Loving the Earl: A Loveswept Historical Romance (6 page)

Claire took a step back, her bravado fading in the face of such real danger. His face was covered in a white kerchief, and black eyes glittered above it. A scar wound its way around his right eye, disappearing into the snowy scarf, and lending him a terrifying piratical appearance.

He touched her arm with the barrel of the pistol. Claire held back the tremble that started in her knees and threatened to shake her apart.

“A mademoiselle,” he purred. The pistol moved up her arm, over her shoulder.

He stepped closer, so close his knees brushed her skirts. Claire’s heart pounded, her palms grew clammy and she found it hard to draw in another breath without letting loose the whimpers building inside her.

This wasn’t playacting. Her brothers weren’t going to swoop in and rescue her. She was alone in a foreign country with a dangerous man.
Two
dangerous men.

She licked her suddenly dry lips, immediately recognizing her mistake when the action drew his gaze to her mouth. His eyes darkened and the white kerchief billowed in and out a little more rapidly.

She’d felt panic before. Her husband had been a hard man, physically and mentally abusive, and while she’d felt threatened by him her entire marriage, she’d known he wouldn’t kill her because that would ruin his image and find him in disfavor of the king.

She wasn’t so sure about these men.

Setting her back teeth together, she raised her chin a little higher. She knew the ways of men like these, their disgusting inclinations and what they liked to do with women. She was determined that was not going to happen to her or Marie.

The man chuckled, tapping the barrel of his pistol against her nose. “You have spirit,
mon ange
,” he said, reverting to heavily accented English.

Her shoulders snapped into rigidity and for a frightening moment her world went black. “I am
not
your angel. I’m not your anything.”

He barked out a surprised laugh, those glittering eyes hard and hot with interest. The cold metal of his pistol moved to her throat. “Cheeky.”

“Disgusting,” she spat.

His laughter abruptly stopped. “You best apologize.” The words were said softly but backed by steel.

Words that poked under Claire’s skin. Words she’d been told a thousand times in her life. Maybe not the exact words but close enough.

“You don’t tell me what to do.”
Oh, Claire, what are you doing?
Except she couldn’t stop, because to say nothing and take his verbal abuse would mean she hadn’t really escaped at all. And since she was all alone on this road with nothing but a frightened maid in the carriage and a driver who didn’t have the bullocks to defend her, she decided she would go down fighting and
not
cower as she’d done for so many years.

He stepped closer until she could see the red veins in his eyes. He smelled of oily sweat and rank body odor. It took everything she had to stand her ground. Instinct told her to flee, but she pushed it aside. For once in her life she would fight.

He laid the length of his pistol along her cheek. “Apologize,” he said softly. “Or you will feel more than the barrel of my pistol.”

This time she couldn’t stop the tremor that raced through her. He smiled, those cold eyes crinkling in mirth and superiority. How many times had she seen the same look in her husband’s eyes? Every time he told her to do something, knowing she couldn’t contradict him. Every time he saw that she yearned to contradict him and knew she wouldn’t.

A soft breeze fluttered her skirts. The horses shifted, their harnesses jingling. Birds trilled in the nearby trees and somewhere close by a cow lowed. In the periphery of her vision she
glimpsed the other thief watching avidly, his pistol still pointed at her driver.

Yet she refused to break eye contact with the miscreant in front of her, for that would show weakness and she was sick and tired of swallowing her strength to appear weak because that’s what the men in her life expected.

And she was determined that one day in France would
not
be the end for her. She wanted to see Italy, damn it!

With a cry of rage, all the emotions she’d bottled up inside for too many years rose to the surface. She lunged at the man, clutching his shoulders and bringing her knee up like her sister-in-law taught her. She smashed it in the one vulnerable spot the male species had. His eyes went wide with first shock then unbearable pain, as he folded in on himself. From a distance she heard someone yell her name but she dismissed it as she swept the pistol from the thief’s grip and smacked him on the temple with it.

His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell to his side, clutching his male parts.

Claire stared down at him in disbelief.

You did it! You fought back and won.

Her body shook with a combination of elation and the fear she’d been holding at bay. She shook so badly her teeth threatened to chatter, but still she clutched that gun, ready to swing again if he so much as moved.

But he wasn’t moving.

Surely she hadn’t killed him. Had she? She was about to drop to her knees to check his breathing when someone plucked the pistol from her hand. She spun around, her fingers curling into fists. Her brothers taught her to punch. She was a girl with not much muscle behind her, but surely she could stun the other thief. Except it wasn’t the other thief, rather Lord Blythe looking down on the man with a pained expression.

“I’m certain he’ll thank you for rendering him unconscious during what is probably the most painful moment of his life,” he said.

A low groan had her turning to the horses only to find the other thief neatly tied up, gagged and lying by the side of the road. Blythe’s work, she assumed.

The carriage door flew open and Marie tumbled out, her mouth an open O as she took in the unconscious man at Claire’s feet. She squealed and stumbled to him. Dropping to her knees to gather him to her bosom, she cradled his head in the crook of her arm and rocked him. She
looked up at Claire with narrowed, angry eyes, and French words spilled quickly from her.

“What is she saying?” Claire whispered.

“It appears your … maid … is in league with the thieves.”

“Pardon me?” Claire looked at Marie, at the thief in Marie’s arms, then at Lord Blythe. “Surely not.”

Mouth set in a grim line, brown eyes hard and unyielding, Lord Blythe nodded. “I’m afraid so. They would have taken all your possessions. God only knows what they would have done to you.”

“But …” Impossible. Marie had been so sincere. Except Claire knew from experience that even the most sincere person could possess an evil side and hide it quite well.

“I could ride back to town and collect the gendarme, but I fear leaving you with them.”

“We can’t just let them get away with this. We have to tell someone.” Claire crossed her arms over a stomach that was convulsing in revulsion and embarrassment. Maybe Sebastian was right. Maybe she did need a keeper. Apparently she was too trusting when it came to her luggage
and
her life.

“Riding back will take the rest of the day,” he said. “By the time I reach Calais, it will be too late to return. Do you want to wait with them nearly an entire day and into the night?”

“No.”

“And if I bring you with me we’ll have to ride in the coach, which will take even longer. Besides which, by the time we return, they will be long gone.”

The man groaned and rolled his head. Marie, her voice rising in panic, looked up at Claire.

“Besides,” Lord Blythe said. “I think you’ve punished them enough.” He winced when the man moaned and clutched his … nether regions. “We’ll leave them here. By the time your maid untangles their knots we’ll be long gone.”

Was it her imagination or did he put particular emphasis on
your maid
? She couldn’t tell because he turned away to survey her clothes strewn about. “I’ll tie him up and move him to the side of the road with his partner while you collect your belongings. Then we’ll continue on to Paris.”

His dark eyes assessed her. What must he think of her? That she was gullible? Naïve? Impetuous? All the other things her brothers thought about her?

Wait. What had he said? Paris? “We’re going to Paris?”

“That is where you were heading, correct?”

“Um.” She looked away, unable to believe he wasn’t dragging her back to Calais and tossing her on a ship bound for England. “Yes. Yes. I was headed to Paris.”
He wasn’t demanding she return home.
She wasn’t quite sure how to take that bit of news.

Claire folded her fingers into her skirts, looked at the man on the ground and her angry ex-maid, then at the coach, trepidation joining the excitement. Paris was still quite a bit away and Lord Blythe was going to ride
all
the way with her?

An entire afternoon with Lord Blythe’s company.
Alone
with Lord Blythe’s company. Claire had never ridden alone in a coach with a man, save her brothers and her husband. And no doubt this particular man would expect her to explain herself. It’s what Sebastian would have done in that calm way of his that always had her spilling every secret she harbored. But wait. He had his horse. Mayhap he would spare her and ride beside the coach. She could only hope.

She made her way toward her clothes and gathered them together, cringing at the haphazard way she shoved them in the trunk. It made no difference. She was going to Paris and that was all that mattered. Yet she couldn’t control her mounting unease.

“My lady?” He stood at the door to the coach, so large he nearly blocked the entryway.

Claire hesitated. Having finished collecting her belongings, she gazed at the two men trussed up and neatly arranged at the side of the road. Marie sat with her back against a tree, her lover’s head resting peacefully in her lap, her eyes shooting daggers at Claire.

Her gaze moved to the coach and Blythe’s horse, neatly tied to the back of it. Drat it all!

Blythe moved away from the coach door and lifted the trunk with its broken lid as if it weighed nothing. With the help of the driver, they hoisted it up top and secured it next to a valise that could only be Blythe’s. Claire took the opportunity to scramble inside.

She was staring out the window when Blythe climbed in, rocking the coach, blocking the sun and stealing the air from the confined space. He settled on the opposite seat, overtaking the entire front half of the coach. She flicked her skirts away and tried to breathe normally when her lungs screamed for more air.

The coach lurched forward with a shout from the driver.

“It won’t be long before someone spies your maid and her … gentlemen,” Lord Blythe said. “This road is heavily traveled.”

Claire pressed her lips together. It might seem un-Christian of her but she didn’t care if Marie and her cohorts were never found. The thought of what they could have done to her and what she barely escaped made her want to shiver in revulsion, but she kept her reaction from Lord Blythe, not wanting to show weakness in front of him.

She felt his eyes on her as he waited patiently for her to say something, but she didn’t. Couldn’t really. Not when it took every bit of energy to breathe. Why did he have to be so large and overpowering?

To prove her point he stretched his legs out and folded his hands over his stomach, watching her from half-closed lids. He smelled of smoke and whiskey. His eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot and all that dark hair was mussed. Claire sniffed and turned her head, willing herself not to be intimidated.

It was all well and good to speak her mind when outside among a crowd, and when she assumed she wouldn’t see him again. But being cramped in the carriage with him all alone drained her bravado.

How far off was Paris?

Claire was clearly uncomfortable riding in the same coach as him. What happened to her spunk? What happened to the chit who took down the miscreant with a knee to the groin? Nathan shifted, wincing at the pain the man had to be in.

Not that he felt bad for him. The thief received his just reward for trying to rob Claire.

When Nathan rode up on the scene a fury like he’d never felt before gripped him. Fury at the highwaymen for daring to rob her and fury at Sebastian for foisting Claire on him. He had a feeling Sebastian made a career of securing backup plans for his wayward sister.

By the time Nathan had jumped off his horse, Claire had the first highwayman in hand and he had neatly taken down the second. He bit back a grin, inordinately proud of her—much to his confusion.

From beneath half-closed lids, he watched her. Her face was set, her small hands balled into fists in her lap, scrunching the pleats of her traveling gown. Her head was turned toward the window, her shoulders rigid. As the silence dragged on, the tension between them grew with each lurch of the carriage wheels.

He tried to recall everything he knew about Claire Hartford, née Addison, but nothing came to mind save the fact that at one time in her life she’d tried to run away with a gambler who owed money to too many people. He’d visited only that one holiday while in school. Sebastian’s parents had died soon after, then Nathan’s father had died. There were no more days of visiting friends.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“No. Thank you.” She didn’t turn her head to address him, which irritated him.

“It’s been a while since breakfast and we have hours yet until we reach Paris. Surely a short stop is called for.”

“I’m fine.”

He couldn’t help but admire the curve of her cheek and the long lashes that fanned her emerald eyes. He wanted her to look at him for some odd reason. “Lady Claire.”

Finally she glanced up, but only for the briefest of moments, which doubled his irritation. “Since we’ll be confined to this carriage together for the majority of the day, you may as well call me Claire.”

A victory. A small victory but a victory nonetheless. “Thank you. Of course you may call me Nathan.”

She smiled but it was an empty smile, more for good manners than anything else. It was as if she’d retreated into herself, and he didn’t like that. If he was to be “confined,” as she called it, he didn’t want a shell of a woman to converse with.