Chapter 6
The instant Asher saw the two henchmen through the jeweler’s box window, he knew trouble was headed directly for him. He’d never met the lanky man in the sagging Wellington hat, but he recognized the hulking bruiser in the brown coat with a pale scar bisecting his brow. He’d had dealings with Mr. Lum before, over one of his father’s loans from Lord Seabrooke. And, if he recalled correctly, Mr. Lum preferred the violence first, request payment later method of collecting debts.
Stepping to the heiress’s side, Asher bent his head to whisper, “We need to leave.”
“But we haven’t concluded our—”
“Now, Miss Humphries.” He took hold of her gloved hand and tugged her past an older man with curling gray mustachios and a broad feathered hat, who’d come in shortly after they had arrived.
She resisted, slipping free. “What about my necklace?”
Without so much as a backward glance, he snatched the necklace out of Mr. Windle’s grasp and headed out the door, taking her with him.
“Wait just one moment. You’ve no right to manhandle me.”
The shop bell chimed above their heads as he slid an arm around her waist, pulling her close. “Turn your head. See those two men crossing the street and staring at us? See the one with the scar who’s reaching inside his coat and tearing into a packet of powder with his teeth?”
“Is that a . . . a . . . pistol?” she asked in incredulous disbelief.
“A blunderbuss to be precise.”
“I do believe he’s aiming at us. Surely he isn’t actually intending to shoot at—”
Before she could finish, Asher jerked open the carriage door and stuffed her and her voluminous skirts inside. Bloody hell. She was wearing enough silk to decimate an entire population of worms. He barely had time to climb in and close the door before the driver cracked the whip.
Then they were off, hell-bent for leather through the narrow London streets.
A shot blasted through the air and Asher tucked her against him. Holding his breath, he kept her close, long enough to ensure they were both unharmed.
Glancing out the window, he saw that the mustachioed patron left Mr. Windle’s shop and had apparently bumped into Mr. Lum, causing the shot to go up instead of straight. What a stroke of luck!
“Don’t worry,” Asher said as he set her apart from him. “Mr. Portman has been my driver for years and knows his way around these streets. He’ll have us out of town in no time at all.”
Absently, he watched Mr. Lum and his cohort run toward a black curricle, hitched to a sleek pair. When he turned his attention back to her, he noted that her face was ghostly white under a smattering of amber freckles on her cheeks and nose.
She stared off, unblinking. “They shot at us.”
“More noise than anything, and not with any precision. I’m sure it was used more as a scare tactic,” he said, hoping it was the truth.
All his life, he’d learned valuable lessons about the hazards of owing money to the wrong people. They’d do anything to get what they were due, usually stopping just short of murder. After all, dead men could not pay their debts. Then again, there was a limit to everyone’s patience.
Asher wondered how much money his father had borrowed this time.
“It suc-cee-ded,” Miss Humphries said, taking a short, stuttered breath between each syllable. The hand gripping the necklace splayed over her bosom, her lips parting on tiny gulps of air.
He cursed under his breath. She was going to faint if she didn’t take a fortifying breath. The last thing he needed was to have a collapsed heiress on his hands.
Yet before he could offer assistance, the carriage careened around a corner.
With a startled yelp, she toppled forward.
He caught her against him, all soft and warm and . . . scared. He could feel it in the tremors rolling through her body. See it in her hazel eyes. This close, the evocative color in the center was no longer vibrant, but stark and cloudy. It was like looking at absinthe through a frosted glass. And the surrounding band wasn’t a fiery cinnamon but a cold brown instead.
“I . . . can’t . . . breathe . . .”
With his hands in the dip of her waist, he could already discern the culprit. “It’s this bloody corset. I’ve never encountered so much whalebone in all my life.” And, considering all the laces he’d undone, that was saying something.
“Mother demanded . . . double . . . reinforcement,” she panted. Then she frowned down at him. “Whot are you doing?”
He followed the ribbing lines like a map. “Nothing untoward. Simply fishing through this netting to unbutton your gown.”
“You most . . . certainly . . . are . . . not.”
She was breathing like a fish at the bottom of a boat, and now she was wiggling like one, too, pushing up from his chest. And though he withdrew immediately, she slapped at his hands for good measure.
“Very well, but if you keep taking those rapid shallow breaths, you’re going to faint. And once you’re unconscious, I’ll have to do something to revive you or else you’re likely to get hurt inside this carriage.”
“You . . . wouldn’t . . . dare.” And yet, within the belligerent glare she cast down at him, a flash of understanding returned a trace of rosy color to her cheeks. “Jane never warned me . . . that you were . . . a scoundrel.”
“I’m sure Jane wouldn’t know,” he said, tucking a lock of silken hair behind her ear. Then, settling his hands on her shoulders, he eased her to an upright position on the opposite bench. “If you don’t wish me to loosen your laces—”
“Absolutely not.”
“—then you’ll need to slow your breathing.”
She huffed harder than before, her brow furrowed with incredulity. “They . . . shot . . . at . . . us!”
“Try not to think about that just now.”
Of course, as he said it, the carriage jerked into another sharp turn. Her gasp was consumed by the sounds of hoofbeats echoing along the snug streets. But Asher kept her safely perched. Bracing her legs with his own, he swept his hands in soothing, methodical strokes from her shoulders to her elbows.
“And instead of casting nervous glances out the window, keep your gaze on mine.” He smiled reassuringly as she complied. More color rose to her cheeks. “There, that’s better. You’re doing swimmingly, Miss Humphries. Hmm . . . under the circumstances, it would be better to abandon formality. I’ll address you by your given name as if we’re old friends simply taking a tour about the park.”
“Why would you . . . wish to call me . . . Winnifred?”
“I see your point.” He nodded sagely, considering. “Winnifred is still quite a mouthful. And far too many suffocating syllables in Miss Winnifred Humphries, if you ask me. So, I think I’ll just call you Winn. Yes. I like the sound of that. It’s almost like wind. And there, you’re already breathing better, aren’t you?”
She drew in a much deeper breath and her eyes widened with surprise. “You’re quite good at this. Even if you are being a bit forward.”
“It’s all a matter of context, really. Perhaps if we had just met at a ball or during a tour of a museum, then my actions might be considered . . . overly familiar. But in this instance, it’s more of an essential obligation. After all, neither of us wants you to faint.”
He was already feeling the uncomfortably sharp spurrings of guilt. Being shot at wasn’t part of the plan. Then again, being kidnapped by her friends hadn’t been part of his either. The memory of it helped him tuck those spurrings away.
A moment later, the last of the tremors left her on a series of slow, even inhales and exhales. Her eyes cleared on a few blinks, returning to that stunning peridot green and circlet of warm cinnamon.
Dropping his hands, he eased back into his own seat. The carriage was on a straighter path now and, with a glance, he saw that they were leaving London behind. Even better news, no one appeared to have followed them down all the winding streets that brought them here.
Unfor
tunately, that didn’t mean the danger had passed.
Once the henchmen couldn’t find him in town, they’d broaden their search. None of the debt collectors had ever simply given up. They’d always found him.
The heiress looked out the window, a riot of softly tumbled curls shielding her face. “I suppose I’ve crossed the line. There really is no going back.”
The quiet resignation in her voice was understandable, considering everything that had happened, but there was a lot she didn’t understand. Even so, it wasn’t in his best interest to explain the whole of it.
All he wanted was to return her to Lord and Lady Waldenfield and collect the money her friends stole. He had a chance for a new life awaiting him and he wasn’t about to squander an opportunity.
“Nonsense,” he said. “I’ll have you home in time for afternoon tea.”
“Oh, please don’t mention food. You’ve no idea how long it’s been since I’ve—”
Her stomach chose at that moment to emit a loud and forlorn yowl, clearly discernable above the clatter and jangle of the carriage. She turned back, her cheeks flushing crimson as she covered her midriff. But it wasn’t enough to muffle the next growl, this one even more insistent than the first.
He chuckled. “Sounds as though you’ve been fasting for days.”
“An eternity. Mother is determined that I make a good showing in society, much like a horse at Tattersall’s,” Winn said with chagrin, sinking back against the squabs on a sigh. “Though, as of this morning, I will be forever out to pasture.”
“Not likely,” he said, knowing that her father’s type of money earned all sorts of forgiveness in society. That greedy little Woodbine would still have her, and so would any other man for that matter.
“Oh, you don’t know my father. Once he’s reached his limit of tolerance, he’ll cut a person from his life as cleanly and as permanently as a severed limb.”
“Happy thought,” Asher muttered wryly.
She was quiet for a while, staring vacantly at the mottled carriage roof. “Yet I cannot understand why he sent those threatening men after me.”
“What makes you think your father had anything to do with this?”
“Well . . .” She hesitated, pulling her bottom lip through her teeth. “When you’d excused yourself to visit the back room of the jeweler’s shop when we’d first arrived, I wrote a missive to my father. Mr. Windle scrawled a hasty note of his own and kindly offered to send mine out with his errand boy.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Asher scowled. Damn it all, couldn’t a man take a piss without the world turning ends over apple carts?
So that was the reason the henchmen knew where he was. Not to mention the reason for Mr. Windle’s incessant bartering.
Asher had known something was amiss when they couldn’t reach a bargain after a quarter hour had passed. Regardless, he’d been determined that Winn would at least get a fair price, especially after learning how the necklace had come into her possession. It must have been quite a blow to have a mistress’s gift arrive on her wedding day.
Another quarter hour had passed when he first spotted Mr. Lum and his cohort. Clearly, Windle sent a missive either to Lord Seabrooke or to his father. Though the last he knew, the jeweler had refused to do business with the Marquess of Shettlemane at all. Because of that, Asher had thought Windle’s shop was his best place to go, without his father being any the wiser.
Apparently, he’d been wrong. And now there was even more at stake than merely recuperating his money to set sail.
Winn was involved, whether she realized it or not.
After all, Mr. Windle was a sharp old bird. He’d never have missed the Waldenfield title on the letter she’d sent. And whether the jeweler was on speaking terms with Shettlemane or throwing a bone to Seabrooke, he wouldn’t hesitate to share the news that Asher Holt had run off with an immensely wealthy young woman.
“That changes things a bit,” he said gravely. This wasn’t going to plan at all. He’d have to think of something else. And quick. “Taking you home may be more difficult than I’d imagined.”
She lifted her head. “I’ve already explained that I cannot return. The only option left for me is to sell my necklace and travel to my aunt’s.”
A fine proposal, indeed. He wished it was that simple.
Damn it all. He’d only wanted his money back. Was that too much to ask?
Yet even last night, he’d had his doubts.
Waiting in the carriage and keeping company with a bottle of rum, he’d started to wonder if his brilliant scheme was a bit too much like something his father would do. And now, with a pair of henchmen after them, the element of danger changed everything. And she only knew half the story.
Perhaps it was time to tell her who he was.
Then again, a full confession might only complicate the situation.
A handful of minutes passed while he deliberated. The ancient coach creaked and swayed. The horses charged ahead. And Asher knew what he had to do.
Tension slipped out on a tight breath and he scrubbed a hand over his face. “I want you to know that it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“Can anyone truly plan running away from a wedding? Well . . . no one other than Jane, of course. Your cousin had a marvelous plan. Though, I’m not sure even she could have accounted for blunderbuss-bearing men.”
“You don’t understand. She isn’t my cousin.”
Winn issued a papery laugh, her gaze lit with humor and a touch of pity as if she imagined him to be daft. “Jane would know her own cousin, I assure you. Why else would she have asked you to wait outside the church?”
Asher didn’t want to alarm her by revealing everything in one cataclysmic statement. The last thing he needed was for her to faint. Nor did he want to see her expression turn stark again and the fire to vanish from her eyes.
So he proceeded with caution. “If I recall correctly, you mentioned that her cousin is a simpleton. Perhaps this Mr. Pickerington was waiting outside the wrong church.”
“Well that’s a silly notion. It would mean you’re a perfect stranger.”
He held her gaze and nodded.
She shook her head. “No, you are most definitely Jane’s cousin. After all, what interest would a man I’ve never met have in helping me escape my wedding?”
Hmm . . . this wasn’t going to plan either. Perhaps the direct approach would be best, regardless of consequence.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “About as much as a man who’d been accosted on the street, only to awaken later to find himself tied to a chair and robbed by a pair of debutantes, I suppose.”
Her grin slipped. “You have a dry sense of humor, Mr. Pickerington. This is certainly a strange tale you’ve concocted.”
“Stranger still to have lived it, I should think. And my name is Asher Holt.”
“That isn’t possible. Everyone knows that he always . . . wears . . . a . . .” She glanced down to his black cravat. Her eyes turned round as celadon-glazed saucers as if she’d only now noticed his signature garment. Then her gaze snapped back to his. “I do not find this amusing in the least.”
“Stubborn one, aren’t you?”
“Now wait just one moment,” she blustered, sitting forward to wag her finger at him. “That’s going too far, Mr. Pic—”
“Asher Holt,” he repeated, keeping his tone easy and conversational to avoid any hysterics. “A courtesy title of viscount makes me Lord Holt, heir to the Marquess of Shettlemane. Though I doubt I shall ever inherit. It’s been my experience that evil people—particularly Luciferian fathers—never die. They feast on the misery they bring, getting stronger year by year. Which means, my father will likely outlive me. Hence the reason I’m in mourning now. No sense in wasting an opportunity.”
She blinked. Twice. Her lips parted and closed and parted again. “Then you . . . really . . . aren’t . . . Jane’s . . .”
“Winn, you’re looking like a fish again.” He leaned
forward and, as before, spoke in a soothing voice, brushing his hands up and down her arms. “Remember to breathe slowly. Inhale and exhale. Yes, that’s better. Soon you’ll be out in the world, able to do this on your own without allowing every trifling news to upset you.”
“Trifling?” She sputtered. “You kidnapped me!”
“That’s not exactly the way I recall the events of this morning.”
Her eyes flared with unbanked fire and she shrugged free, batting away his hands. “Stop this carriage at once! I’m leaving.”
“On foot?”
“It’s none of your concern, I’m sure, Lord Holt.”
He crossed his arms and sat back, refusing her request. Yet in the same moment, he realized that Portman had slowed the horses. With a glance out the window, he saw they were traveling on a narrow, shady lane. And gradually they came to a full stop.
“Beggin’ your pardon, my lord,” Portman said, lifting the hood flap, “but I don’t want any part of all this shooting and kidnapping business.”
Bloody hell. This was the last thing he needed.
Chapter 7
Winnifred had made her choice. There was no going back. No getting married. And absolutely no going forward with a scoundrel like Asher Holt.
She only wished her dress would cooperate. This voluminous, impossible-to-manage meringue was not designed to enter or to leave—as she was attempting now—these narrow carriage doorways with any haste whatsoever.
Of course, it would be simpler if she could gather up her skirts to get them out of the way. But the dishonest, dark-haired devil had slipped out the other door and was now standing on the sloped ground. Directly in her path.
“Winn, will you please stop this nonsense? You’re filling Portman’s head with the wrong notion.”
“Right, because this is my fault entirely. The men shooting at us had nothing to do with it, I’m sure.”
He had the nerve to hiss through his teeth with impatience. “Let’s talk this over before it starts to rain again.”
“A deluge wouldn’t entice me to linger in your company.”
Yet even as she spoke, she cast a quick glance up to the clouds. Surveying them, she decided they appeared more like the pale lavender color of freshly squeezed clouds, rather than the dark bloated gray of imminent rain.
Lord Holt Takes a Bride Page 6
