She heard him crashing through the forest. To her right, not far, but not yet upon her.
She jumped to her feet and ran directly into a root, tripped and went hurtling forward. She didn’t bring her tied wrists up in time to protect her face, and so she swallowed dirt and leaves.
She felt pain spreading through her and lay there a moment, panting. Where was he? She spat out the dirt, the damp leaves. Her face hurt. She raised her bound hands and felt the scratches. Her fingers came away red with blood.
Then she felt the earth shuddering beneath her. He was closer. In just a few moments he would see her. What was left of her ripped nightgown was hanging off her, but it was white. He would see white in a flash.
She began crawling, keeping as close to the ground as she could. When his voice faded, she stood and ran again. She ran until a stitch in her side brought her to a gasping halt. She leaned against a tree, trying to slow her breathing.
“Well, at last I’ve got you.”
Rohan knew the shack was near. He kept picturing it in his boy’s mind. He had to keep Gulliver to a walk, for the trees twisted all around him, the thick branches were weapons, making even a canter impossible.
Then his blood curdled.
He heard a woman’s scream. And then a yell. “No, damn you, no!”
He pulled the pistol from his belt. He aimed it into the air. But he didn’t fire, even though he knew the blast would echo through the thick forest and alert the man who’d taken her that help was near. He didn’t fire because he realized the man would probably escape and he wanted that man very badly.
More than anything, Rohan wanted that man.
He heard the man yelling, cursing.
Then he was on them. The man was on top of her. Damnation, was he raping her? Her nightgown was in shreds, hanging off her, the man was between her legs, heaving over her. Jesus, he was choking her.
Then the man looked up to see Gulliver nearly upon him. For an instant he froze, undecided what to do.
Then he struck her, leapt to his feet, and took off running. Rohan calmly raised his pistol and fired. The impact lifted the man off his feet and slammed him into a tree.
Susannah came slowly up to her knees. Her head hurt ferociously where the man had just struck her. She saw Ro-han fire, saw him leap off Gulliver’s broad back and run toward her. She turned slowly and saw the man lying some ten yards away at the base of a tree. Was he dead? She hoped not. She wanted to kill him herself.
“Rohan,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You came. Bless you.”
“My God,” he said, grabbing her arms and lifting her up. “Are you all right?” He stared at the dirty face, the tangled hair. He refused to look at her body. On the other hand, he was a man, with a reputation to maintain. So he looked, but only for a moment.
“You came,” she said again. “I prayed you would. I’m all right, just sore.”
He didn’t think, just pulled her against him. She felt his steady heartbeat next to hers. She tucked her face against his neck. “You came,” she said again, and yet again. “I was so frightened.”
“It looks like you very nearly escaped him. How did he catch you?”
“I had to untie my ankles. It gave him time to catch up to me.”
“It’s over now.” He took off his coat and helped her into it. She pulled it closed over her breasts. It came to the top of her thighs, which was at least something.
“Stay here. I didn’t kill him, only hit him in the arm. Let me see what condition he’s in.”
The bullet had gone exactly where Rohan had aimed it, straight through the man’s upper arm. However, his head must have struck the tree when he fell. He was unconscious. Rohan took off the old felt hat and pulled down the man’s cravat. The man hadn’t wanted her to see him, which meant he hadn’t wanted to kill her. That was something. He studied the man’s face. He had never seen him before. “Well, hell,” Rohan said. He walked back to Susannah, who was standing exactly where he’d left her, staring at him, then at the man.
He untied her wrists. He walked back to the man and tied his wrists behind him. “Now,” he said, “let’s go home. Everyone has been searching for you, including my mother.”
He lifted her in his arms and with more grace than anyone could expect, he got them both on Gulliver’s back.
He guided his horse slowly through the twist of trees. He said, not looking down at her, for her white legs were quite bare and his right hand was touching the outside of her right thigh, “Tell me what happened.”
It helped to steady her. She spoke slowly, but shock was clouding her mind, and her head pounded, and he had difficulty understanding. But he was determined to keep her mind focused. He asked question after question until he thought he had learned everything.
He said finally, hugging her against him, “You did well, Susannah. I’m very proud of you.”
They came out of the maple forest. “Now, turn against me and hold on.”
She clutched him against her and felt Gulliver eat up the ground. The wind was cold on her bare legs. The air was cold on her bare belly. Oh, no. She tried to sit up, to somehow cover herself, but Rohan held her tightly.
When they came onto the wide, graveled drive and to the front of Mountvale Hall, there were, unfortunately, at least a dozen men milling about, servants, and several carriages, and doubtless within those carriages several of the neighboring wives.
Rohan cursed. He would go around to the stables, he would—
They’d been spotted. A yell went up.
He slowed Gulliver, looked down at her bare legs and belly, and quickly eased her up so he could fit his coat more closely around her. It didn’t work. He couldn’t take her to the steps. Every man there would see her.
He guided Gulliver off the drive, then lifted her off the horse’s back and set her on the ground. “Hold still.” He was stripping off his shirt even as he dismounted. “Here, put this on, my coat over it.”
She was weaving where she stood, shuddering. There was no hope for it. He put the shirt on her. Thankfully, it came to her knees. She was trembling so badly that he had to help her fasten the shirt over her breasts.
Beautiful breasts.
He put his coat on her over his shirt.
It wasn’t until he pulled Gulliver up before the deep, indented steps of Mountvale House that he realized he was naked to the waist.
There wasn’t a thing he could do about it.
Before anyone could speak, Rohan shouted, “I have found her! She is all right. I left the man unconscious in the maple forest near the abandoned shack. Ozzie Harker, you know where that shack is, the one where the gypsies used to camp. Go fetch him.”
They were all staring at him, staring at her, in his arms.
Suddenly Charlotte came running lightly down the steps. The men parted to make way. She called out, “Dearest, bring the poor child in immediately. Fitz, have the doctor fetched.” She then thanked all their dear friends. But their attention, for the first time ever, wasn’t completely focused on the exquisite Lady Mountvale. No, every man’s eyes were on Mrs. Carrington’s naked white legs. Every woman’s eyes were on the baron’s naked chest.
Still, he thought his mother’s word “child” was a good try.
Rohan cursed as he carried her through the open front doors. Fitz didn’t stare. He had too much dignity.
Then Rohan heard cheering. He blinked, not understanding, then realized that as a man with his reputation, he had doubtless just gained another considerable elevation to his status. He looked down at Susannah’s white legs, then into her face and saw the bruises on her cheek.
“He struck you?”
“Yes. It rather hurts.”
He cursed. He carried her up the stairs, two at a time, yelling over his shoulder, “Fitz, fetch the doctor, quickly. Don’t dawdle, man.”
Fitz turned to Charlotte even as he waved to Augustus. He said in a very worried voice, “It is normally very quiet when his lo
rdship is in residence here at Mountvale.”
Charlotte frowned after her son. “It shouldn’t be, Fitz. A man of his appetites and reputation should be surrounded with excitement and action. It would be a travesty otherwise. Poor Susannah. We’re in for a problem now, but perhaps it won’t look so bad. Just think of the romance of it all. Did his lordship not look dashing carrying her in his arms? And so very manly with his chest naked?” There was more than a good deal of satisfaction in her voice. There was ringing pride. Then she frowned. “But she is his brother’s widow. Nothing can come from it, no matter what happens.”
Fitz sighed and gave Augustus his orders again, twice, because Augustus was having a difficult time tearing his attention away from the incredibly beautiful Vision, still garbed in boys’ clothing.
He looked up the wide staircase. The baron had looked distraught. He’d never seen the baron look distraught before. But the baron’s mother was right. A man couldn’t marry his brother’s widow, whether or not she was wearing his shirt and coat.
11
SUSANNAH MOANED. THE PAIN IN HER HEAD HAD BROUGHT her low. She hated it, but it consumed her. She knew she was crying, but she couldn’t hold the tears back.
Rohan wrung the cool water out of the soft linen cloth and laid it on her forehead. “It should be better in a moment. I’m sorry. I can’t give you laudanum yet. The man hit you in the head. We can’t take the chance. Just listen to me, Susannah, try to concentrate on my voice and my words. Breathe very lightly, that’s right.”
He began to talk slowly to her, nonsense really, all about his first pony, Dobbs, named after the astronomer Jacko Dobbs, whom he had admired as a boy. “ . . . I was six years old when I taught Dobbs how to jump. I thought he would jump to the stars, a little jest my tutor appreciated. Even my father was astounded at how high Dobbs could jump, except, of course, that Dobbs had just jumped this rather high bush when my father first saw him, and my father wasn’t alone. He was enjoying a tryst with a lady from a neighboring estate. But my father stopped what he was doing and clapped me on the back for my excellent training before he sent me on my way. As I recall, the lady also applauded my efforts. She said something about with practice and good fortune I might someday be just like my father. As I recall also, my father didn’t have a stitch of clothing on. As for the lady, I think she had pulled my father’s shirt in front of her.”
She stared at him wide-eyed, then giggled. “That’s good. That’s really very funny, yet you recount it like it could be any story in any little boy’s life.”
“It almost could. Well, all right, say the part of the father carrying on a tryst with a neighboring lady.”
She giggled again. He loved the sound of that giggle. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts. Now, sir, a man of your reputation—I suppose you have taken many ladies to that place where your father was. I’ll wager it’s a very romantic spot.”
“Very romantic. You’re right, of course. A man of my reputation would use his private flora and fauna for assignations. Should you like to visit the spot with me, Susannah?”
She moaned.
Where, he wondered, had that bit of nonsense come from? But it wasn’t nonsense. He very much wanted to take her anywhere she wanted to go. He very much wanted her. “A bit of a backward step, but you’re doing fine. Just keep breathing lightly.”
“You’re still naked.”
“Just my upperparts. You’ve seen naked upperparts. You were married. Ah, at last here’s Dr. Foxdale.” He shook the man’s hand, saying, “She was hit on the left side of her face and her head hurts pretty badly. Other than that, I believe she’s fine. Except, of course, for these scratches on her face.”
Dr. Foxdale eased himself down beside young Mr. George’s widow. He just looked at her for a good long time, noting her coloring, her eyes, her rate of breathing. Then he lightly touched his fingertips to the side of her head and began a slow exploration. She sucked in her breath.
“That was a good blow the villain gave her,” he said, not to her but over his shoulder to the baron. “Now, ma’am, how many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three.”
“Excellent. And now?”
She counted his long thin fingers until he was satisfied that her wits weren’t wandering. He had the darkest eyes she’d ever seen. “You’ll do,” he said, then turned immediately to the baron. “She has a hard head. To be honest, most of my female patients do. I’ve often wondered why this is true. Now, I’ll bathe the scratches on her face, but there’s really nothing more. You can give her laudanum, my lord. Let her sleep the rest of the day, it’ll do her good. There will be a good deal of bruising. There’s not a thing I can do about that.”
He rose after he’d bathed her face, then smiled down at her. “There, not too bad. Good day, Mrs. Carrington.”
Never once did he remark on the baron’s bare chest, nor, for that matter, did he ever appear discomfited. She heard Rohan say as he walked Dr. Foxdale to the bedchamber door, “They should be bringing back the man who kidnapped Mrs. Carrington. I shot him in the arm. However, the impact knocked him backward into a tree and he knocked himself out.”
“I’ll stay then, my lord.”
The two men shook hands, each apparently well pleased with the other. And the baron was naked to the waist. She wondered if the doctor would have said anything even if the baron had appeared without his britches. Could he do whatever he chose without anyone caring? With, indeed, everyone appearing to admire him, surely to immoderate excess?
He returned in a few minutes, a glass of water in his hand. She watched him measure out several drops of laudanum into the glass. She watched the play of muscles over his belly as he bent over to put the bottle of laudanum back on the tabletop. She had never before seen a man who looked like he did. George had looked well enough, she supposed, but then again, when she’d married George, a man could have had three of anything and she wouldn’t have known the difference. Now she knew a little bit more. No man should be beautiful, but the baron was. Blondish-brown hair was soft on his chest, slimming down to a straight line of darker hair that disappeared beneath his britches.
She was suffering from a head wound. Even though she had a hard head, she was still ill. All this was an aberration. A woman didn’t overly admire a brother-in-law, no matter what his attributes. This woman didn’t. Well, at least this woman would try very hard not to.
She sighed deeply—wishing he would put a shirt on, wishing he would not—and looked at her blanket-covered toes.
“You will feel better in just a moment.” He held up her head and slowly fed her the water. She felt the warmth of him against her cheek.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice soft and vague. She would not look at him, not ever again. She concentrated on the cherubs that festooned the corners of the ceiling moldings. She felt the pain pulling back, slowly deadening, and releasing her. Her thoughts were blurry, without focus. She heard someone, someone with a soft, woman’s voice that sounded suspiciously like her voice, say, “You look very nice all bare. I never thought a man could look like you do. It makes me feel strangely even though I really don’t feel very good.” From one instant to the next, she was asleep.
He sat beside her, picked up her limp hand, and looked at the slender white fingers. He realized he had forgotten to ask her exactly what had happened. So he looked very nice, did he? He made her feel strangely? He imagined if he told her how he felt, she’d run screaming. Well, maybe not. He smiled, then frowned. He gently laid her hand down and stood. He was a gentleman.
It was dark when Susannah opened her eyes. Only a branch of candles burned atop her small writing desk in the corner of her bedchamber. Shadows twisted and curved about the furniture and the walls, fading into darkness in the corners of the room. But the room was familiar, comforting.
Her head ached only dully now. She felt the swelling on her face. She didn’t want to see herself in the mirror. She got up, relieved herself, then made her way to the
window. She pulled back the thick dark-yellow draperies. A quarter of moon shone high in the sky, and a few errant stars peered through the roving clouds.
It would rain before morning.
“What the devil are you doing out of bed?”
She turned slowly at the sound of his voice. “You’re not naked anymore.” He was wearing a gold brocade dressing gown, rich and thick, but the elbows were nearly worn through. A favorite dressing gown, one enjoyed for many years. But he didn’t have all that many years. She supposed, though, that a man of his reputation spent a good deal of time in a dressing gown. And out of it.
Did he detect a note of disappointment in her voice? Yes, it was definitely disappointment. He loved it. He grinned at her, he couldn’t help it. “No, I’m not. Sorry, but it seemed civilized to retrieve my shirt from you.”
“Surely it was soiled.”
“Yes, but I did retrieve it. I didn’t put it back on.”
She took a step toward him, then stopped. “You didn’t retrieve it from me yourself, did you?”
“No. My mother and Mrs. Beete saw to you. Also, my mother’s maid, Sabine. Have you yet met Sabine? No? You will. She is quite a treat. Why don’t you come back to bed? You’re still looking a bit shaky on your bare toes. Does your head still hurt?”
She shook her head, and nearly gasped with the sharp pain. She held herself perfectly still. The pain faded quickly. “It’s not bad at all now.” She turned to face him fully.
He sucked in his breath, his hands fisting at his sides. “Your face—Jesus, I’ll kill that bastard.”
She touched her fingertips to her sore cheek. It felt very swollen. She could only begin to picture how dreadful she looked. But she still didn’t want to know just how bad it was.
“My God, I hadn’t thought the scratches were so bad. But look at them. You’re a mess. Surely he couldn’t have done all that to you. What did you do?”
There was utter outrage in his voice. He was also not more than two feet from her now. His eyes were greener than the well-scythed grass on the east lawn. “When I was running from the shack, I fell on my face. It’s just scratches. What bothered me more was swallowing dirt and leaves.” She tried a smile, but it didn’t work.
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