Patrica Rice (21 page)

The messenger accepted the offer and disappeared through the tavern door as Michael listened to the animated conversation at the ticket counter.

“Her daughter’s to have a babe and needs her mother,” a gray-haired lady complained loudly to the ticket master for the hundredth time. “What’s she to do if she cannot get to Wiltshire from here, I ask you? It’s a fine day it is when His Majesty’s mail does not go to Wiltshire!”

“It goes to Wiltshire, mum,” the harassed clerk explained again, “but it does not go direct. And the southbound coach has just left. If you are in a hurry, you must hire a chaise.”

“Do you think us nabobs, then? Hire a chaise and six, hire a driver and groom, and my daughter traveling all alone with strange men and not knowing when she’ll be set upon next. The mail coach it must be, sirrah!”

Pulse escalating at the enormity of the lie he was about to perpetrate, Michael approached the women. “Ladies, pardon me for eavesdropping, but I see you are in some distress. Might I intrude a moment? My sister is just on her way to...” He hastily improvised a substitute for Dorset in case anyone attempted tracing Blanche later. “...Sussex, but her maid was overcome and cannot travel farther. We would be most appreciative if you could act as her chaperone as far as Wiltshire. We have friends she may call on there who can accompany her the rest of the way. I have business here, and it would save me a great deal of trouble.”

The woman instantly fell into raptures as Michael spun his tale, renaming Blanche “Miss MacDermot” and praying she would understand when the woman used that name. With Gavin’s messenger watching the inn yard from the tavern, Michael didn’t dare approach the carriage to explain. Blanche would be furious when she learned what he’d done, but he saw no alternative. He must see her to safety while he answered Gavin’s call.

He located his carriage driver, pressed the last of his coins on him and ordered a change of direction. The coachman had stoically accepted all his eccentric employer’s commands for over a week now and didn’t blink an eyelash. Michael gave him Gavin’s address and promised his aid should he ever have need of it.

The driver tucked the card in his coat pocket and asked with interest, “Be yer lordship needin’ a new groom anytime soon? I’m fixin’ to wed, and this travelin’ life must end.”

Michael thought the driver’s words strangely prophetic, but he merely nodded his head and agreed. “If not as groom, in some other capacity if you like. A wedded man cannot leave his family alone for long, can he now?” Just saying the words injected them with truth, and for a moment, Michael heard the nails pounding into his coffin. A married man could not leave his wife alone for long.

Beaming, the driver went about his business with an alacrity that assured Michael he’d done all he could to place Blanche in the best of hands.

Before the wailing woman could be foisted off on his unsuspecting wife, Michael pulled the messenger from the tavern, slipped out the back way to his waiting horse, and galloped off in the direction of London.

Waking from a doze, Blanche stared with astonishment at the immense creature who opened the carriage door.

“Miss MacDermot, it’s that kind of your brother to offer your carriage. I’m certain he’s the most perfect gentleman I’ve ever laid eyes on. A rare treasure, and you must be most pleased to have him look after you so well. It’s a pity it is about your maid and all, but fate has smiled on us both!”

The carriage tilted as the woman climbed in, the ostrich feather in her bonnet dipping and bowing as she struggled with her bulk, her cloak, her skirts, and a basket. Too stunned for immediate reply, Blanche watched the woman settle in the seat across from her.

As the constant stream of effusive gratitude continued to flow, her message slowly sank in. MacDermot—the name she and Michael had traveled under. Not coincidence. Nor was this chatter about her “brother.”

“I must say a word to my brother before we depart,” Blanche said with a menace in her voice. “If you would excuse me for a moment...” She reached for the door, but the driver was already tipping his hat to her as he walked toward the front. Blanche opened the glass as he took his seat and in a most unlady-like manner shouted, “Wait! I would speak with...” She hesitated, not knowing what name to call Michael by in these circumstances.

It didn’t matter. The driver shook the reins and set his horses to a trot. “His lordship has made all the arrangements. I’m to see to your comforts. He says as you’re not to worry, but he’s had an urgent message. You’re in good hands.”

Blanche forcibly closed her mouth as the man steered his cattle to open road. She dropped back into her seat with fury boiling through her. She could not believe Michael had done this to her.

She could not believe that she hadn’t known he would do this to her.

The chattering woman on the opposite seat didn’t seem in the least perturbed by her silence. Opening up a basket, she produced a box full of sweets and kindly offered one to Blanche.

Without paying attention to what she did, Blanche blindly squeezed the confection into crumbs between her gloved fingers.

She would kill Michael, she decided. She would throttle him until he spluttered and keeled over dead. She would take a knife to his bloody heart. She would scratch her fingers into those laughing, tempting devil’s eyes of his and pluck them out one by one. Remembering Michael’s naked assault on the thieves this morning, she decided she would kick him where it hurt the most, where he had hurt her the most. She knew what to aim for now. But first, she would skin him alive.

Murderous plots took her well toward the next inn. By then, Blanche had a scheme to rid herself of her garrulous companion. She intended heading straight for London and to hell with Wiltshire or wherever the madman thought he was sending her. If he wanted trouble, she would show him where to find it.

* * *

Eamon O’Connor leaned back in his uncomfortable chair, stretching his long legs as much as possible in the narrow, dirty little room. The pipe smoke around the table suffocated a man accustomed to the brisk fresh air of an Irish countryside, and he removed himself as far as possible without leaving his companions. They nattered on incessantly about rights and power and other things well beyond his ken. When they needed his expertise, they would let him know. At the moment, he did his best to stay awake by sipping at the rotgut they served and staring at the ceiling, imagining his Jocelyn smiling at him while slipping off her kirtle.

He had her skirts on the floor and her petticoats down when a pair of fine Irish eyes blinked through the hole in the lathe above him. Startled, Eamon dropped his feet to the floor and nearly lost his mug. The eyes hastily disappeared along with his idle daydream.

Ignoring the startled expression of his companions, Eamon leapt up and rushed out the door, heading for the staircase he’d seen hidden down the back hall. A clatter of chairs and feet behind him warned his actions had not gone unheeded.

Upstairs, Fiona cursed her daring and ran for the attic stairs. That dratted Eamon would run a hound to the ground when necessary. She had really destroyed herself this time.

She knew the ancient attic by heart now. Dodging the gaping hole in one floorboard despite the darkness, she ducked under the sagging beams near the window. She pounded the filthy frame at just the right angle so the panel would shove up without sagging and sticking. She heard Eamon’s long legs reaching the landing just behind her.

She dropped off the window ledge into the fog-shrouded darkness, landing on the roof below just as Eamon reached the attic. With luck, he would fall through the hole in the floor and anyone following him would stumble over him before they reached the window. With even more luck, none of the lard-bellied asses would fit through the tiny garret window. She couldn’t rely on luck, however. It had never stayed with her for any great length of time or she wouldn’t be in this position now.

Fiona raced across the rooftop along her planned escape route, searching for alternate paths. If they had half a brain between them, they would send someone outside to look for the next break between buildings where she might come down. She heard the shouts below just as she reached the roof’s edge. Cursing, she halted and scanned the rough tile for as far as she could see. Behind her, she heard another shout. Damn, but someone had crawled through the window. They had her coming and going.

She took the only way out that she knew. Sitting on the brick edging, she groped with her toes for the window ledge on the next floor down. She hoped the whore who worked that bed didn’t have company.

She achieved the twisting turn onto the ledge, slammed open the loose window, and hopped in, pulling the sash closed behind her. Blinking her eyes to accustom them to even deeper darkness, she sighed in relief at the empty room, and headed for the door into the upper hall of the tavern.

Below her waited the Bow Street Runner. He’d positioned himself in the same tavern booth every night at the same hour since she’d sent Little Jack to him that first time. The man was persistent, if nothing else. Or someone paid him extremely well.

She could try escaping past him. He didn’t know her by sight, after all. But she’d lost her cloth cap somewhere on the rooftop, and her hair was a dead giveaway. For the millionth time in these last weeks she wondered at her close resemblance to the extraordinary O’Toole. God had a mysterious sense of humor. If O’Toole had any intelligence, he’d told the Runner she looked like him. She didn’t doubt O’Toole’s intelligence one bit.

Perhaps it was time she gave it up. She couldn’t go on like this forever. Seamus was out of reach. Perhaps she could arrange for someone to warn him. He could escape to France or America. He wouldn’t be the first MacDermot to lose himself in a foreign country. She didn’t want to see him go, but she must end this senseless plotting before the rebels killed people. Shivering at the thought of confronting a duke, Fiona ran her hand through her disheveled locks, made some effort to straighten the overlarge jerkin over her boy’s trousers, and then marched down the stairs into the tavern.

The Runner looked up at her and grinned.

* * *

Michael arrived at Gavin’s townhouse after three days of hard riding. He’d changed horses and napped in fields and barns when the horses needed resting. He’d eaten when he could raise a few coins. But mostly he’d just rode until both he had reached exhaustion. It kept him from imagining Blanche’s reaction to his departure.

Dusting himself off as best he could, he climbed off his steed and allowed Gavin’s groom to lead the mare away.

He thought grimly of Blanche’s inevitable wrath as he climbed the steps to Gavin’s townhouse. He had no solution to the problem of keeping Blanche while pretending they were not married. ’Twas a pity Blanche wasn’t the sort to live with the Indians.

Not giving him time for a bath and a change of clothes, Gavin stormed out, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him into his study. Too tired and discouraged to fight, Michael permitted the man-handling.

“Where the hell have you been? And where is Lady Blanche?” Gavin demanded as Michael collapsed onto the leather couch where he’d been shoved. He considered toppling over and falling asleep, but Gavin wouldn’t allow that. When Gavin worked up a full head of steam, no one could stop him.

“Lady Blanche should be on the way to Dorset by way of Wiltshire,” Michael answered wearily, stretching his tired muscles. “If you think there is any danger to her, I would suggest having the duke send out a small army blocking all roads between Dorset and London to impede her progress. She’ll not stay put for long.”

She was most likely slitting her garrulous companion’s throat and turning the carriage around on her own, Michael mused.

“There’s danger enough if we’re to believe your little Irish rapscallion,” Gavin answered ominously.

Michael came fully alert. “You’ve found Fiona?”

“She found us, although she won’t tell us why. And I won’t guarantee she’s where we left her, either. I’d have to put iron bars on all the windows to keep that one caged. Are you certain you haven’t duplicated yourself in female form?”

Michael was on his feet and heading for the door.

“Michael!” Gavin didn’t raise his voice, but his tone demanded obedience.

Impatiently, Michael swung around to face him.

Gavin toyed with the broken handle of a letter opener and eyed him with skepticism. “I’ve never known you to womanize. Would you care to explain what is happening here?”

“The hell if I know.”

Since Michael seldom used swear words, his use of them now spoke of his confusion.

He didn’t take long in locating Fiona. An Irish lullaby drifting from an upper room drew him up the stairs two at a time. He located Gavin’s wife painting flowers on the nursery wall while Fiona crooned to the infant in her arms.

“And a pleasant good morning to you too, Michael,” Dillian said, with only a touch of sarcasm at his abrupt entrance. “I presume you left Blanche safe and well?”

“I trust you do not malign the lady’s reputation so crudely around her family.” Michael scowled at the infant in Fiona’s arms. Gavin’s offspring slept soundly, a picture of innocence and helplessness. The sight terrified and stirred him at the same time. “Why did you run?” he demanded, glaring at Fiona.

Long-lashed green eyes glared right back at him. “I had my reasons.”

“And did you find your aunt well?”

“Aye.” Fiona threw the marchioness a nervous look, then rose from the stool and deposited the infant into Michael’s arms. “’Tis not a subject for the ears of innocents.”

With that, she walked out, leaving Michael with his hands full of wiggling fingers and toes. The infant chose that moment to open wide blue eyes and blink. Michael nearly dropped the entire package. Fascinated, he watched a puzzled, cherubic smile form on tiny pink lips and a fist wave tentatively toward his nose. A child this size had no choice but to trust the adults around her implicitly. How did parents handle such responsibility?