Patrica Rice (11 page)

He hoped Blanche had understood his instructions. If she arrived in full aristocratic regalia, she would make hiding their trail difficult.

He had already decided he’d lost his mind to even contemplate this journey. He should hop the next mail coach and save himself no end of grief, but he wouldn’t. He’d seen the despair in Blanche’s eyes, felt her grasping for some token of human warmth, and knew Neville couldn’t provide what she needed.

He would take her away to safety, give her an adventure to make her smile and forget the responsibility piled on her frail shoulders, and return her to Anglesey. With any luck, she would adopt an orphanage and find happiness with the children there. Right now, she wasn’t strong enough to accept the death of any more children, and that happened too frequently even in the best of orphanages. First, he must make her strong.

No, first he must make himself strong. He paced like a nervous bridegroom, aware that he seldom set about a task with less than full assurance of his ability to accomplish it, but Blanche made him second guess everything he did.

Michael hurried into the inn yard at sight of a small leather-clad boot stepping daintily from a coach.

She had wrapped herself in a coarse brown cloak and covered her hair with a brown bonnet adorned with brown roses. Brown roses. Michael shuddered at the abomination while admiring her choice. She had made herself as mousy and nondescript as a woman of her beauty could. The elongated bonnet brim successfully disguised the revealing scars as well as her hair. Thick mittens hid delicate fingers. She could be a governess or a squire’s wife.

Only when he reached her side did Michael realize Blanche arrived alone. Scowling, he caught her mittened hand, paid the coach driver, and hastily led her through the chaos of the inn yard. Arriving mail coach passengers shoved and shouted around them, yelling for their luggage, for post chaises, at each other and the animals. Blanche seemed startled by the confusion as he led her to a quiet corner inside, out of the immediate uproar.

“Where is your maid?” he whispered heatedly. He didn’t like lingering. Her family would start searching at posting inns once they discovered Blanche missing.

“I left her at home,” Blanche replied defiantly. “She had no desire to travel. I told her I would borrow one of Dillian’s maids. She could not help but talk, Michael. I have enough wealth to care nothing for gossip, but Neville would see you hung. It seemed safest this way.”

“And Dillian?” Michael asked with dismay.

“She thinks I just want to be left alone. She thinks I go to my cottage in Dorset. She has too many other things on her mind to worry overmuch. The baby has a cold, and Gavin has the Lords in an uproar over his bill for better working conditions for children. Dillian has angry men stalking through the house all day and night.”

Michael ran his hand through his hair and bit back a groan. Traveling alone with Blanche was the ultimate foolishness. Desperately, he wondered where he could leave her, but the eager face she turned to him prevented his thinking of it long.

“I have brought a great deal of cash, Michael. I’ve sewn some in my cloak, and my skirt, and in the lining of my bag. Shall we pretend we’re the children of a rich nabob?”

He grinned. The innocent, eager young woman he remembered emerged with this plunge into fantasy. “The children of a wealthy nabob would wear silks and satins more outlandish than your court dress. No, we shall be the offspring of a well-to-do Northumberland Methodist squire returning home, quite dismayed at the scandalous activities of the city. I shall insist that you marry the lordling who owns the land adjoining ours.”

“And I shall protest that he is too bookish and not to my taste.” Blanche’s conspiratorial smile was nearly blinding.

“Right. I suppose you want the rakehell younger son, blackguard that he is. Women are like that.” Grabbing her arm, Michael led her to his hired carriage. Just touching her through the layers of clothes scorched him. Smoke fogged his brain. He had difficulty even recalling Fiona.

The ennui he’d been suffering of late vanished. He wanted the lady to himself for a while. He craved it with every inch of his misbegotten soul.

He hadn’t lost all sense however. He’d reserved the coach in the name of MacDermot, the name of an old family friend Gavin’s father had often mentioned. Gavin would recognize the pseudonym should anything happen that required he find them. Michael would never involve Blanche in anything dangerous. But he knew the ways of the world too well to believe everything would go as planned. He always left a bolt hole.

Climbing into the coach behind Blanche, Michael wished he’d included a horse in his plans. The soft feminine scents of her sachet assailed him, and he closed his eyes to enjoy it.

“Why Northumberland?” she inquired as soon as the driver sprang the horses. “I thought Fiona came from Ireland.”

“And would we wish to let our pursuers know our direction?” Michael asked, opening his eyes in time to see Blanche remove her confining bonnet. She had pulled her hair into a prim knot at her nape, but baby-fine tendrils escaped in profusion around her ears and neck. He fought back a strong desire to stroke them.

Her smile reflected her delight. “We will go north for a while under this guise, then switch directions under another one!”

“Actually, we will go north to the lake country where I met her so we can trace Fiona’s steps. From her accent, I suspect she traveled from the area of Belfast to Scotland. I should think she took a fishing boat to one of the lochs off Scotland’s west coast.”

“Scotland and Ireland! How lovely. I’ve never seen much of anything but southern England. Will the roads be safe for travel this time of year?”

She seemed content pretending he was her brother and they did no more than travel for the pleasure of it. If she knew of his decidedly unbrotherly urges, she would stop the coach and run screaming in the other direction.

Unsettled, Michael stared out the window. “The highwaymen are not so thick as they once were, but the roads can be impassable in bad weather. The inns are fraught with unsavory characters who may take a fancy to your pretty face. I’ve tried making certain we have a good driver, but I’m not infallible. And I can’t control fate. I’ve seen mail coaches turned over in ditches because some mutton-head couldn’t manage his cattle. So do not think we are on a little pleasure jaunt. Any time you want out, let me know. I’ll arrange for a place of safety for you until I return.”

Blanche stuck out her tongue at him. For a wild, heated moment, Michael considered what he could do with that delicacy.

“You’ll sound just like Neville if you continue. I’m not in the least missish, you know.” She opened her reticule and pulled out a small pistol. “And I borrowed this from Dillian. I’m quite prepared to slay anyone who stands in my way.”

“Oh, gad.” Covering his eyes, Michael slumped back against the seat. “Put that thing away and don’t ever let me see it again. I’m in more danger from it than any highwayman.”

“Good. Then you shall not have any fancy ideas as we travel,” she said with satisfaction.

So much for innocence if her version of “fancy ideas” meant she’d guessed his lustful thoughts. Keeping his eyes closed, Michael pretended to sleep.

* * *

Blanche watched Michael’s face in repose. She seldom had opportunity to study a man in this proximity. Aside from Neville, she saw them only when they had tricked themselves out in all their finery, disguised themselves behind nosegays and snuffboxes, and acted the roles of smitten gallants.

The cloudy day lent little light to the interior, but she could distinctly see the masculine cut of his jaw, the intelligence of his wide brow, and the boyish dishevelment of the hank of hair falling in his eyes. She thought she even saw the beginnings of dark bristles under his skin, although she supposed with his coloring, his beard would be more red than dark. His long legs stretched crosswise over the carriage floor, revealing the muscularity beneath tight buckskins. When her knee brushed close to his, the muscles in her midsection tightened.

She wanted Michael to kiss her. She knew he was completely unsuitable as a suitor. Since she had no intention of marrying, it didn’t matter. She just wanted someone to kiss her. She tried not thinking beyond that. First, she must persuade him. In her experience, men liked touching her. Or at least pretended they did. It had taken tears to bring Michael to her side. What would it take to make him go a step further? A direct command? Not likely.

She mulled it over as the shadows lengthened on the countryside. They would be fortunate to reach Oxford by nightfall. Chilly as it was, they could see snow by tomorrow. She shifted restlessly.

Apparently the driver had been given thorough instructions. While Michael slept, the carriage surged on through the early darkness. He’d hired a footman as well as a driver, and the man lit the carriage lights when the sun dipped low, but the meager light did not ease her anxiety.

She wished she knew why Fiona had left that note asking if parliament could be dismissed early. How early? Did Fiona have family in government who needed to come home? How foolish to think an urchin like that would have family in parliament, yet why else would it matter when they adjourned? And did any of this have aught to do with the exploding carriage?

Instinct said it did, but she didn’t rely on instincts as Michael did. She wanted concrete facts, and she had none.

The horses ran faster, as if they knew food and warmth waited ahead. She kicked Michael’s boots to wake him.

She could feel him peering at her from beneath his hat, even if she couldn’t see him in the darkness. She wanted to kick him again for not speaking, but Michael was impervious to insult or injury.

She produced a small pouch of coins and threw it across the carriage at him. He caught it deftly, as she knew he would. “You should carry some of these. It would look odd were I to pay all the tabs.”

The purse disappeared into the depths of one of his pockets. “How can you be angry already when I haven’t done anything but sleep?”

Damn his ability to discern every nuance of her voice. Gritting her teeth, Blanche didn’t honor his question with a reply. “Doesn’t it bother you to take a lady’s coins?” She could see the shrug of his silhouette in the darkness.

“They’re just bits of metal. I have no fondness for them. I could earn what I needed in a few hours in the tavern, but I didn’t think it wise leaving you alone that long.”

She could supply the words he did not speak. In essence, she paid for her own comfort and safety, not his. For some reason, that response irked her. “You were the one who wished to travel quickly.”

Again, she could feel his grin more than see it. “And did you think I would travel slowly on my own? I need only borrow one of Montague’s remarkable steeds and I could travel all night.”

“Then why did you bring me along if you don’t need me?” she asked irritably as the coach slowed for the inn ahead.

“I didn’t say I didn’t need you. I merely said your coins are a convenience.” He glanced out the window. “I gambled by telling the driver to come here. I wanted to make a good start, and I thought you might like this place better than some others. But it’s late. The rooms may already be taken.”

“Oh, thank you,” she answered huffily. “And what do we do then? Sleep in here?”

“Bribe the proprietor with your coins,” he replied cheerfully as the carriage drew to a halt. “Wait here, and I shall see what we can do.”

He opened the door and leapt down from the carriage without waiting for the footman to lay the steps. Whistling, he disappeared into the interior of the well-lighted inn as the first flakes of snow fell.

Blanche glanced up at the clouded night sky and basked in the warmth of anticipation. She would show the blasted brash Irishman that she wasn’t completely helpless. Tonight, she would make him kiss her.

And if she enjoyed that, tomorrow, she would venture even further.

The snow turned to rain after that first day, but Michael insisted on riding outside. Blanche thought she knew why. She had caught him by surprise that first night of their journey, turning abruptly and practically landing in his arms. He’d only had to lean over, and he could have kissed her. Instead, he’d caught her shoulders in a grip so hard it had caused bruises. He’d stared down at her as if debating strangling her or making mad love to her. And then he’d abruptly let her go and left the room.

He’d left her dining alone ever since. Since then, Michael had averted every opportunity for seduction. Fuming, she watched him ride the horse he’d purchased with her money, while she sat bored and ready to kill inside the rocking carriage. Michael, the man with no scruples, apparently possessed a passionate degree of propriety when it applied to women.

She thought she should know more of the pleasures of physical passion before retiring to spinsterhood, and the more Michael denied her, the more determined she became that he be the one to teach her.

Blanche reached that decision on the outskirts of Manchester. The carriage slowed, and she pushed her nose against the window to see what delayed them. Michael generally rode alongside and made himself available to explain the sights, but she saw no sign of him now. Lifting the window, she stuck her head out to see ahead.

An angry mob gathered outside a tall desolate building set in a field by itself. Ragged men and women wrapped in wool scarves and old coats spilled across the road, blocking travel. They shook their fists and raged at something or someone beyond her field of vision. It did not seem very likely that the carriage could get through the milling crowd, so she ordered the driver to halt, opened the door, and jumped down to the rutted road.

Dismounted, Michael hastened back through the throng, pushing his way until he reached her side. “Get back in. I’ll order the driver to turn around and find another route.”

Blanche looked at the narrow, rutted road, up at the wide coach, and back to Michael with incredulity. “Unless you lift the carriage and horses in the air and turn them yourself, I don’t think that’s likely. What is happening?”