Society's Most Disreputable Gentleman (15 page)

Giving Greville a cheerful salute, he stumped off. Foreboding in his gut, Greville snatched up his own weapons and followed after the innkeeper.

 

In the shadows of Neville Tour, Amanda stood within the walls of a now-roofless building that might have once been a kitchen. Her jailor, one of the local farmers, his identity concealed by a mask, stood guard at the entrance.

Keeping his gaze fixed on Black John and the men assembled on the open ground of the bailey beyond, the masked farmer murmured, ‘So sorry you be caught up in this, miss. Weren't no call for Black John to take you like that. You just hold fast. I'll make sure no harm comes to ye, if I've got to take a bullet to stop him.'

‘Thank you. I sincerely hope it doesn't come to that.'

‘As do I, miss,' he replied, a touch of amusement in his voice, despite the grim circumstances. ‘Once they finish the parlay, I'll see if I can distract them and give you a chance to slip across the bailey. Your mare's tethered just outside the entrance.'

‘Thank you,' she murmured, grateful and fully cognisant of the danger in which the man placed himself by helping her. ‘I won't forget your kindness.'

The farmer touched his fingers to his cap. ‘Don't hold with harming women, surely not one of Lord Bronning's own kin. He and his lady, your mama, been good to me and mine. Ah, they're breaking council now. I'll see what I can do, miss.'

As her sympathetic captor paced away, Amanda gave her
small prison another assessing glance. She knew from her many explorations as a child there was no other way out but through the gate to the bailey, in which Black John and his compatriots now sat, drinking from a breached barrel of brandy.

What if the farmer couldn't find some pretext to lure the ruffians away long enough for her to cross the open ground? A rising despair checked when she recalled that it wouldn't be unusual for smugglers to have fashioned another entry into their stronghold, excavating out a portion of the curtain wall or even digging a tunnel beneath it, like one of the many that dotted the cliffs along the coast. Might Black John's men have made some new breach in the walls of this structure?

While her heart thumped anxiously in her chest, she began a cautious circuit of the small chamber. Packed into the space, completely masking the walls, were a number of brandy tubs, with parcels stacked atop them that might contain anything from tobacco to French lace to China silk.

She tugged at a barrel, but couldn't budge it an inch. Undaunted, she'd renewed her efforts, tugging and clawing at the heavy tub, when she heard the sound she'd been dreading.

‘Need a drink, sweetheart?'

She turned to find Black John standing at the doorway, a feral look in eyes. Trying to peer around him to locate her sympathetic guard, she said, ‘I'm waiting for you to come to your senses and release me. Abduction is a capital offence.'

He merely laughed. ‘And smuggling is not? If the prospect of the gibbet swayed me, I'd still be tending bar at Pa's inn in Sennlach. Nay, I like a challenge. I think you'll be one.'

Where was the farmer? she wondered while Black John spoke. Had he already made his move and been overcome?

Regardless, it didn't appear he was in a position to help her now. She could either cower before her captor…or stand her ground.

The outcome would likely be the same in either event, but
Amanda vowed she'd not submit meekly. ‘If you mean to lay hands on me, I'll certainly resist.'

‘I like a lass with some spirit,' he said, grinning. ‘So, girl, let's see how much you have.'

He advanced on her. As soon as he was in range, Amanda swung hard, landing a blow that knocked him a bit off-balance. Panic giving wings to her feet, she used that instant to dart past him and race into the bailey.

Hampered by her skirts, she got only a few paces before a strong arm grabbed her shoulder and wrenched her around to face him.

‘Never ken a lady'd be handy with her fives,' he said, a grudging respect in his tone. But any hope that respect would translate into his releasing her died as he dragged her close. ‘I think that bravery deserves a reward.'

Desperate with a fear that fuelled her strength, she pummelled at his chest with her fists. Growling, he crushed her against him, trapping her hands, and brought his mouth down on hers, his tongue jabbing at her firmly closed lips. The sharp smell of brandy and heated male filled her nostrils as he moved a hand down, tugging up the skirt of her habit.

Oblivious to the sudden shouts of the men around them, Black John didn't release her until one of them pounded his shoulder. As he turned, snarling, his confederate cried, ‘Our men were attacked in Salters Bay. The whole damn village and half the men of the countryside were there, armed with pistols, shotguns and rifles. They're on their way here now!'

Another cluster of men, one clutching a bleeding arm, ran up to them. ‘Leave the wench, damn it! We gotta grab what we can and go now, John. They've sent a separate party to try to seize the
Black Prince
.'

‘If we don't get there quick, they may burn her to the waterline,' another added. ‘With all that brandy aboard, she'd go up like a devil's torch.'

To her immense relief, the brigand nodded. ‘All right, we secure the ship first, then come back here for any cargo we can't carry. Jack, Harry, get those parcels of lace; Tilden, you take the tobacco. Spring it, boys!'

As his crew rushed off, he looked down at Amanda, whom he still held in an iron grip. ‘Don't fret, sweetheart. I'll be back for you later.' Hauling him against her, he kissed her again, hard, before pushing her away and striding towards the road to the sea.

The scurrying men ignored her as they loaded up as much cargo as could carry from the stone chamber and hurried after their leader. Pressing herself against the curtain wall, heart hammering, Amanda waited until the sounds of the departing men and horses faded.

She raced towards the gate of the bailey, then stopped short, gasping. Her sympathetic guard lay face down on the ground near the entrance; Jenkins, struggling to free himself from his bonds, sat nearby.

She ran first to the groom, pulling off the gag and wrestling to untangle the knots that bound him.

‘Are you all right, Miss Amanda?' he asked. ‘Your father will discharge me, and rightly, for letting that blackguard take you!'

‘I'm unharmed. Of course Papa shall not discharge you! How could you have known there would be brigands on the road in full daylight, any more than I did? Nor could you resist such superior numbers. But the guard!' she cried. ‘Did they…?'

‘Knocked him out,' Jenkins replied. ‘The group from town arrived before they could finish him off.'

Leaving Jenkins to free the last knots, she turned and put her fingers to the temple of the downed man. Mercifully, a pulse still beat strongly.

‘Could you carry him on your horse back to village?' she
asked Jenkins. ‘And look for Master George. I'm afraid he may be involved in this.'

‘Nay, miss, I can't leave you! I didn't bring no weapon, more's the pity, but if we hole up inside Neville Tour, won't nobody be able to take you.'

She shook her head. ‘There's no need; you heard Black John's men. They're heading back to secure their vessel. If I set off for Ashton straight away, taking the path over the fields that only the local men know, I'll be safe enough. Please, you know how precarious my father's health has been since losing my aunt and mother. I fear for his life itself, should his son be killed or injured. You must go for George at once!'

The downed farmer began stirring. Helping him to sit, Amanda said, ‘Let my groom help you into town. I haven't anything here to treat your hurts.'

‘I'll just make my way home, miss.' He touched his bloody head gingerly and grimaced. ‘Never thought it would happen, but the innkeeper at the Sloop and Gull were right. The folks rose against Black John at last.'

Amanda argued with him for a few minutes, but the farmer was adamant. Amanda suspected he wanted to be home and gone before any revenue officers made an appearance.

‘Will you at least give me your name, so my father can thank you?'

The injured man managed a grin. ‘Now, miss, you know with the Gentlemen it's best to ask no questions, in case the authorities was to question you later.'

He was probably right, Amanda thought. She wasn't very good at dissembling. After sending off the farmer with an admonition to take care, she turned to the groom.

‘You'll find my brother now, please?'

‘Aye, miss. You get yourself home, too, afore whoever be coming here arrives. You hear anything while you're going
through the fields, you spring that mare. Ain't a horse in the country can catch Vixen.'

Moments later, the groom was on his way and the farmer had limped out of sight. Time to collect her mount and ride home, before the townsmen arrived or any hint of the disturbance reached Papa.

As she recalled the shocking events since her departure from home, her legs suddenly went too weak to support her. Shocked, horrified, at what had happened, what had almost happened, she sagged back against the curtain wall.

Never in her life had she given a thought to travelling the countryside with more than a groom to accompany her. There had always been smugglers about, but they'd never operated in daylight and never, ever, accosted women.

She remembered Black John's mouth on hers, his rough hand snaking under her skirts. Nausea welled up, her head swam; for a moment, she thought she might be ill.

Sitting down on the ruined wall, she forced herself to take deep, steadying breaths. Nothing had happened, really. She'd lost her hat somewhere in the struggle and the brigand had threatened and manhandled her, but she was not truly hurt.

She'd not think of what he might have done. She must calm herself before she arrived home, lest her father sense her distress.

But as she rose to fetch her mare, she heard the pounding of hooves that announced a rider approaching at a gallop. Panic slashing through her again, she glanced about wildly for some crevice in the ruins where she might hide herself, for a stone or even a stick she might use as a weapon. Oh, why, believing a skirmish was imminent, had she not brought even a small pistol with her?

Finally she settled on a large round stone, pitiful as protection, but better than nothing. She'd just secreted herself behind
the crumbling walls of one of the outbuildings when she heard a shout. ‘Miss Neville! Amanda! Are you there?'

Surprise and joy welled up as she recognised Greville Anders's voice. She had no idea why he would be riding up, calling for her, but never in her life had she been happier to hear her name on anyone's lips.

Relief making her weak, she sank back against the rock wall. ‘Here,' she called, her voice despicably weak and trembling. ‘I'm in here.'

T
hank heavens, Miss Neville was still at the fortress! Greville thought as he pulled up his horse. Putting from his mind any thought of what the brigand might have done to her, the mere idea of which would make him crazy, he tossed down the reins, took his weapon in hand and sprinted in the direction from which her reply had come.

His poor mount was blown, after he'd urged him uphill at a steady gallop ever since he encountered Jenkins on the road from Salters Bay and learned Miss Neville had been held captive by Black John and his men. Despite Jenkins's assurance that she was quite unharmed, Greville vowed that if that brigand had laid a finger on her, he'd search him out and tear him limb from limb. Terrified for her safety and furious, he'd let the innkeeper and the other townsmen head back to the coast to intercept the smugglers while he proceeded on alone, driven by the need to make sure she was safe.

He'd never seen a lovelier sight than her slender form, seated on rock beside one of the ruins in the bailey. Picking up his pace, he rushed to her side, forcing the nightmarish visions
of brutal violation back into the dark cave from which they'd sprung.

‘Thank God you're all right!' he told her. ‘I met Jenkins on way, told him I'd come for you while he went back to Ashton to let everyone know you are safe. You…are unharmed?'

She nodded, trying to control her trembling lips. ‘I am now. But what of my brother? I sent Jenkins to find George and send him back to Ashton Grove.'

‘I already did. I think today's violence finally impressed him that dabbling in smuggling is not a game, but a risk that carries serious consequences. Are you truly all right? That villain did not touch you?'

She shook her head, but one hand went unconsciously to her lips.

‘That blackguard!' Greville exploded. ‘He did hurt you? By St George, I'll strike him down where he stands!'

‘He didn't have a chance to steal more than a kiss before news of the ambush in Salters Bay reached here. He and his men left with all speed for their ship, desperate to reach it before the townspeople got there. Anyway, I would have fought with everything I possessed to prevent him taking m-more.'

To his dismay, her voice broke and her calm demeanour splintered. Lips trembling, she gasped out a ‘sorry', hugged her arms about herself and dropped her gaze, tears tracking down her dusty cheeks.

The need to offer comfort was too strong to resist. ‘Poor sweetheart,' he murmured and pulled her into his arms.

Once she was safely cradled against his chest, her tears came in earnest, great gasping sobs that clawed at his heart while her fingers clung to his shoulders. He hugged her close, as he'd wanted to do for so long, savouring her scent and her softness.

Before his body got other ideas, he warned himself sternly
that comfort was all he would offer, no matter how tempting her lips or how deliciously soft the breasts pressed against him.

At last the storm of weeping subsided and she pushed away. Reluctantly he released her.

‘Mr Anders, I am indeed sorry. First I stumble into danger, then I weep all over your coat. You've no reason to believe me, but I'm not usually such a poor honey.'

Smoothing back a stray wisp of golden hair, he wiped a tear from under her eye. ‘It's my privilege to offer comfort. I'm only glad nothing else happened. I would have had to put to sea in pursuit of Black John and I'm still not quite healed enough to handle a tiller.'

That earned him a wobbly smile. ‘You'd have pursued him, for me?'

‘To the gates of hell. Him, or anyone who tried to harm you,' he replied, with implacable steel in his tone that could leave her in no doubt of his sincerity.

She took his hand and kissed it, then laid it against her cheek. ‘Thank you,' she murmured.

The sheen of tears as she looked up at him made the already bright blue of her eyes even deeper. Helpless to resist, he ran one gentle finger over her reddened lips. ‘It's an outrage that brigand touched these,' he murmured.

She stilled as he caressed her, mesmerised, then with an articulate murmur, leaned towards him. They both froze, held motionless a mere breath apart by the power of the attraction arcing between them.

The new Greville said to ignore it, to help her up, to send her home.

The old Greville whispered it was just a kiss, one she wanted as much as he did, and he'd been wanting to kiss her with every breath he took since their interlude in the library. Just one more sweet brush of the lips, then he'd put her firmly at arm's length and escort her home.

The long lashes shadowing her cheeks fluttered closed and she angled her face up, her lips offered in invitation. Even as his brain issued one last warning ‘no', he felt himself lean down and kiss them.

He half-expected, after the fright she'd just had, that she'd push him away and slap his face. He even had a quip of an apology for his effrontery half-formed in his brain.

Instead, she did something much more dangerous. Murmuring a breathy little sigh, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

Sweetness and lust and pleasure and anticipation flooded him. It had been so long, so very long since he'd felt the exquisite joy of a woman's embrace. But this was more than just a woman, any woman.

This was Amanda, a lady for whom he not only lusted, but whose kindness and generosity touched him, whose intelligence and competence he found admirable, whose independent, egalitarian views sparked in him a fascination as strong as his desire.

Then he felt the tentative, exploring touch of her tongue and all his good intentions of ending the kiss scorched into ash and crumbled. On a wave of remembered delight, the old Greville took command, his one driving impulse to take and give pleasure.

He opened his mouth to her, teased and encouraged her tongue to enter, exulted when she accepted that invitation, her lack of experience evident in its uncertain slide. Meeting it with his own, he licked playfully, lured her deeper, revelling in her gasp of pleasure as he stroked her tongue with his own and sucked gently.

His hands went under her cape, insinuating themselves upwards, his thumbs seeking her breasts. To his absolute delight, still she did not repulse him, instead gasping anew when his questing hands found the nipples as tight and hard-
peaked as he knew they'd be, palpable despite the barrier of her stays.

Oh, if only he could dispense with that garment, feel the silk of her skin beneath his fingertips, trace the pebbled tips, draw their budded beauty into his mouth and show her what delight he could give her with lips and teeth and tongue!

Ah, delight she would find indeed, for already she was gasping, her tongue now actively seeking his while she thrust her breasts into his hands.

He plumbed her mouth for maximum delight, using all his years of expertise, tucking his tongue into the crevice beneath hers, sucking the tip, drawing it into his mouth, then withdrawing to trace her swollen lips, to bite and tease and nibble. All the while, his fingers kept circling, pinching, caressing the taut nipples.

She gave a murmur of protest when his lips abandoned hers, only to arch her neck back with a gasp as he moved his mouth down her throat, tasting the hollow where the pulse beat wildly, nibbling and sucking at the tender skin at her jaw, nipping his way to her ear, dipping his tongue into its fragile shell.

His hands craved bare flesh. Enflamed by her ardent response, he wanted her pleasure to be complete, wanted to feel her shuddering with release in his arms. Leaning her back against the rock wall, he lowered one hand from her breast and dipped it beneath her skirts.

For an instant she stilled, but only for an instant. Then she was urging his hand up her leg as he revelled in the velvet softness. He toyed with her calf, the back of her knee, until her legs fell apart limply, allowing his hand to continue its upward quest.

He felt his own member, painfully hard in the confines of his breeches, leap when at last his seeking fingers reached the object of their desire, the tickle of moist curls at her centre. Her body tensed, then trembled as he gently parted her and found
the plump little nub rigid and already wet with the urgency of her desire.

Clutching him with desperate fingers, her head writhing against the wall, she widened her stance, offering him full access. Taking her mouth again tenderly, he licked her lips in rhythm to the slow stroke of his finger across that supremely sensitive spot.

Then, when the sobbing of her breath and pounding of her heart told him she had nearly reached her peak, he slid a finger into her tight wet passage as he continued to stroke the nub above. Seconds later, with a sharp cry, she came apart in his arms, thrusting her torso into his caressing hand as her pleasure crested.

For long sweet moments, rejoicing, exultant, he held her while she gasped as fulfilment rippled through her.

She was as beautifully passionate as he'd imagined. Only burying himself deep within her could have made the moment more exhilarating, and even the old Greville had retained sanity enough to refrain from attempting that.

Finally the shuddering ceased and she collapsed limply in his arms. As he cradled her on his chest, her eyes fluttered closed.

Though his needy member pulsed with regret that he'd not followed her on the path to ecstasy, he knew as sense returned to her, he'd likely pay a heavy enough penance for the liberties he'd just taken. But with old Greville insouciance, he refused to worry about the consequences.

Instead, a heady sense of exultant euphoria filled him. He wanted to wrap her in his arms, ride back with her to Ashton, shouting his joy to the countryside all the way. Take her to her chamber when they arrived and show her the even more remarkable ways he could make her body respond. Sleep with her in his arms, see how many times he could wake her to even
greater heights of joy. Teach her to pleasure him along the same path.

Take her to church.

Shock rolled through him at the implications of that thought. But though it surprised him, he didn't retreat in panic. Cradling her closer, grimly Greville admitted what he'd been avoiding this last week and more.

He, Greville Anders, former rake and gadabout, had tumbled mast-over-keel, complete and for all, into love with a women whose lifelong dream was to occupy a world which no longer had any appeal for him. Who aspired to a status and a role he could never provide for her, even if he wanted to. A woman with whom he would never share any more joy than he'd tasted in this stolen interlude.

The truth of that stark prediction settled in his bones and made them ache. For a long moment he went perfectly still, savouring her nearness and soft slumberous breaths, until he could bear to face the truth.

If this were all he'd ever have of her, he'd best make it memorable. Gently he traced her lovely face with a fingertip as, eyes closed, she murmured and nestled into his caressing touch. Settling her against his chest, he buried his face in her scented golden hair, every pad of his fingers memorising the contour of her ribs and back as he held her tight, tight enough to sear into him the feel of her body against his. Using hands and arms and body to express all the cherishing he wished he could voice, and wouldn't.

He refused to tempt her with the power of their attraction, an attraction she obviously felt as strongly as he did. To lure her to stay with him, persuade her to cast aside her dreams because she was what
he
wanted, would be to act against every tenant of honour bred into him, an honour that was perhaps even stronger for having been only lately discovered.

He could hardly expect her to suddenly decide she wished to
throw away her brilliant prospects and cast her lot with a man she'd known barely half a month. Nor, greatly as it would pain him to let her go, would he
want
her to choose him, unless and until she'd had the opportunity to experience all that London offered and decide if the reality of the dream she'd cherished so long was what she truly desired.

He recalled how she'd tried to smooth the tension between himself and Trowbridge at that dinner. How she soothed and cajoled her angry cousin. With her entrée among those of high estate and her empathy for the powerless, she was uniquely suited to claim the political role for which she longed.

If he must give her up, he hoped the leaders whose decisions would be discussed around her dining table and in her salon would be grateful; that the important legislation she helped move forwards by promoting compromise between opposing parties with a witty word or insightful remark would properly appreciate her intervention.

While careening along his previous indolent, sometimes angry, self-destructive course, he'd never sought or desired to find love. How ironic to unexpectedly encounter it now, when he'd matured enough to appreciate its worth, and to have to let it go.

He'd allow himself a final few minutes to indulge in bitterness over the fact that he'd been born a mere ‘mister' instead of a marquess, who might with untarnished honour offer his hand to the woman in his arms. The old Greville would have decried the unfairness of it, cloaked himself in anger and determined to debauch his way through the pain.

But he'd spent too many months among those who'd faced even taller odds and meaner futures. They toiled on, meagrely provisioned with hardtack and grog, daily facing dangers and privations. His position now was far more privileged and comfortable.

So the new Greville steeled himself to a hurt that stabbed
bone-deep. Fiercely glad, even if he could not hold her for ever, to have had this one afternoon stolen from time and fate and circumstance when she had been his alone.

He wasn't sure how long he cradled her there as the shadows lengthened and the stark outline of Neville Tour began showing black against the western sky. Finally, inevitably, her eyes fluttered open.

Stretching with sleepy satisfaction, she murmured, ‘That was…remarkable.' Then her eyes blinked fully open, and he saw the exact moment she recalled what they'd just done. ‘And incredibly ill advised.'