Kiss the Earl (3 page)

Iain would call him a mutton-headed, maudlin fool for agreeing to Amelia's scheme. And Patrick would not disagree. But no one cared for him like his friend Amelia, and if he could assist her, he would. No matter the cost to his reputation.

But for now, it was the appointed hour, and Patrick waited to swoop down upon the maiden as she and her lady's maid traveled this way. The maid—or the many onlookers who would witness the abduction—would carry the tale back to the baron, and then the chase would begin.

Argonaut snorted as a tradesman's cart rumbled by. The driver gave Patrick a curious stare.

“Easy, boy,” Patrick said in a calming voice, patting the stallion's neck. “We'll be on our way shortly.”

He stared down the lane in the darkening twilight. She should be along at any moment now, her black cloak streaming behind her. Stomach tight with anticipation, he kept his gaze trained on the busy corner, as both carriage and cart rolled by. The plan wasn't wise. He should never have agreed to this, but he couldn't bear to see his friend unhappy.

“There she is,” he whispered to the horse as he caught a glimpse of a black-cloaked, hooded female rounding the corner. “Gee-up!”

Argonaut shot forward like the ball from a cannon, and Patrick bent low over the horse's neck. The powerful stallion ate up the space between them quickly, his hooves thundering on the cobbles as he swerved to avoid an oncoming carriage. They came close, and Patrick reached down to grab her hand. “Amelia!”

It was a game they'd played many times as children, but one she seemed to have forgotten. Instead of grabbing his arm and pulling herself up behind him like she'd done a thousand times before, she cried out and stumbled backward. Thinking quickly, Patrick grabbed her arm and swung, cursing as his elbow connected with her temple. Pain shot through his arm, but he didn't release her until she lay facedown behind him. Surprised shouts followed them, but Patrick ignored them as he continued their flight.

“Damnation,” he cursed as Argonaut slowed. She had been knocked senseless.

Guiding Argonaut with only his knees, Patrick reached behind him and maneuvered Amelia until she sagged against his back. Bringing her arms around him, he bound them with a bit of leather strapping from his saddlebag. Footsteps pounded behind them, and Patrick looked back. Several men gave chase, but they were no match for Argonaut.

“We must away, dear girl,” he said as he gathered the reins again. “Or your father will catch us before we've left London.”

Urging Argonaut faster, Patrick gritted his teeth. He hoped she wasn't hurt too badly. If she wasn't, he'd certainly upbraid her for such unnecessary theatrics. They could have cost her dearly.

Let
her
not
be
injured
, he prayed, bending low over Argonaut's neck as they outpaced their pursuers.

* * *

Ella moaned. What an awful headache. She must have drunk way too much—that was the only explanation for the pounding in her temples and the roiling nausea in her guts. Tequila? No, she'd sworn never to touch the stuff again after Comic-Con last year. She'd thrown up on Stan Lee's shoes. Not good.

She tried to blink, but her eyelids were too heavy. Her face was pressed against something warm, and she turned her nose into it and breathed deep. Mmmm. Sandalwood and musk. Smelled like a man. That was impossible, though, wasn't it?

“Are you awake, Amelia? Thank the good Lord. You've been unconscious for hours, but I've been unable to stop. Your father would murder us both were he to catch us. And why did you pretend to be frightened? There was no need for that to further our story. I did not even see your maid. Where was she hidden?”

Ella's eyes flew open and she jerked backward. That male voice was totally unfamiliar and completely British. Pain wrenched through her wrists. She was tied up? What the hell?

She looked around wildly. The moonlit countryside passed her slowly, until she looked down and saw the flashing hooves beneath her. Then it seemed like she was hurtling through space, heading straight for the sun in a spaceship stuck on light speed.

She was tied to a strange man on top of a running horse.
Ho. Ly. Crap
. It was several seconds before she could even speak; shock had her frozen. But when she could finally form words, she didn't hesitate to use them.

“Who are you? Let me go!”

Ella tried desperately to free her arms. Why had the psycho tied her wrists around his waist? What was happening?

Her kidnapper turned halfway, alarm in his voice. “You're not Amelia? Oh God, what have I done? My most sincere apologies, madam.” Pulling back on the reins, he continued as the horse began to slow, “Who are you?”

“I'm pissed as hell, that's who I am! Now let”—she yanked her wrists backward—“me”—she leaned back and thrust her heels out—“GO!”

It was the kick that did it. The shiny black bus beneath them had had enough, apparently. Screeching to a halt, the horse shrieked angrily. After a hearty buck from the beast, Ella and her abductor were flying through the air, only to land with a thud in the cushioning softness of a muddy ditch.

Ella hissed in a breath as her abductor's weight descended on her arm. Fortunately, the angle of the ditch kept most of the weight from crushing her, and the way he rolled forward was certainly helpful. Clomping hooves disappeared into the distance.

“Why did you do that? Are you quite mad?” The man's voice was angry, but no less polished for the emotion.

“Angry? Yes. Insane, no, but I'm pretty sure you must be,” she countered, with another yank at her bindings. His grunt of discomfort pleased her in a bloodthirsty kind of way. “You've snatched a total stranger off the street, concussed her, and tied her to you like some kind of woman-cape. You're not going to Buffalo Bill me or anything, are you?”

“The question has been answered. You are, indeed, a madwoman. I had been slowing my mount to untie you, but your manic contortions have left us without transport.”

She bit back her retort as he began untying her wrists. Once her bonds were free, she yanked her arm from beneath him and struggled to her feet, nearly overbalancing on her high heels as they sank into the damp grass. There was no time to regret her choice of footgear, though. She swallowed the bile at the back of her throat and glared down at him.

“Where am I? And who are you?”

Ella waited for his answer, rubbing her wrists as the man stood, his back to her. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and she watched as he straightened his coat before turning to face her. His brilliant-green eyes glittered dangerously as he replied.

“I am Patrick Meadowfair, Earl of Fairhaven. And you, my dear woman, are not who I expected you to be.”

Patrick was furious, but mostly with himself. How could he have let Amelia talk him into this preposterous situation? Had this stranger been another of Amelia's plans? He rubbed his chin, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. That had been anything but a soft landing. He could see no reason why Amelia would have insisted this girl go in her place, but Amelia's machinations could, sometimes, be complicated.

He'd have to question the girl. Drawing himself up to his full height, he looked down on her. The top of her head came to his eyebrows. She was unusually tall for a woman.

“Now you know my name, I would ask that you extend me the same courtesy. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing, since you are not, as I had assumed, my dear friend Miss Amelia Brownstone?”

She planted both hands on her hips, which parted the front of her voluminous black cloak. Patrick tried his very best not to gape at the lack of clothing beneath, but he was only a man, damn it. The décolletage of the gown was positively sinful, revealing the upper curve of what was a quite incredible set of breasts. The hem of her gown—if it could even be called that—stopped a good hand's length above her knees, which were covered with some sort of skintight black lace. The amount of flesh on display would have felled a lesser man.

But he was in no way lesser.

She tossed her head, that sinful black hair catching the moonlight. “My name is Ella. Ella Briley.”

Patrick swallowed, almost stunned when he did not swallow his own tongue. That outfit really was quite extraordinary. “Miss Briley, a pleasure. Would you please cover yourself?” The request wasn't one he made lightly, but he was in serious doubt of his capacity to conduct a normal conversation with a beautiful woman clad in naught more than a shift.

The woman looked down, and even in the moonlight, he noted the sudden color in her cheeks. She wrapped the cloak around herself, covering the deliciously indecent display. At least she noticed the impropriety of her dress. Why, then, had she come out dressed in such a fashion? Was this Amelia's unsubtle way of matchmaking?

“Miss Briley, I recommend that we continue on our way as we converse. Brigands sometime plague this road, and as Argonaut seems to have left us without transport, we should really find an evening's rest in a safe place. There is an inn but two miles down this road.”

Miss Briley cast a glance back the way they'd come, but Patrick sensed her thoughts. He shook his head. “Returning to Town would take more than double the time, I assure you. The Hart and Dove is our only true option to get any rest this night.”

He offered her his arm, but she did not take it, choosing instead to continue alone along the road on wobbly feet. Before taking a step beside her, he noted the thin, tall heels of her bright shoes. That explained her height. Odder and odder she seemed.

“Miss Briley, might I be so impertinent as to ask if you are acquainted with my friend Miss Amelia Brownstone?” Patrick slowed his stride to match hers. She really could not move quickly along the rough road in those ridiculous shoes. At this rate, it would be dawn before they ever reached the inn.

She glanced over and up at him. “Nope, never heard of her. I'm sorry, but I'm really not from around here. I don't know anybody. Except… Oh!” A startled cry leaped from her as she pitched forward, her ankle twisting as her shoe's tiny heel slipped on a stone. Moving quickly, Patrick grabbed her arm before she could take a serious tumble. He did not let her go until she was steady on her feet again.

“Thank you.” Her thanks were grudging but genuine. He inclined his head.

“Before I went into major klutz mode, I was about to say that I have met someone around here, but I don't know how long it's been. I met Lady Chesterfield in 1817. At least I think it was 1817.”

“Lady Chesterfield?” Patrick wrinkled his nose in thought. “Ah yes, the Duchess of Granville was Lady Chesterfield before she wed His Grace.”

“They got married? That's great!” Miss Briley's face lit up, all smiles, and Patrick was struck with the simple beauty of her visage.

Her cheeks were round, with a dimple in each one. White, straight teeth flashed bright, and her eyes positively sparkled in the moonlight. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen when she smiled.

“Ah, yes,” he continued, training his gaze straight ahead. “They have been married these last two years or more. I believe they are touring the Continent at present. I am not personally acquainted with Their Graces, but I am told they are vastly happy.”

“So they're not there.”

Patrick glanced over at his unexpected companion at the sad tone of her voice. He'd expected her to lose all the beauty he'd just found in her, but she did not. If anything, the sight of her beautiful lips turned down at their corners made him want to gather her close in comfort.

What the devil? Had
he
gone mad?

“I am afraid they are not. I must apologize sincerely for mistaking you for my friend Miss Brownstone. It was ill done of me. But Miss Briley, if your only London acquaintance is a duchess, I must ask you: are you a lady's maid?”

She shook her head, stumbling again. With a heavy breath, Patrick grabbed her hand and pulled it through his arm. She started and began to yank her hand away, but he only tightened his grip. “Please allow me to assist you, or I fear you shall pull up lame. You do not wish to be carried to the Hart, do you?”

Her cheeks fired with color. “No.”

“Then permit me this small boon. Your slippers are unsuitable for this terrain.”

“Don't I know it,” she mumbled. Her words and phrases were so odd, and she had such a strange way of delivering them. Her accent was as strange as any he'd ever heard.

He quite liked it.

“You have not yet answered my question, Miss Briley. Are you a maid? Perhaps you worked in the former Lady Chesterfield's household?”

“No, I'm not a maid. I only met Lady Chesterfield once, when I came to get a friend who was staying with her.” She cursed as her ankle wobbled again. Patrick's eyebrows raised at the colorful language coming from the lady. Or was she a lady at all? Perhaps a member of the
demi-monde
? That would explain her lack of connections, her lack of chaperone on the street this evening, and her strange, revealing dress. She was certainly beautiful enough to be successful, if that was indeed her chosen profession. He decided to pursue that line of thought.

“I see. And this friend, does she share your profession?”

Miss Briley looked at him with an eyebrow arched high. “I haven't told you what my profession is.”

“No, indeed you have not. I merely presumed.”

“Presumed what?”

Caught like a fox run to ground. Patrick cleared his throat, staring straight ahead, down the moonlit road. “It seemed rather clear from your dress that you perhaps were a gentleman's particular companion.”

“A gentleman's…” Her voice trailed off, and she stopped dead, dropping his arm as if it were a snake. “You think I'm some man's mistress?”

“I meant no offense. Do you deny it?”

“Of course I freaking deny it! Good God, this is a nightmare.” She covered her face with her hands, taking several deep breaths, though whether to keep from crying or screaming, he could not know.

“If you would but simply tell me who you are and where you hail from, I would not be forced into assuming things about your person.”

His completely logical and calm statement was met with the blackest rage he'd seen since Amelia's father had been told of his daughter's
tendre
for the vicar. Miss Briley's hands fell from her face and fisted by her sides, her cloak caught up in a grip so tight it shook. Her brows were in a straight line over those beautiful, shining eyes, and her full lips were pursed tight.

“I don't remember pointing a gun at your head and forcing you to think anything about me,
Mister
Meadowfair.”

“
Earl
of
Fairhaven,” he corrected automatically. “Or
Lord
Fairhaven, or to be quite honest,
my
lord
would be the best form for this particular—”

He stopped speaking when her blue fingernail jabbed into his chest. Perhaps that had not been the best time for a lesson in the etiquette of proper address.

“I don't give a crap what I'm supposed to call you. How dare you think you know anything about me? God, Mrs. Knightsbridge, if I ever get back home, I'm going to kill you for this.” She ran an angry hand through her hair, mussing the beautiful, dark mass. “Listen, you don't need to know anything about me, because you'll never believe it anyway. I need to get back to town and try to find someone who can help me get home.”

“The stage does stop at the inn we are bound for,” Patrick said helpfully. “You could book passage there.”

She gave a bitter, dark laugh. “No, I can't. It's a little bit far for a horse and carriage—it's more a job for a DeLorean. But thanks for the tip.”

She set off toward the inn again, not taking his arm this time. With a scowl, he followed. He was no longer convinced that she was a maid or, indeed, a soiled dove. He was now quite sure she was a criminal of some sort.

Why else would she be so reluctant to identify herself?

He resolved to keep a close eye on his companion. After all, she was in his care for the moment, and he felt responsible for whatever mayhem she may cause.

But such a beautiful criminal would be no chore to mind. He laughed to himself as he steadied her when she stumbled yet again. Despite her oddness, he was quite beginning to like her.

Stranger though she was.

* * *

Ella winced as her ankle rolled for about the sixteenth time. These were really the most ridiculous shoes she could have worn. She definitely should have brought her Chucks.

But
it's not like I was planning to walk along an unpaved road in the middle of the night with a freaking earl circa 1820
, she screamed in her still-pounding head. But even that didn't really make her feel better.

Damn it.

If she couldn't go back to the right point in time, she was going to miss the gala. Mrs. Knightsbridge hadn't given her any indication about whether she'd be able to return to the same night she'd disappeared. So she very well might lose the job on Admiral Action, the only thing she'd really wanted for, well, her whole life. And now she was with a guy who thought she was a whore. Nice. Wonderful. If Hallmark made a card for this, she'd so be sending that nutty housekeeper one when she got home.

If
, she corrected herself as she jerked her elbow away from the earl's steadying hand.
If
I
ever
get
home
.

Because she needed something to focus on—anything but the miserable situation she found herself in—she decided to make conversation.

“So this Amelia Brownstone person, you were planning to knock her unconscious and kidnap her instead of me, right? Any particular reason?”

She glanced up at him, just a little gratified at the tightening in his aristocratic jaw. After all, he was the one who'd called her a whore.

Turnabout, fair play, and all that jazz.

“No, Miss Briley, I am afraid that the blow to your head was quite unplanned, and I do apologize for it. I hope it does not pain you overmuch.”

She rubbed at the sore spot on her temple. “It hurts like hell, if you want to know the truth about it.”

He gave her a look but didn't comment on her colorful choice of words. “When we reach the inn, I shall pay for your accommodation. It is the least I can do for putting you in this predicament.”

“Thanks.” The reply was automatic. She hadn't really thought about how she'd pay for the room at the inn. Or food, for that matter. Or clothes that wouldn't make people automatically assume she was a streetwalker.

She stopped dead in the middle of the road as reality came crashing down over her. This was bad. This wasn't just bad, this was extra, super-duper bad with a side of awful sauce. This was comic book–worthy bad. Somewhere a mustachioed villain was cackling and rubbing his hands together.

It would have been funny to picture Mrs. Knightsbridge with a mustache if things weren't so dire.

“Crap.” She sighed and kept walking.

Patrick's long legs and lack of high heels made catching up with her easy. “Are you unwell?”

“Yes. No. I don't know.”

The earl walked beside her, so she snuck glances when she was pretty sure he was occupied with the road ahead. God, he really was tall, wasn't he? Had to be over six feet. Once she was finally able to kick off these ridiculous shoes, she'd probably only come up to his chin. He wasn't beefy though, just long and lean and quietly muscled under those classy-as-hell clothes. Of course, they were a bit muddy now from that fall into the ditch, but that didn't stop them from being of obvious quality and fit.

His wavy, dark-blond hair curled just over his forehead, giving him an almost rakish look. And he had this way of looking at her, as if he saw right through her somehow. It should be disconcerting, but it wasn't. It was almost thrilling. He'd make a great subject, actually; inspiration for a new comic hero. Maybe she should ask him…
No
way
.

Snapping her eyes front, Ella spoke again. “So if you didn't mean to knock her out, what were you going to do?”

He pursed his lips. “This was her ridiculous scheme. We were eloping, if you must know. To Gretna Green.”

“Oh my God, seriously?” For some reason, Ella's heart gave a funny little flip before nose-diving all the way down into her stomach. “You were about to get married?”

“Not exactly,” he said. “There was much more to this scheme than that. There was to be a marriage, but I—”