Wicked With the Scoundrel

by Elizabeth Bright

  “But you do not wish to harm me,” she said reasonably.

  “That is not the point!” Frustration made him want to shake her. Or kiss her. Yes. That would teach her. She would finally understand that he was a man, not a saint, and she couldn’t bloody well flash her ankles or her luminous tits and—

  “I rather think that is the point, actually.” Her round little chin notched up. “I am not stupid, Mr. Smith. I understand that there are dangerous men in the world, and I would very much dislike being alone with any of them. But I am not alone with a dangerous man. I am alone with you.”

  She was standing so close, her lips mere inches from his own. It would take nothing to close the space. He only had to tilt his head to feel her warm mouth against his.

  But he would not.

  Disappointment came like a physical blow to his gut.

  He was not going to kiss her.

  How could he, when she was looking up at him with such trust in her innocent brown eyes? Yes, he was a just a man, but he was a good man, damn it. He could not teach her a lesson about bad men without becoming one himself.

  How unfair.

  “Scowl as fiercely as you like, but it won’t change the fact that I am right. You don’t frighten me, Mr. Smith.” She patted his arm as though he were a puppy. “In fact, you look quite handsome when you’re in a temper.”

  She turned away to continue her examination of the wall, but the hem of her dress caught on the buckle of his pack, and she bent at the waist to free herself. The shape of her bottom was unobscured by the thin muslin, presenting him with a lovely view of her rounded backside and his favorite position in bed.

  Good God, she truly was trying to kill him.

  She did not even glance at him as she straightened her skirt and again turned her attention to the hunt, completely unaware that his control was but a hairsbreadth from snapping. She was an infuriating, foolish lamb, paying no heed to the slavering wolf nearby.

  If there was any justice in the world, she would trip and fall out of her clothes and into his arms. Then it wouldn’t even be his fault.

  Not that the Marquess of Chatwell would concern himself with matters such as “fault” and “fairness” before blowing Colin’s brains out. The aristocracy did as they pleased, and woe be it to any man who stood in their way…or sullied their daughters. Although, clearly they were not above such behavior themselves.

  Lady Claire had no understanding of the dangerous game she was playing, nor that the consequences would destroy them both. In all likelihood she wanted no more than a kiss. But she was too innocent to comprehend how kisses so easily could slip into something more. And then what, if she were with child? If she were of his world, or God forbid, he of hers, they would marry, and their baby would be just another of the thousands of oddly large babies born a mere seven or eight months after the wedding.

  But Riya was right. They would not be allowed to marry, and the whole situation would be a disaster.

  Lady Claire, spoiled darling that she was, simply couldn’t see that. She only knew that she thought him handsome and roguish and would enjoy his kisses.

  Very well, then. He would protect her from herself. He would see to it that she found the treasure today, this very moment, and then they would go their separate ways.

  “This section of the wall looks strange, don’t you think, my lady?” He gestured to where he had hidden the jewels. “Should we take a closer look?”

  “Hmm.” She frowned, staring at a trickle of water that ran from the entrance down the passageway.

  “We’re perfectly safe,” he assured her. “Water probably comes in when it rains, but it won’t rain today, and I doubt it would get deeper than an inch, anyway.”

  He needn’t have bothered. She wasn’t listening to a word he said.

  “Where the water flows from dark to light,” she murmured.

  “Is that a riddle?”

  “It’s a clue.” A grin lit up her face like the sun bursting out from behind a cloud.

  His neck tingled in warning. He had a very bad premonition that Lady Claire was about to take his neat and tidy plan and blow it all to hell.

  Her next words proved him right.

  “I know where the treasure is.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was so obvious. Why hadn’t she realized it before?

  “I know where the treasure is,” Claire repeated.

  Colin dragged a hand over his face. “I don’t suppose you’re going to suggest it’s in the wall behind us?”

  “Don’t be daft. Of course it isn’t there.”

  “Quite so.”

  He looked grouchier by the second. A deep line formed between his brows, and she longed to press her lips there until it smoothed.

  “Naturally, we had no real hope of finding the treasure here, where so many others have already looked. Scipio would have known better than to hide money where his enemies would know to look, anyway.”

  Colin grunted.

  She ignored it and continued, “Did you read the books we found at the library?”

  “No.” He crossed his arms. There was something defiant in his gaze, although she couldn’t think why it should be so.

  Although, if he had read the chapter, then perhaps he would have come to the same conclusion as she. At the very least, she wouldn’t have to explain things to him. She felt the faintest glimmer of annoyance. Truly, could he not have spared even a single hour of his precious time? Had he been so very certain her idea was a waste of effort?

  Well, he had been wrong.

  She drew in a sharp breath, startled by her own thoughts.

  Colin had been…wrong?

  His hand waved in front of her face, pulling her out of her trance. “Lady Claire!”

  She looked at him. “Pardon?”

  “Where is the treasure, then?”

  “Oh! Yes!” She shook her head to clear the unwanted thoughts. “As the historians tell us, Scipio planned to flee Bath and meet his allies twenty miles west of here, at the caves near the gorge. But he never made it. He was murdered on his own doorstep, with only a small bag of coins in his hand. Which is what led so many to believe that he hid his treasure within the city of Bath itself, rather than attempt to bring it to the gorge.”

  “Gorge,” Colin repeated. He managed to pack a lifetime of weary apprehension into that one small word. He muttered something under his breath, but she only caught the words “pistol” and “dawn.”

  “Cheddar Gorge,” she said. “It is a perfect place to hide from one’s enemies, I imagine. There are caves no one has reached the end of—or at least, they haven’t returned.”

  Colin groaned softly. “No. Please, no.”

  “But what if?” she pressed. “What if Scipio had gone there, hid the treasure, and returned before he was murdered?”

  “You cannot believe that at a time when he was gravely in danger, he travelled twenty miles there and back again.”

  Claire dismissed his doubt with a wave of her hand. “What is twenty miles on good road? He was a wealthy general. Very likely he had a horse.”

  “But why would he return, if Bath was so hazardous to his life? Why?” Colin persisted.

  “I don’t know! How could I know his mind? He lived nearly two thousand years ago.” She spread her arms. “Perhaps a friend was also in trouble. Or…or perhaps he forgot to feed his cat.”

  Colin stared at her. The corners of his mouth twitched. “Scipio had a cat?”

  She gave him a mulish mien. “We don’t know that he did not.”

  Colin’s head dropped, concealing his expression, and his shoulders vibrated. She thought he might be laughing. But when he at last looked at her again, he was very serious. “Very well. Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that he had already left his treasure safely at the gorge before they found him and murdered him. How will we find the treasure among the millions of hiding spots? It isn’t possible.”

  “It is possible,” she insiste
d. “Consider this. The papyri you sold me are several hundred years older than Scipio’s treasure, and even the Cleopatra Emerald. Why, Cleopatra is closer to us in the measurement of time than she is to the builders of the Great Pyramids. Yet, you yourself have discovered treasures older than both the Romans and Cleopatra.”

  “I didn’t find them in a cave.”

  “You found them buried beneath sand,” she pointed out. “That’s no different.”

  “It took years. Do you have years to explore the gorge?”

  “But I think I know which cave.”

  “How?” he demanded. “How could you possibly?”

  Why did everyone always doubt her? Especially this man, whose opinion she quite recently had come to value most. It was quite vexing.

  “It was in the letter Scipio wrote to his wife,” she patiently explained. “Where the water flows from darkness to light. Look.” She pointed to the small trickle of water that had led to her epiphany. “It flows from light into darkness, and that reminded me of his letter. Obviously, he didn’t mean here, as the water is going the wrong way, and this opening did not exist until the children fell through. But it made me think of all the other times I had seen a river, and where it flowed from dark to light.”

  There had been only three times. The first—

  “Of course you did,” he said, interrupting her inner litany. He stared at the earth above them, as if seeking answers from the worms that tunneled through the soil. “Do you know, I think that brain of yours is more remarkable than anything I ever found in Egypt.”

  “I— I…” And her remarkable brain came to a stuttering halt.

  Heat bloomed on her cheeks. No one thought her brain remarkable, except perhaps her father and Adelaide. Quite the opposite, in fact. She remembered everything, especially when anyone forced to listen to her ramblings would much rather she forget.

  “Well, go on, then. Tell me where the cave is,” he said.

  She thought there might even be affection in his voice.

  She gathered her badly scattered wits and managed to say with only a very small croak, “The gorge. There is a small stream that flows from inside the cave—where it forms a lake, of sorts—and runs down into the valley.”

  He tilted his head, studying her. “Others have been there, I’m sure. If Scipio did hide his treasure there, it might have been found centuries ago.”

  “Then where is the emerald?” she countered more firmly. “We would have heard about it.”

  Colin’s brows pinched together in perplexed concentration. “You want us to go there. Where it will be dark and wet and dangerous. I can’t guarantee you won’t be hurt in some way. A gorge is no place for a lady.”

  “A gorge is no place for any person.” She brightened and grinned. “That is why it’s an adventure.”

  He groaned again. “Good God. Your father is going to kill me.”

  But her smile only broadened.

  She took that as a yes.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fate was against Colin. That was the only explanation.

  He had strategically arranged for Lady Claire to share a carriage with Riya and Deb. Meanwhile, he would ride ahead to Cheddar—with a brief stop in Bristol on personal matters—and see to finding rooms at the inn. It had been a good plan, one that served the dual purpose of preserving his privacy and also protecting Lady Claire’s virtue.

  Yet, he now found himself not on horseback as he had so carefully planned, but ensconced in Chatwell’s carriage with Lady Claire and her maid.

  And the maid was asleep.

  He scowled at the useless woman, but she did not so much as twitch.

  Lady Claire sat opposite him, reading a book. He watched her, even though he knew she was aware of his attention because every so often she peeked at him from beneath her lashes. She wore a traveling costume, which was—in the manner typical of her station in life—completely unsuitable for traveling, to his way of thinking. The wool fabric was sturdier than the muslins and silks she usually wore, but it was likely itchy and hot. The bright cherry red skirt dress would show less dirt and dust than her pastels—but it was also a beacon to highwaymen, shouting “Behold! I am wealthy. Come steal from me.”

  Truly, it was a miracle the aristocracy had survived as long as it had. They continued to flaunt their privilege as though a whole pack of them hadn’t lost their heads in France for that very same reason.

  He wouldn’t like Lady Claire to lose her head. He wouldn’t like any danger to befall her. So, why in God’s name was he assisting her on this foolish expedition to a gorge, of all places?

  He shifted uneasily against the squabs. Her father had not been entirely pleased with this turn of events. Chatwell wanted his daughter to have an adventure, but a safe adventure.

  Colin had argued that she would be safe with him. “Surely, Lady Claire is not silly enough to fall off the edge,” he’d said.

  Chatwell had paused far too long before saying, “I suppose.”

  Now that Lady Claire was entirely under Colin’s protection and the gorge was imminent, he was again considering that too-long pause. What was it Chatwell had said about her propensity for danger?

  “You broke your arm,” Colin said suddenly. “When you were seventeen.”

  She looked up from her book. “Yes.”

  “Why?” He had to know.

  “I jumped from a roof to a wheelbarrow below. The wheelbarrow was harder than my bone.”

  He would have laughed, except there was nothing amusing about Lady Claire’s brush with death. Good God, was that what this was about? Could she not wait for a natural end?

  He couldn’t meet her eyes, so he turned to the window before asking his next question. “Why did you jump from the roof? Did you want to die?”

  “Don’t be absurd. I wanted to fly. I’d think you, of all people, would understand the yearning for wings.”

  It was a mistake to look at her. A queer longing burrowed in his chest, as though she had summoned the ache from deep within him merely by speaking its name: yearning. She leaned forward, her gaze steady on his face, her lips parted to speak. He had the sudden crazed, desperate need to kiss her, to press his mouth against hers and seal it shut. Anything, anything, to hold back the words that would be his undoing.

  If she kept talking, he was going to fall in love with her.

  “I jumped from the roof of the stable to a wheelbarrow piled with straw. The straw would make a soft landing, I thought, and the distance between the roof and the wheelbarrow did not seem so far to me. But I miscalculated, and my arm hit the edge of the wheelbarrow.”

  “You are lucky you did not break your head,” he said roughly.

  “And we are lucky that our carriage has not overturned and killed us.” She leaned back. “Although it might still. We haven’t yet reached our destination.”

  Pleasant thought, that. “This is entirely different. You did not need to jump. You took an unnecessary risk.”

  “Oh, but it was necessary.” Again, she leaned forward. Again, her gaze allowed him no escape. “Do you know what it is to remember everything, Mr. Smith? Do you understand what everything is? It is dresses and tea cakes and hair ribbons and brushing one’s teeth. It is thousands upon thousands of these moments, little drops of time that pass one into the other, and none of them matter. No one else can tolerate hearing my lists because they’re dreadfully dull and simply don’t matter. But I have to live them.”

  It was as though eternity stretched before them, a yawning hole of darkness.

  He recoiled. “How do you bear it?”

  “That’s the trick of it, you see.” Her lips tilted up. “A moment doesn’t matter unless I make it matter. Either way, I will remember it. So, of course I had to jump.”

  “Of course you did.”

  She beamed at him. “I knew you would understand.”

  “Did you?”

  “Oh, yes.” She smiled at him. “You jump, too. For different reasons, pe
rhaps. But you jump, all the same. Sailing to India and Egypt was far more dangerous than jumping onto a hay pile. You had no knowledge of what you would find there, or if you would even survive crossing the ocean. Even the most experienced sailors have been known to perish at sea. And now here you are, hunting Roman treasure.”

  So he was. Perhaps she was right about him. Did his willingness to jump, as she called it, make him brave, or merely foolish?

  Both, in all likelihood.

  He half grimaced, half grinned. “As are you. Let’s hope this particular jump does not result in another broken arm.”

  She gave him an odd little smile that made his chest ache. “It only hurts for a moment.”

  “Lady Claire—” And then he stopped, not knowing the words to express the strange feelings churning in his belly.

  The carriage rolled to a slow halt.

  She lifted the curtain. Her brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “This is not Cheddar. Where are we?”

  Ah, yes. That.

  “Bristol.” He cleared his throat to force the words out. “This is my mother’s house.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mrs. Smith’s home consisted of two rooms, sparsely furnished. There was a comfortable-looking bed in one corner, two plain chairs with neither decoration nor cushion, and a table that would have sloped had not a brick been propped under one leg. In the center of the room stood Mrs. Smith, one arm looped tightly about Colin’s waist as she gazed at Claire with a look of awed dismay.

  “Would you like some tea, my lady?” Her brows pinched together in thought. “I believe there is enough, since the other women are out.”

  Claire hesitated. Would it be better to demur and leave the woman her tea, or would she appear snobbish and ungrateful? She didn’t want to hurt her feelings. “Yes, thank you,” she said finally. “Just plain, please.”

  Mrs. Smith smiled, but her forehead still puckered anxiously. Claire was at a loss. Had she made the correct choice, or no?

  Colin followed his mother to the kitchen. Their voices floated back to Claire and her maid.