The Scoundrel and the Debutante (11 page)

Mr. Matheson sensed her hesitation to move back as he'd commanded her, and shook his head. “You're careless, aren't you, just like my sister.”

“I am not your sister,” she said to his mouth.

A lopsided smile of appreciation appeared on his lips. “No, you're not.” His gaze wandered down, to her spencer. “Have a care, Prudence. There will be a young man who comes along—”

Mr. Matheson suddenly scrambled to his feet, squinting into the shadows that had moved in around them.

“What is it?” Prudence asked, jumping to her feet, too.

He put a finger to his lips, indicating she should be silent and stepped forward, scanning the trees around them. She saw him tense just as three men emerged from the woods, spread out a bit, so that there was no possibility of running past them. Prudence's heart began to pound.

“Wha' have we here?” The one who spoke was tall as a tree and was missing some teeth. “A lovers' tryst?” The other two men, who were just as bedraggled as the tall one, laughed.

Prudence felt ill. The horrible tales that Mercy used to tell her were rearing up in her memory.

“Good evening, sirs,” Mr. Matheson said, bracing his legs apart, his hands fisted at his sides. “I'd ask you to dine, but as you can see, we've nothing to share.”

The tall man's gaze slid to Prudence. “Don't ye, indeed?” he drawled as his gaze moved over her.

Prudence thought she might vomit. She must have made a sound of distress, because Mr. Matheson gripped her arm and pulled her to stand behind him. “As I said, we've nothing to share,” he reiterated, his voice deep and angry.

The tall man moved closer, and his two cohorts circled around them. One of them stooped to pick up Prudence's valise.

“No!” she gasped, then heard the sickening thud of fist on bone. Mr. Matheson had apparently hit the tall man squarely in the face when she'd cried out, knocking him to the ground. He leaped on him before he could gain his feet.

Prudence shrieked as the two men began to roll about on the ground trading punches, rendered almost immobile with her fear for Mr. Matheson's safety. Especially when the tall man's two companions pulled Mr. Matheson off him.

But Mr. Matheson was not ready to end his fighting. He took a swing at one of the two men, connecting with his jaw with such a crack of bone on bone that Prudence thought she might be sick. That man tumbled to the ground, his hands covering his face. Mr. Matherson continued to fight all three of those men, managing to strike them all and to dance just out of their reach. In the melee, his pistol fell and scudded across the grass. Prudence dived for it, picking it up before any of the other men had noticed.

But tackling three grown men at once was all too much for Mr. Matheson—and with some difficulty, the two men finally caught hold of Mr. Matheson's arms and held him while the tall man hit him in the stomach.

Prudence panicked then, fearing Mr. Matheson would be killed, and without thinking, she screamed.

That scream brought all four heads around as if they thought someone else had joined them.

“Are you mad!” Prudence shouted at them. “Do you think his lordship will waste a single moment finding who has done this to his guest?”

The tall man's fist froze midswing. He slowly turned toward her.

“That's right,” she said heatedly, nodding with great enthusiasm as she hid the gun in the folds of her gown. “This man is the guest of Lord Cargyle!”

“Prudence, don't—” Mr. Matheson tried, but one of the men ended whatever he might have said with a punch to the ribs.

The tall man laughed. “Cargyle, you say, pretty? He be
miles
from here,” he said, slowly advancing on her. “No one to hear yer screams.”

Prudence couldn't catch her breath. She suddenly brought the gun up, pointing it at the tall man before he took another step. “Or yours,” she croaked.

The gun served its purpose—he hesitated and lifted his hands. “Put the gun down, pretty,” he said. “Ye don't know how to use it—”

“But I do,” she said. Her voice was hoarse with fear. “My father, the Earl of Beckington, made sure of it.”

With a hoot of delight, the man looked back at his companions. “Beckington, is it?” he repeated, and bowed grandly...but his gaze was on her gun.

Prudence cocked it as Mr. Matheson had shown her how to do.

“Prudence,
don't
—”

“Shoot him?” she finished quickly. Her heart was pounding so hard now that she was shaking. “Let him go,” she said to the tall man. “Let him go now, or I will shoot you square between the ears!”

“Will you now,” the tall man said, and grinned in a lascivious and disgusting manner. She knew instinctively that he sensed her fear. He began to move toward her again. “I like a lass with a bit o' fire in her.”

“Prudence!” Mr. Matheson shouted at her, which was followed by another sickening thud of fist on bone.

Prudence was frightened, but she was also very angry. She was suddenly reminded of the lesson Lady Chatham, a grand dame of Mayfair society, had told Prudence and the other debutantes who would be presented at court. “It will not do to look as if you might faint,” Lady Chatham had said. “Clasp your hands at your back and squeeze them tight to keep from shaking.”

Prudence did that now, clasping her hands so tightly around that gun that it felt as if the metal was cutting into her skin. She lifted her chin, looked the man in the eye, just as she'd met the king's eye. “Take one more step, and I will shoot you, sir. That is your only warning.” She sighted him with the gun pointed directly at his head.

The tall man's gaze narrowed. He studied her, clearly debating. “Give me the gun.” He lunged for it at the same moment Prudence fired. She couldn't say what part of him she hit, only that she'd hit him—he screamed and fell to the ground. His companions dropped Mr. Matheson and ran for him. In the chaos, Mr. Matheson managed to get to his feet. He struck out at one of the men with a knife, slashing across his arm.

“Get him up, get him up!” one of the men shouted, and they helped the tall one to his feet. He was clutching his arm as they half dragged, half pushed him back into the woods.

Prudence stood there, the gun pointed ahead of her, trembling badly.

“Prudence? Put the gun down,” Mr. Matheson said hoarsely.

Her gaze moved from the trees to him. He was on two feet, weaving. The knife he'd pulled from the air clattered to the dirt. And then he collapsed down to his knees. “Oh!
Oh!
”
she cried and scrambled for him, catching him before he toppled over, sinking to her knees with her arms around his shoulders.

“That's right,” Mr. Matheson sputtered, wincing with pain, his arm across his abdomen. “Run, cowards.”

She couldn't make out all of Mr. Matheson's injuries in the low light of the fire, but one eye was swelling and his nose was bloodied.

He wrapped his fingers around her arm, and she noticed the state of his knuckles. “Help me up. I don't want to die sprawled here like a drunk,” he said, wincing as if the words caused him pain.

“You can't die,” she said frantically, and with both hands, grabbed his arm, pulling him up. “I won't allow it! Please, Mr. Matheson, please!”

He managed to keep himself upright and grinned at her as she helped him stagger to his feet. “See? Right as rain,” he said breathlessly, and threw a heavy arm around her shoulders. “Where's the gun? We should keep it close, I think. And the knife, if you can find it.”

She dipped down and picked up the gun. Mr. Matheson swayed unsteadily as he made sure it wouldn't fire. “Well done, Prudence Cabot,” he said. “I think you saved our hides. Speaking of which, where is the nag?”

Prudence looked frantically about. “She's here, still eating.”

“Smart thieves—they knew better than to take her.” He stumbled; Prudence caught him with an arm around his waist. She managed to drape his arm over her shoulder. She struggled under his weight but was able to direct him to a tree and help him down. He settled with his back against it. His breathing was shallow as he attempted a smile for her. “I didn't leave an arm or a leg behind, did I?”

She shook her head. “It's my fault,” she said, swallowing back tears. “It's my fault we ever came upon that tavern.”

“I won't argue that,” he said, and stroked her cheek. “But fortunately for you, I don't hold a grudge.”

“I'm so sorry, Mr. Matheson,” she said, her voice full of the despair she felt.

He groaned and closed his eyes. He must hate her now for having stolen onto the stagecoach. If she hadn't, he would be safely on his way to Weslay, and she would be waiting for Mr. Bulworth to send his man for her. Prudence felt awfully stupid—what had seemed like such an amusing and harmless stand against propriety this morning now seemed the most frightening and foolhardy thing she'd ever done. She was very fortunate they'd not killed Mr. Matheson.
Stupid, stupid girl!

“Give me some whiskey, will you?” he asked. “I have some in my bag.”

Prudence scrambled up and hurried to the place she'd last seen the man with her bag. But there were no bags. She whirled around, trying to see past the light of the fire. “They're gone!” she cried. “They took our bags!”

“Goddamn it,” he uttered.

She picked up the knife and returned to his side, knelt beside him and put her hands in the pockets of his coat, which was still lying on the ground. She found a handkerchief and used it to dab at the blood around his nose. “You need a doctor.”

“I'm sure I look much worse than I truly am. Horrible, is it? Terrifying?”

“Terrifying,” she agreed, and tried again to wipe the blood from his nose, but he caught her wrist and pulled her hand away, laced his fingers with hers as he rested his head back against the tree.

“I'm so very sorry, Mr. Matheson,” she whispered again.

“Yes, well,” he said, wincing deeply as he moved to one side, his hand going to his ribs. “I don't know if I'll die tonight, but if I do, I would like to leave this earth hearing my given name on your lips.”

“You won't die
.
”

“That's certainly my sincerest hope, but one can never know when hospitality is extended so violently. I once heard of a fellow who dropped dead two days after a fight.”

“Two days!”

“You see? My demise could come at any moment. So give this dying man his wish and say it, Prudence,” he said, taking her hand in his. “Say my name.”

“Roan,” she said. “But you won't die, Roan. You
won't
.”

“Ah, at last,” he said, and smiled as he closed his eyes. He rested their hands on her knee. “You astonished me tonight. Very brave and clever on your feet.”

Prudence smiled sheepishly. She hadn't been brave, she'd been rash. She looked at his hand atop hers, battered and bloodied. “But...but what am I to do now?” she whispered as she tried to clean the blood from his knuckles.

“Do?” He opened one eye, put his hand on her shoulder, gripping it, pulled her forward, then drew her near enough that he could put his arm around her. He tugged her into his body and held her there, his weight sagging against hers. He set the gun and handed it to her. “You fire if they come back, and this time, hit him square between the eyes, will you?” He sighed and closed his eyes. “In the meantime, I'll think on it.”

“They'll kill us if they come back.”

He said nothing.

Prudence sat up to look at him. “Mr. Matheson? Roan?” She jostled his shoulder. It was no use—his eyes were closed. The man had fainted. Or had he died?

CHAPTER EIGHT

R
OAN
WAS
BENT
over the neck of his favorite horse, Baron, flying as fast as the stallion could run across the fields at his family's home in New York. He was certain he would be too late to warn the lumber train that the wheel would come off the wagon as they headed down into the Hudson Valley. But he and Baron were presented with obstacle after obstacle—fallen trees, swollen rivers, a fence too high for Baron to vault. As he neared the road, Roan saw that the wagons had already started down the hill. He opened his mouth to bellow at them at the same time the strong odor of manure enveloped him—

Roan awoke with a grunt.

He blinked against the dark light, his gaze finding the embers of what was left of the fire. He wrinkled his nose at the offensive smell, courtesy of the nag, who stood only a few feet away. Roan grimaced at the stiffness in his body; the shooting pain in his side. That damn Goliath might have broken his rib. But Roan's heart and his lungs appeared to be working. Nothing more than a few painful bruises.

He'd live, then, which was more than he could say for that tree of a man. He wasn't sure where the bullet had struck him, but there had been enough blood for Roan to know he wouldn't come back for more.

He glanced to his left, and his gaze landed on Prudence curled onto her side, her back to him, the gun still in her hand. Her golden hair spilled around her. He leaned closer, squinting—she had leaves in her hair. He wondered idly what had become of the bonnet with the bothersome feather.

Roan watched her sleeping, the slow rise of her chest, the gentle fall.

Now he felt something else, too. Desire—pure, hot and urgent. He put his hand on her hip.

Prudence came up with a gasp, rolling onto her back, waving the gun about. Roan caught it. “It's all right,” he said.

When she saw that it was he who had disturbed her sleep, she let go, sighed sleepily and pushed herself up to sit beside him. “You're alive.”

“I can't tell from the tone of your voice if you are pleased or not.”

“I'm relieved. I keep hearing noises, and I think it's them, come back to rob us.”

Roan winced again, but this time at his inability to have provided her with the slightest bit of security. “We're safe,” he said. “Our bags are the only thing of value. They won't be back.” Even if they did return, Roan had no doubt he could and would squeeze the life from them with his bare hands in spite of his battered body. He gave Prudence a sympathetic smile. “I know you will defend me most ardently,” he said. “I like that about you, Prudence Cabot.”

She clucked her tongue at him. “I was terrified,” she said. “I thought they were going to kill you.”

So had he, but Roan didn't like to think about that. It reminded him of a time he was in Canada, set upon by some men over a card game. He thought he would die that night, too, as the men had come seemingly from nowhere for him and Beck, brandishing sticks. It was a miracle that he and Beck had emerged from that encounter alive—and able to walk. They'd lost their horses, however, and had it not been for the kindness of a widow and her very lovely daughter, well...

Roan didn't want to think of that now. He was glad that he hadn't met his demise tonight. Very glad, indeed.

“You must be thirsty,” Prudence said, and began to pick herself up.

“I'm all right,” he said, and smiled reassuringly. “Americans are a hardy lot. I refuse to allow a few English brutes to beat the spirit out of me.” Even if that was exactly what the Englishmen had done. “Why don't you sleep?” he suggested to her. “I'll keep the eye that's not swollen open.”

Prudence smiled wearily. With the weak light from the embers, she looked even younger than he'd originally thought. How old was she? Twenty years? Younger? He got up, put wood on the fire and stirred the embers beneath it.

She rubbed her temples. Her hair, which in this new light looked even more spun of gold, had come completely out of its pins. When she noticed him looking at her she said, “I hope you can forgive me.”

“Forgive you?”

“For this,” she said. She drew her knees up under her gown and wrapped her arms around them, resting her chin on her knees. “If I had joined Dr. Linford as I was supposed to have done, you would have been on the public coach and never would have encountered those wretched men.”

“What's done is done,” he said, wincing as he moved his back against the tree once more, settling there. “No point in dwelling on it. We can only go forward from here.”

She idly played with a stick beside her foot. “Admit it. You wish you'd never laid eyes on me.”

“I will admit no such thing because it is not true,” Roan said. “But satisfy my curiosity, will you? Why did you really avoid Linford? Were your sisters' actions really so awful?”

She groaned. “It's really too mortifying to confess.”

“It can't be more mortifying than sleeping on a riverbank, can it?”

She smiled. “That is a very good point.” She pushed locks of golden hair from her face and considered her stick a long moment. “I suppose it all began when my stepfather, the Earl of Beckington, contracted consumption,” she said. “Augustine—he's my stepbrother—was to inherit all. He's very generous, but his fiancée did not fancy sharing the family fortune with four stepsisters who were not married and had no current prospects.”

Roan winced again, but this time, it was in sympathy for the man who would have a wife and four unmarried sisters. He could not imagine the amount of money that would be spent on shoes alone.

“My mother was very little help to us, unfortunately. That was the same time she began to first exhibit the signs of madness.”

“She's mad?” Roan asked, uncertain if Prudence meant it in the literal sense of the word.

“As a cuckoo bird,” Prudence solemnly confirmed. “We tried to hide it, for we all knew that once society discovered it, things would be said. Gentlemen would fear that madness might somehow run in our blood and be introduced into their children through any daughter of hers.”

“Do you believe that?” he asked. He'd never really thought of it before now. But then again, he very rarely thought of marriage.

Prudence shook her head. “My mother's madness began with a carriage accident. There's no history of it otherwise, but it hardly matters. No one among the Quality would risk it. Added to that, we were without our stepfather to provide a proper dowry. Suddenly, everything looked quite impossible for us.”

“So that's the scandal,” Roan said. “Your mother's madness. That's why you said your sisters were married unconventionally. Someone not in keeping with your situation, is that it?”

“I wish that's all there was to it,” Prudence said, sighing. “The scandal began with my older sisters, Honor and Grace. Once it became clear that the earl would die, and Augustine would marry Monica Hargrove, and our mother was mad, they had these perfectly ridiculous ideas for how to gain offers of marriage.” Prudence sounded perturbed by this. “Their idea was to marry before anyone discovered our woes. They reasoned that if they hooked a rich husband, they'd be able to help my mother, as well as Mercy and me when we were cast out of society,” she said with mock darkness.

Roan shrugged. “Sounds oddly reasonable.”

“Perhaps in theory,” Prudence agreed. “But in practice, it was scandalous. Honor proposed marriage quite publicly to a wealthy man of illegitimate birth, and Grace attempted to trap a man into marriage and did so very successfully—only she trapped the
wrong
man.”

Roan laughed.

Prudence did not. “All of this is well-known in London and the Quality
,
you know, and as a result of their actions, and my mother's madness, and our lack of dowry, Mercy and I are not considered a very good match. Mercy hardly cares—she is quite talented with her art, and she is determined to be an artist of note. She swears she will never marry. Lord Merryton paid a dear price to have her admitted into a prestigious school to study, and Mercy is beside herself with joy. She says she is perfectly content to travel the world and create beautiful art. She doesn't concern herself with society and advantageous marriages.”

“Do you?” Roan asked.

Prudence's shoulders slumped. “I don't know. I suppose I do. It's been four years since Grace trapped the Earl of Merryton into marriage. No one has shown the slightest interest in me since that time, and I think I will die of tedium. And to make matters worse, I've resided at Blackwood Hall for the past two years, which is as remote a place as this,” she said, gesturing around her. “I care for my mother. I am occasionally invited to this evening or that, but I have no society to speak of. I am only two and twenty and I am destined to be put on the shelf.”

“That can't be true—”

“But it is,” Prudence said. “You can't possibly understand my situation, I think, but that is why I put myself on that coach today. I wanted...” She paused and drew a deep breath. “I wanted to know what it feels to
live.
I've always been good and decent and I've followed all the rules, and it didn't matter. Honor and Grace are married, and they love their husbands and they have beautiful children. Mercy has set her sights on something else entirely. All I ever wanted was to marry and have a family of my own, and it appears I can't have that. Now all I want is to know what life feels like outside the walls of Blackwood. I want to know adventure. I want to feel excited about something. I want to know all those things I've lost since I've been shut away.”

Roan didn't know how to assure her. He knew nothing of the way marriages were made in England, but he understood her. In New York, they'd had a time of it settling Aurora on one gentleman who met with their satisfaction of being worthy of her and their business interests, so he could see how something like this might affect a woman like Prudence. Even he was prepared to sacrifice for the sake of his family's prosperity and standing.

Prudence was watching him, her luminescent gaze seeking reassurance, he supposed. He wanted to say something to soothe her. “Life is... It is what you make it,” he tried, the words sounding inadequate to him.

“Yes?” She leaned slightly forward, as if she feared she might miss a piece of valuable advice that might turn her life about.

How he wished he could give her that. “What I mean is that life doesn't come to you. You can't sit in some parlor and wait for it to appear at your door.”

Prudence nodded as if to agree with what he said.

“No matter what your circumstance, it is up to
you
to create the life you want to live.”

“Do you truly think so?”

“Of course I do.” Roan lived by those words every day. Yet he was keenly aware he would never offer such advice to Aurora. She was a year older than Prudence, and he would never give that girl as much as an inch, knowing that she'd take a mile. But here he sat, offering it to Prudence, essentially suggesting to her that what she'd done today was not only all right, but perhaps even justifiable given her circumstances.

Did Aurora have the same, unfulfilled desires as Prudence? Should he find her behavior justified? Roan was strangely uncertain.

Which made him a worse scoundrel than he'd realized. He knew as well as he knew the pain in his side that he advised Prudence Cabot to follow her desire because he liked her. He
liked
that she had boarded his coach because she'd found him appealing. He liked that she had been with him today, nestled tightly between his legs. He liked the way she'd fearlessly brandished a gun and shot that cretin, in spite of the fact she might have seen them both killed.

He had enjoyed this day of adventure with her. It had made him long for his own freedom of choice. Of course Roan had his freedom—he could do whatever he liked. But of late, he'd felt the weight of responsibility. Of needing to give his word to his father and John Pratt. To be fair, he hadn't promised Susannah anything at all other than to return soon...but all else was understood. It was assumed by everyone he would formally propose marriage to her when he returned and had settled Aurora.

Both he and Aurora were bound to marry for the sake of the family.

He looked at Prudence with her hazel eyes and golden hair and plush lips and said, “I think you should live as you want.” It wasn't a lie—it was everything that made him who he was.

Prudence's response shocked him. Completely and utterly
shocked
him. Because the moment he uttered those words, Prudence half lunged, half fell across him, landing awkwardly against his chest, her lips finding his. Pain shot through him and he sucked in his breath, but Prudence was not deterred. She kissed him as ardently as he'd kissed her under the sycamore tree.

He hadn't meant she was to seek
this
. He put his hands on her arms and pushed her back, grimacing.

“Oh!” she exclaimed at the sight of him, and stroked his face, her fingers trailing hot across his skin, touching his bruised lip and swollen eye. “Did I hurt you? I meant to... I thought I'd—”

“I know what you thought,” he said, and put his hand on her hip, pushing her to her side. “You thought to take advantage of a poor, disabled man.” He moved her onto her back, rolling with her so that he was on his side. “Never underestimate a man's strength, no matter if he's been injured,” he said. “And
never
doubt that every man is a scoundrel, no matter how he appears. Every last one of us is bursting with desire for women like you. Look at me now, Pru, look carefully, because this is how pure desire appears. I should leave you be. I shouldn't touch you, but I am bursting with desire.”

He moved over her, kissing her, and when he did, Prudence made a kittenish sound that sluiced through him. Roan's pain began to slough away—he felt nothing but raw want rising up in him. His blood began to percolate, even as he scolded himself for it. He was the man he despised. He'd made promises, given his word...but he was weak. He was as weak as a toddler with a jar of candy when a woman as beautiful as Prudence lay beneath him. The devil in him urged him on, encouraged by her lusty response.