lydia had been left to wonder how her life might have changed should the good Captain have had the opportunity and inclination to kiss her. Even now her lips tingled with yearning. Countless times she’d dreamed of Captain Donnelly, fancied herself in love with him, and here he lay beside her…

*
             
*
             
*

Brian woke bound, gagged, feeling as though a metal spike had been drilled through his skull, and staring into the luminous golden brown eyes which had haunted his every moment—waking or sleeping—for the last four years.

His heart slammed in his chest. By Christ Lydia was beautiful, and by damn he didn’t want to think so.

Four years prior Brian’s regiment had been on parade in a small district to the north of London. The army was soon to deploy to France, and he’d recently acquired a commission and more recently been promoted to captain—no small feat for an Irish orphan with naught but a name to carry with him. Women had packed along every street corner offering tokens and kisses for Britain’s soldiers. Brian had been as interested in pretty girls as any man of twenty and three about to embark to foreign shores until he saw
her.
Lydia Covington. From across the column of marching soldiers he’d caught sight of a pretty woman, no more than sixteen, standing with a small group of friends. Her manner more subdued than the rest, but enigmatic of patriotism, and
something in her air had held him enraptured. As though by a supernatural force her exquisite profile had turned until her eyes locked on his. The closer he’d marched the more certain he’d become that she was pulling him into the oblivion of her honey brown eyes.

The world as he knew it had ceased to exist. Time suspended. The air swirled and stopped around him, all he’d known—all he had known since that day—was the light of her eyes and the curve of her lips. As he’d marched past, her arm had extended pressing an embroidered handkerchief into his palm and her exquisite mouth had curved into a secret smile meant only for him. Brian had never been a romantic, had never believed in love as anything more than an avenue for heartbreak, until that very moment. After the parade he’d followed through the impulse to seek her out, had even held her in his arms to waltz. Before shipping out he’d thought to secure permission to write her… until he’d learned who she was… the daughter of his commanding officer, General William Covington, and betrothed to the Viscount of Northbridge. The girl was nothing more than a typical
ton
tease, likely toying with him to spite her father or perhaps she was merely curious.

Ha! The fates would only be so cruel to an orphaned foot soldier. To fall in love with a future viscountess was the worst sort of folly. Proper English ladies would never think to look twice at a nobody of Irish birth such as himself. The knowledge that their single seemingly enchanted evening had meant nothing to her had driven the final nail into his coffin of hope of ever having a family of his own. Orphaned at the age of two Brian knew well what a miserable emotion love was. All souls unfortunate enough to find themselves in love would eventually find themselves alone. The misery was not worth it and after Lydia Brian had no intention of becoming yet another of Cupid’s victims. Even so the knowledge had not kept him from dreaming of her. Literally. The memory of her huge, wide set, oval eyes flecked with amber had seen him through two miserable years bivouacking in freezing rain and snow, a grievous wound, and the year and a half he’d been employed by none other than her father. He’d known the proximity to Lydia could be nothing less than disastrous, but he owed Sir William more than one debt.

And now, as fate would have it, the literal woman of his dreams—the very woman he’d sworn to avoid upon pain of death if necessary—lay bound and gagged in the back of a wagon, wedged between himself and the dead body of Lucas MacGregor, and the responsibility of
returning her to her father and betrothed had fallen to him. If her activities the night before were an indicator she would fight him every step of the way back to Wheaton Abbey.

How the hell had this particular streak of bad luck come to pass?

The sight of Lydia cringing away from the bloodied corpse snapped his mind back to the present. He had no idea how long they’d been traveling except that sunlight shone through the cracks in the tarp covering the back of the wagon. If the driver took Felix seriously and drove them clear into Scotland the trip would take an entire day buying them the time necessary to escape.

With little difficulty he managed to wiggle the gag down around his chin and spit out the dirty rags stuffed clear to the back of his throat. He suppressed the urge to cough, it wouldn’t do to let the drivers know his mouth was free, and drew his tongue across parched lips.

“Are you all right, Miss Covington?” he questioned in a low whisper.

She nodded quickly, her wide frightened eyes fixed on his. A wave of male protectiveness surged through him. Instinctively he longed to pull her into his arms and wipe away the fear marring her lovely face. Perhaps even kiss it away. With effort he halted the train of his thoughts. He knew better than to let those particular thoughts cascade else he find himself wanting her and jilted all over again.

“Can ye get yer gag off?”

She shook her head, mimicking his movements from a moment before, the cloth didn’t budge.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he murmured, inching forward the best he could. He raised his head, leaning awkwardly over her, and took the corner of her gag in his teeth, tugging the cloth down along her jaw. Being so close to her was the most exquisite torture. Her scent clean and uniquely feminine swirled around him, it was exactly the smell imprinted upon the handkerchief four years ago. Wisps of russet waves brushed his face more silken than anything he could have imagined. His lips brushed along the smooth curve of her creamy skin, and the feel and smell of her invaded his senses until he could taste her. He ached with longing from the tips of his bound
fingers to his lips to other considerably more male parts that he would be wise to banish from his thoughts here and now. A vision of another time, another place, locked in the heat of passion with her pierced his conscious… but it could never be.

Lydia coughed softly and spit the rags from her mouth. “Sir, how—”

“The names Brian Donnelly, Miss Covington, I give ye leave to call me Brian.”  He ground his teeth, suppressing the flash of anger that she’d so obviously forgotten him. With effort he reminded himself that he didn’t want her to remember him. More to the point he did not want her… Oh, but that was a lie, and he knew it. He wanted her… desired her… longed to hold her. The truth was he didn’t
want
to want her. Internally he warred. His gaze fell to the plump curve of her lips; her bottom lip quivered with such vulnerability… it was near to his undoing.

“Brian.” His inner war intensified. Oh, but why did his given name on her lips have to sound as though spoken by an angel?  “How are you feeling?  You’ve been unconscious for hours. I was so worried.”

The lass is no angel,
he reminded himself,
merely a flirtatious nymph.
“No need to worry over me, love. Now, I think I have a plan to secure our escape.”

Her eyes lit at the prospect. “I’m listening.”

“If we can turn our backs to each other we may be able to untie the bonds around our wrists. Can ye get rolled onto yer other side?”

Eyes widening in horror, Lydia went deathly still. It took Brian all of three seconds to understand her apprehension. To face the opposite direction would mean to face Lucas MacGregor’s body. The poor girl had likely never seen a dead man before, at least not immediately before burial.

“Miss Covington—”

“Lydia.”

He hesitated. “Miss Lydia, I am sorry for this, if I could take yer place I would.”

“It’s all right. I can do it.”

Without another word she flipped onto her left side. Brian quickly followed suit, but found maneuvering the knots securing the ropes about her wrists exceedingly difficult without the use of his eyes. As such he was no less than surprised to feel the binds slipping away from his wrists in the space of a few minutes. Pulling his feet up, he made quick work of the thick straps around his ankles. On impulse he rose onto his hands and knees, taking care to remain low so as not to disturb the tarp stretched across the back of the wagon, and crawled over Lydia to position himself between her and the corpse. Lydia’s eyes radiated gratitude as she rolled her back toward his chest.

“Good work,” he whispered, fingers dancing nimbly across her knots. “I’m impressed.”

“Yes, well, women are not entirely worthless just expected to appear as such.”  The bonds fell from her hands and she too loosened the straps around her ankles without difficulty. She shifted to lie on her back, her left shoulder nestling securely against his chest. She tilted her head to the side looking up to him with bright trusting eyes. His heart lurched. The position was comfortable, intimate… a bit too intimate for his liking. “What next?  We must find a way out of the wagon before Keith’s men reach Scotland.”

The cart jostled, tossing him to the side. He braced an arm on the opposite side of Lydia catching the bulk of his body as it settled over the top of her.
Well, Damn
. With her pinned beneath him every curve of her vivacious body burned against him. Her breasts, unbound beneath the thin fabric of her boy’s shirt, crushed against the flat of his chest, and her arms settled naturally around his shoulders. His heart hammered a wild rhythm. It was as though they were made to fit together. Their gazes locked, it was physical, thick and real. Her eyes, just a shade lighter than her russet tresses, were alive with emotion, it was as though she possessed the magical power to pull him into her very soul. Dear, God, how many times had he imagined lying this way with her?  She wriggled beneath him and his body responded fast, hard and primitive.
Oh, God, not here, not now.
He hauled the reins in on his rampaging, lustful thoughts, forcing his mind to the life or death situation at hand.

“If we bide our time, and keep our eyes open an opportunity will present itself.”

Lydia looked skeptical.

“Do ye trust me?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Lydia, I need an answer, do you trust me?”

Her eyes danced across his face. “Yes.”

He moved his gaze from her eyes down the gentle curve of her face taking in the becoming spattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks—how he longed for the time to memorize her—to her lips so full and perfectly pink they begged to be kissed. He wanted to kiss her. Sample her just once.
Oh, what the hell, we’re about to die.
Without another thought he slipped a hand beneath her neck and pulled her face to his catching her lips in the taste he’d craved for the last four years.