Stolen Away: A Regency Novella (5 page)

Opening her eyes, she pulled in a breath. She would just have to sort things out once they found Fitzjoy and Chloe. She forced herself to push away the uncharitable desire that somehow she might avoid ever finding her cousin and that Irishman.

* * *

Smothering a yawn with her hand, Chloe sagged against Fitzjoy. She did not want to lean against him, but she was so tired of this hard-seated gig. With the sun bright and the day warm, she had pulled off her cloak and had bunched it under her, but even that did not help. Hunger growled in her stomach. She thought that if she stood up now she would fall down, for her legs seem as stiff as the leather underneath her.

“Can we not stop?” she pleaded. She had asked before. And she got the same answer as ever. A wicked grin. But this time he also tucked his arm around her.

She stiffened. She ought to push him away. Or slap him. Or tell him to remove his touch from her person. However, his arm made it so easy to snuggle against him. And she could shift her weight a little now to a more comfortable position.

“Please? I’m ever so famished.”

He tightened his hold. “You won’t die of missing a meal. That much I know.”

“But I do not want to miss a meal. And I am parched beyond parched. Can we at least not stop for something cool to drink?”

Fitzjoy glanced at her. He looked up at the sky. A few hours of daylight left yet. Thank God for summer. He looked at the placid gelding who seemed to have the endurance of Job, if not the speed his four legs ought to warrant. Well, perhaps a short stop would not go amiss. He could use a stretch of the legs himself.

At the next crossing of a river, he guided the gelding off the road and pulled it to a halt, having to haul hard on the reins to stop the beast from its perpetual steady walk. After setting the brake, he jumped down. He turned and held up his arms to lift Chloe down.

His hands closed on the soft curve of her waist. Such a slip of a thing, really, he thought as she leaned into his hold. He swung her down, enjoying it more than he should. Golden curls bobbed, and her dress rustled, releasing a flowery scent that mixed with the warm summer air around them. She took an unsteady step, so he tightened his hold on her again. Just to steady her. Nothing more. He didn’t intend another kiss, but he found himself wanting one just the same.

She had a mouth made for tasting, lush and ripe and red. A mouth to tempt any man to his downfall. Ah, he’d have to watch that mouth of hers. And the rest of her as well, or she’d have him losing his wits. But Tyrone Michael Fitzjoy never did that. He was a man wise to the world. A man with ambitions. A man who only needed the funds for the scope of his vision.

She would give him that. Her and her tidy fortune. And her lack of male relatives to come after him. Oh, there was some uncle or other, but not much of a guardian really. He’d asked after her background well enough. The old fellow never left his club for all anyone knew, and she had only that lame old lady and that tall cousin of hers to care about. Thank God the money came with Chloe, not with that cousin with her aristocratic nose that she looked down at the world from. He had sworn to do anything to make his fortune, but he would rather tame this pigeon than that female hawk of a cousin of hers.

Chloe seemed to steady on her feet, but she did not move away. Instead, she gazed up at him from under dark, long, sooty lashes, and smiled. “Thank you.”

Warning danced along his skin, but the blaze she kindled elsewhere in him took his mind. He had seen her give other men that arch look—and he had ground his teeth when she had done so. But while he hoped to be no fool for her tricks, he had to admit they heated his blood just fine.

Taking a reluctant step away from the temptation of her, he swept a bow. “You’ve only to wish for water and here you are.”

Blue eyes dancing, she gave him a mock curtsy, turned and strolled to the river. He watched her, taking pleasure in the sway of lush hips under the brocade skirts. He grinned. A fine shepherdess she made, like something from that grand French queen’s court.

Frowning at himself, he turned away and strode to the gelding’s head. Undoing the check rein so the horse could graze, he muttered to himself, “It’s not your head you need to hold onto, lad. Just keep thinking of the money. You want her wed right and tight, so all that money’s yours.” He glanced toward the river. Ah, but what harm was there in stealing another kiss or two before he bound her and her fortune to him?

With a grin, he set off to the river.

He found her standing on the bank, her mouth pulled into a pout. She turned to him at once. “I have no cup.”

He thought about telling her that she had two hands. Or that she could—like any Irish lass—lean down and drink straight from the rapid shallows. It certainly wouldn’t hurt her to humble that stiff neck of hers a bit. But the pleading in her eyes and that childlike note of distress dug under his defenses.

With a shake of his head, he turned. It took but a moment to find a tree with broad enough leaves. He broke off the widest leaf he could find, shaped it into a funnel, and knelt by the river, an odd stirring inside him. When had he ever gone to so much trouble for a woman? Jaysus, but she could almost make him feel a ruddy knight, not some Irish knave.

Leaning out over the bubbling water, he cupped the leaf into the river, aware of her watching his movements.

The shove came hard and fast as Chloe pushed him into the river.

As Fitzjoy thrashed in the shallows, Chloe turned, picked up her skirts and ran for the gig. With luck, he would drown. Or at least be slowed enough for her to slip away. And it would serve him right to have to walk soaking wet to the next village. She smiled.

But she heard his curses. She ran faster, legs pumping hard and her breath shallow and fast.

The gelding startled as she ran for him, but he only took a step away before stopping again. She grabbed hold of the gig’s railing and pulled herself up into the seat. She would make her escape, and she would see this ruffian punished. Yes, she would.

She had almost gotten herself into the seat of the gig when a wet arm wrapped around her waist.

Kicking back, Chloe tried to hold onto the gig. Her slipper came off, and Fitzjoy dragged her from the carriage as easily as he had plucked that leaf from the tree. She squirmed in his hold, but he thumped her feet onto the ground. Spinning around on one foot, she failed at him with fists but he grabbed her wrists, dragging them behind her, pulling her sharp against him.

Breathing hard, she glared at him, but the hot flame in his black eyes stopped her from doing more.

He looked more than angry. Black eyebrows rode low over his dark eyes, and that wide, sensual mouth pulled into a hard line. Her heart thumped harder as she stared at him. His black hair, dry in front but dripping behind, clung to his neck. His wet clothes pressed against her stomach and thighs; however, the heat from his chest and arms seared through her. She could see the pulse beat livid and fast in his temples.

Perhaps she ought not to have pushed him into the water.

“I—I—” she stuttered, unwilling to apologize, but thinking she somehow ought to explain.

He shook her. “One more word and it’s walking you’ll be—back to London, and left by yourself! D’you hear me?”

Her eyes widened and she could only nod.

“You’re a spoilt girl, you are. And why it’s you haunting m’dreams instead of that nice Miss Parker with her ten thousand a year, I’ll—”

“I haunt your dreams?”

“Like a bloody succubus.”

She frowned. “Just what is that? It does not sound at all nice!”

“It’s a witch. A demon of a female—that’s what you are!”

“Well, I suppose that is a bit better than it sounded.”

Fitzjoy shook her again, furious with her now. “Better? I’ll tell you what would have been better—my never laying eyes on you. Or never hearing that you’d money. Or that I’d never need come to this Godforsaken land. Better would be my having more than a ruin of a house and five sisters to think of—not that I’m marrying you for any of them, mind. I’ve a taste for fine living, I have. I like having enough to eat as well—and having more than enough to drink. And fine linen suit me far better than rough cotton. It’s for them that I’m marrying you. Not for some crumbling ruin that would eat through your riches faster than famine can starve a man.”

With a last shake, he pushed her away. She stumbled on her hem and sat down hard on the ground. Tears started to her eyes. She seemed to struggle with them a moment, and burst out in sobs, her words half-choked, “No one ever wants me!”

“Ah, sweet saints in heaven,” Fitzjoy muttered, not knowing if it was a curse or a prayer, and wondering what he did now with this plague of an heiress.

* * *

The news did not cheer him. Arncliffe glanced at the young groom who stood before him, cap clutched in his hands. The fellow’s chest had puffed with pride at having been first back—and within the hour. Arncliffe had promised a guinea for any news and double that if brought at once. However, he had not expected these tidings.

Folding his hands behind his back, Arncliffe smiled anyway. He could think of more questions, but none this lad could answer, so he only said, “Thank you, John. Smollet will see to your reward. Please ask him to call the others back. Oh, and is a fresh team at the ready as I asked?”

“Yes, m’lord. And thank you, m’lord.” With a bow, the groom took himself off. Arncliffe turned and strode through his town house to the back garden.

He had brought Audrey to Arncliffe House, for he could think of nowhere else for her to wait as he organized the hunt for word of Fitzjoy. He certainly did not want to leave her at some public inn, and she could not go home—although she ought to now, he thought. The groom had been quite specific about what the gatekeeper at the crossroads for the New Kent Road and the London Road had said of the woman traveling with Fitzjoy.

A right pretty piece.

The gatekeeper had remembered the Irishman, both for the early hour he had passed and the beauty of the lady with him. That description, however, seemed far too vulgar to fit any lady. Nor did suit it the possibility of a sister.

A right pretty piece.

Arncliffe frowned. Perhaps Fitzjoy, having given up hope for Miss Colbert, had sought consolation in other arms. Even so, that did not put Fitzjoy in the most pleasant of lights. What was Audrey doing conceiving a fancy for such an unsteady fellow?

A day ago Arncliffe would have described her as a sensible woman, dependable, and even-tempered. The sort to make wise decisions. He had thought her kind, elegant, but with a dry sense of humor. Of course, two weeks ago he would have described his betrothed in much the same terms, but she had since made him wonder if knew nothing of women. Perhaps that was the truth. With a shake of his head, he let himself out of the house and strode into the garden, which had just begun to hint at the lush flowering of summer.

Audrey glanced up. She rose from where she had been sitting on a stone bench set in an arched, wrought-iron arbor. For a moment he hesitated, his thoughts tangling suddenly like a schoolboy’s. She had washed the dust from her face and had done something with her hair, piling it loosely instead of pulling it back in a tight knot. That wretched bonnet was gone, and the late afternoon light pulled a soft nimbus from her hair, finding touches of gold in the brown. The light also outlined long, shapely legs within the thin muslin of her gown and shift.

Arncliffe’s mouth went dry.

He had never seen her this way before, and jumbled thoughts of ancient pagan priestess or goddesses flitted past, what with that proud carriage of hers and the lush foliage around her, and...

And what was he doing entertaining such notions when he was engaged to another? Had he not just condemned Fitzjoy for such fickle behavior?

Audrey game forward, her expression anxious as she asked, “You have word?”

To make amends for his gaping at her, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and started with her to the front of the house, keeping his eyes fixed on his steps and not on her. “Southampton it must be. His carriage passed by the tollgate at the Elephant and Castle in the early hours on the road southwest. I doubt we’ll cover the distance in anything less than eight or nine hours, but if you care to leave now, we’ve a few hours of daylight and a full moon tonight.”

“Yes, please, do let us leave at once.”

He stopped in the hallway and turned to her. He dared not say anything of the woman traveling with Fitzjoy—what if his suspicions were wrong and she was
Miss
Fitzjoy? Still, he had to give Audrey some warning of what they might discover at the end of this quest.

“Miss Colbert—Audrey, I...well, I am going to pry again. Are you certain you wish to do this? Having committed myself to another, I think I can speak from experience when I caution you to rethink your passion while you can. The heart can choose so unwisely.”

She looked away, her cheeks as pink as the rose buds in his garden. “Do we ever really have a choice in such matters, or is it something that happens to us? Something beyond our control—falling is perhaps an apt description. An unavoidable trip and fall. We are drawn to someone because of some attribute, some element of beauty or grace, some quirk of personality, and then, quite out of our control, the heart tangles on deeper feelings and is caught.”

He still held her hand he realized, for her fingers trembled within his. Fearing to break the intimacy between them, he kept his voice soft as he said, “But perhaps one trips and falls less often if one does not have one’s head in the clouds?”

She looked at him, her gaze now steady, her eyes endlessly deep. Her lips curved in a faint smile. “But how dull to be a plodding person who is too careful and too safe. I’d rather have my passions misspent than face a life spent without love.”

“Even if that love should prove to be in vain?”

“Oh, there is always a lesson to be learned, a gift waiting to be discovered even in the most heart-wrenching of loves—and so how could that prove worthless? No, the sadness, I believe, is only to find oneself incapable of love. That would be an empty life. But we are wasting time, my l—Connor.”

Her smile widened as she said his name and the urge swept over him to simply pick her up carry her out to his coach and take her away with him. A ridiculous idea, really. The Marquess of Arncliffe could never do such a thing. Not when he had promised himself to another. And not when hAudrey’s feelings were engaged elsewhere. But he found himself entranced by her words, by her low, throaty voice, by the hint of passion in her tone. Entranced and wondering why had he spent so much more time with her dazzling cousin rather than with this quietly attractive lady?

* * *

 
Life had to get better after this, Chloe decided, glancing about her as moonlight filtered into the barn.

Not so much a barn, she decided. More a ruin. And not even a romantic ruin of an abbey or a castle. Just some stone walls, the faint smell of cow, musty straw, and a thatched roof that showed glimpses of stars and rising moon. She sighed—but Fitzjoy was not near to hear her. Or was he?

After her tears had spent themselves, he had helped her to her feet, tossed her into the gig. He climbed up beside her and said not a word more. She had thought a few times about saying something, only each time she glanced at his face, his expression made her think that perhaps she really ought to keep quiet. He did not look a man who could be pushed any further.

Mouth tight, eyes dark, he had kept the gig to country lanes, skirting past villages and avoiding the main roads. Dust had made Chloe sneeze, but she said nothing. She had sat with her hands folded, sniffling occasionally and giving deep sighs, but he had never asked about these.

At some point, she must have fallen asleep, for she woke to find it dark and to find herself being carried in Fitzjoy’s arms. She had stirred, but he had laid her onto something softer than hard ground. A faint musty odor drifted to her, but she only wrinkled her nose and snuggled into soft fabric, drifting off again.

Hunger had woken her. She sat up to find herself on a bed of straw, her cloak laid over it to keep the shafts from poking her. Moonlight streamed into the barn—or what had looked like a barn to her, what with the gelding dozing in a corner of the structure and wide doors open to show the gig in the yard of what looked a ruined farmhouse.

There had been no sign of Fitzjoy.

She shivered now and thought about pulling her cloak around her, but what would she sit on then? Besides, summer warmed the air around her. Night birds of some sort sang, and she could hear animals rustling in the surrounding woods.

She could leave now, she supposed, but where would she go? She had no idea of their location. She ought to have paid more heed to their direction. But even if she knew more, she did not care to wander about the countryside at night.

Her stomach growled and she put a hand over it.

A soft voice drifted to her, startling her. “Is it a lion you keep tucked inside you?”

She relaxed, relieved to have company—even his company—and to hear the pleasant lightness back in his voice. However, she forced a frown. She really could not display her happiness at having him return. But then she caught the scent of roast chicken.

“Food! Oh, you wonderful man! I vow I would eat a lion if you had brought me one.”

With a flash of white teeth he sat down beside her. Shadows obscured his face. However, he must have seen her pale hands for he took one and placed a cloth in it. She fumbled with the bundle, finding half a roast chicken tied inside.

She glanced up at the dark shadow next to her. “Do you not have a plate? And I shall need a fork and knife, please. And something to drink—I would prefer wine rather than lemonade.”

For a moment, he did not answer. Then he gave a low chuckle. “So would I, dear one. But what you have is what’s in your hands. And if you’re too much a lady to eat with your fingers, I’ll be glad enough to finish it for you.”

She glared at him, but realized he could not see her doing so. And the bird really did smell delicious. “I suppose if you can do no better than this, I shall have to make do!” She bit into the chicken. Warm juices dribbled down her chin. She wiped them with her fingers and settled into eating.

“Do no better?” he said after a moment, his tone aggrieved. “That’s not much gratitude.”

Swallowing a mouthful of chicken, she said, scorn in her voice, “Yes, I suppose I ought to be grateful you rescued me from a marriage to the Marquess of Arncliffe. How awful that would have been to be obliged to be a great lady!”

He gave a laugh. “And that’s to wound me, is it now? The thought of you married to a stuffy lord—as if you’d ever be happy with that.”

“He is not stuffy. He is...dignified.”

“A veritable boring paragon of virtue. And what would you be wanting with that? Him and his lot are things of the past, or they will be soon enough. Their kind thinks a man’s birth or the cut of his coat means something more than what’s in his head or what he can do with his hands! They don’t even see the revolutions changing the world around ‘em, and not just the political ones, mind. There’s fortunes to be made with new industries and new inventions. It’s the men of the City—the bankers, the merchants, the ones putting in manufactories and backing clever inventions—”