Lord Holt Takes a Bride

by Vivienne Lorret

  Only Winn would sacrifice the last thing of value she possessed. Only Winn would do something so impulsive, so maddening, so utterly . . . selfless.

  And only Winn would come into his life at the worst possible time.

  She sighed and turned to press her forehead to his. “We’re running out of time, Asher. You need to be back in London in a few days. So I had this notion that, if we had the money, we could catch the next mail coach to my aunt’s. Then you’d be able to—”

  He kissed her, sinking headlong into those lush, welcoming lips. Damn it all. Why did she have to be an heiress? It would be so easy to fall in love with her.

  Sliding a hand to her nape, he angled his mouth over hers, punishing both of them by deepening the kiss, tasting her sweet surrender. Falling in love with Winn was a terrible idea. Marriage would only trap them in the same chaos he’d endured all his life. He couldn’t bear the thought of inflicting that hell on her. And yet . . .

  He wanted her to be his. In fact, he’d never wanted anything or anyone so much. He ached from wanting her. To see her face every morning. To lie beside her every night. To hear her voice and to make her laugh. And if the circumstances were different, he’d give himself over to this love that was burning like an ember inside his chest. He’d let the flames consume him.

  He’d beg her forgiveness for the deal he’d made with her father, and do whatever it took to win her heart and marry her. And he wanted it so much that he could hardly breathe.

  Asher broke the kiss, panting as if he’d just tried to scale a mountain but couldn’t reach the summit. He pulled her close and realized all his thoughts were selfish ones.

  His circumstances weren’t different. If he didn’t find a way to earn enough money and make it back to London in time, they might never be.

  “Don’t be angry with me,” she said.

  “I’m not. I just wish that you weren’t so . . .”

  “Foolish?”

  He took her face in his hands and shook his head. “Remarkable, in every conceivable way.”

  Tears suddenly gathered in her eyes. “You will not think so when I tell you that the next mail coach will not come until tomorrow. And by then, I fear it will be too late.”

  He pressed a kiss to her lashes, her nose and her lips once more, the surrounding skin reddened by his whiskers. “I should have taken better care with your soft skin and shaved before I kissed you.”

  “You are rather prickly, but I don’t mind,” she said, lightly brushing her fingertips over his jaw and making him want to be petted by her all day long.

  But they didn’t have all day.

  “How much coin do you have?”

  Reaching behind her, she produced the coins, resting on the flat of her palm. It wasn’t much, but with a little ingenuity it might end up being enough.

  He laid his hand over hers, the copper and silver growing warm between them. “Winn, if I ask you to wait for me, would you?”

  She searched his gaze and, in the quiet moment that followed, neither one of them drew a breath. “Do you mean . . . here, in the loft?”

  To be honest, he wasn’t sure what he meant. His thoughts were a jumble of ifs—if he could get her to her aunt’s in time . . . if he could return to London in time . . . if he could make the fortune he thought he would . . . if he could free himself . . . if she forgave him . . . if everything went to plan . . .

  But the vision of the future was opaque and uncertain. So of course, he wasn’t asking her to wait for him forever.

  Was he?

  “Stay here for a few minutes,” he said at last. “I’ll return shortly. And please, whatever you do, don’t say that thing you always say before disaster strikes.”

  She smiled and tipped forward to press her lips to his once more. “I’ll be right here.”

  * * *

  Asher shaved his morning’s beard with his boot knife and the water Winn had left in a pitcher at the bottom of the ladder. Staring at his warped reflection in the copper still, those ifs swirled inside his head, the future more uncertain than ever.

  But he was determined to change that.

  He left the boiling house and crossed the yard behind the Grinning Boar. Heading toward the street, he was trying to figure out a way to procure a coach and driver, one willing to take them the rest of the way to Yorkshire for less than a crown.

  With an absent glance out at the town square, it appeared far different than it had last night, almost idyllic. In the gleaming light of morning, the cobblestones teemed with men and women tilting their hats in welcome, milling about the shops, toting baskets, driving carts. There were even children playing by the well. In such a setting, he doubted he’d successfully rouse a game.

  Distracted by his thoughts, he nearly ran headlong into Mr. Lum, staggering down the pavement beside his laughing, gangly cohort.

  Asher’s boots skidded to a full stop before he had the presence of mind to retreat around the corner. He pressed his back against the shingled wall, his pulse racing.

  “Shut it, Jamey,” came Lum’s gravelly voice. “You’re giving me a bleedin’ headache.”

  “You’re just grogshot. A fine cup of tea will set you right again. And you’ll be glad to know that, while you were dead to the world, I made inquiries. Seems as though there haven’t been any mail coaches who stopped by here with anyone like Holt or his heiress. So they can’t be ahead of us, can they?”

  “Of course they aren’t ahead of us. That little gig can fly. Mark my words, we’ll find Holt and his heiress before they can reach Gretna Green. Then, with both of them tied up, we’ll send a letter to Waldenfield offering him first claim on getting his daughter back. For a price, of course.”

  “But . . .” Jamey hesitated. “I thought we were supposed to take the heiress back with us, too. So the marquess can do the extorting to Waldenfield.”

  Asher’s blood went cold, listening with dread. So that was the plan his father had hatched—to ransom Winn to her father?

  “Oy! And who says we won’t?” Lum shouted, then lowered his voice, speaking in singsong as if to a child. “But first we’re going to play nice and friendly with the man who has all the money. That’s the way we’ll get some for ourselves.”

  “Ah.”

  “Idiot. Come on, then. Let’s get our gig. The blighter who runs the carriage house made me pay him up front like I wasn’t good for the money, and I don’t want to be around when he realizes that the coin’s newly minted, if you ken my meaning.”

  “But I been waiting all mornin’ for ham steaks and soft eggs, and you’ve still got that guinea from the bloke yesterday.”

  “I’m not about to spend good coin if I don’t have to. If these country folks are too stupid to mistake a brass farthing for the genuine article, then they get what they deserve.” Lum sighed. “Though I could use a cup of tea, and considering you inhale as fast as you eat, I don’t expect it’ll matter much. Besides, we know where they’re going. We’ll either catch them in Gretna Green or somewhere along the way.”

  Asher frowned and heard the door to the inn close. He thought Shettlemane had already sunk as low as a man could go—stealing from his own son and sending henchmen after him. Apparently, he was wrong.

  This changed things considerably. It was one thing to have Lum after him, but after Winn, too? No! Asher wouldn’t allow her to be in harm’s way.

  Icy fury and desperation surged through him. It had the peculiar effect of centering all his thoughts. Now, with his mind clear, he realized he only had one option.

  He had to steal Lum’s curricle.

  Chapter 19

  Finally, the Fates were smiling on Asher. Outside the carriage house, the pair of horses were harnessed, and Lum’s ready gig merely tied to a hitch. All he had to do was climb in and—

  “And just who might you be?” asked a grizzled man in a flat felt cap and brown coat who stepped out from in front of the horse. He had a pipe clenched in his teeth and a whip at his side.
/>   Asher offered a smile. “Well, this is my curricle.”

  The man smiled back and approached him in a genial fashion, but then clamped a hard hand over his shoulder. “Nah. You see, I remember the large fellow who tossed me this false coin, and you aren’t him. But we get our share of thieves around here and we know how to deal with them. Got a set of irons next door at the smithy’s.”

  Thinking fast, Asher shrugged free and took a step back with his hands raised in innocence. “As you say, the fellow who left this gig was intending to rob you, but I have coin.”

  Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the money from Winn selling her stockings.

  The man took it without delay. Then he jerked his head in a nod toward the square. “That settles up with what he owes me from last night. Now be on your way before I fetch those irons.”

  Bloody hell. Asher felt robbed. Then again, that was what he’d been intending to do . . .

  “What about striking a wager?” he asked, desperate.

  “Not the wagering sort.”

  “A fair trade, then?” Glancing down, he knew his coat wouldn’t fit the man’s burly physique. “What do you think of these top boots? They’re made with the finest calf leather.”

  “Don’t need fancy boots.”

  Asher suddenly felt the weight of the pearl-handled knife tucked inside his boot.

  To have any hope for a future, for a life he could be proud of—that didn’t include robbery, or bartering, or demeaning himself—he knew what he had to do.

  On a heavy exhale, he reached down. As he stood, he gripped the knife that had been his companion for two decades, then turned the handle toward the man so that it wouldn’t appear threatening. “What about this? As you can see, it’s a fine blade. And that’s genuine gold filigree in the pearl handle.”

  The man’s black-beetle eyes roved over it with interest. But then, another man—an older gentleman in a broad-brimmed hat and silver mustachios—strolled over, scrutinizing the knife.

  He seemed familiar to Asher. He had a regal bearing and a finely tailored suit of clothes, like any wealthy gentleman who might stay in London for politics and gaming. Yet it was clear he kept to the country and preferred outdoor sporting, for his skin was tan, and his blue eyes were so pale and clear they appeared sun-bleached. “Pardon me, but have we met before?”

  “Not as of yet,” the man articulated in a rough growl of a voice as if he were used to calling out to his dogs on a hunt.

  The carriage house stablemaster handed back the knife. “Don’t need a fancy blade either. Got anything else?”

  “May I?” asked the older gentleman, holding out a swarthy hand. Not having anything else to lose, Asher handed it over. And after studying it for a moment, he said, “This knife is quite rare, actually. Do you see this insignia here? Well, that indicates it was once part of a royal house. It’s worth a great deal of money.”

  To Asher it was priceless.

  The stablemaster scoffed. “See here, are you lot working together?”

  Asher answered with an absent shake of his head, his focus on the gentleman. “Are you a collector?”

  “Mmm . . . Something of that nature,” he said with a slow grin that curled his mustachios. “How much would you like for it?”

  This was it. His only chance. Asher turned to the stablemaster. “How much to take this curricle?”

  The man shrugged. “Five pounds for my trouble.”

  Asher looked to the man with the mustachios. “Five pounds, then.”

  “For a treasure like this, you could purchase this entire village square.”

  “Perhaps, but if I don’t take this gig immediately, then the treasure I hold most dear will be lost.” He held out his hand. “Do we have a bargain, then?”

  The man shook, his grip solid, his gaze inquisitive. Then, without delay, he delivered the coins to the other man and Asher stepped up into the bench and picked up the ribbons.

  Just as he released the brake, the gentleman came up beside the gig and lifted the brim of his wide hat with the tip of the blade. “It has been a pleasure, Lord Holt.”

  By the time it registered that he’d never given the man his name, Asher already had two in hand and was driving away. But in the next instant, it didn’t matter, because he saw Mr. Lum and his associate crossing the village square.

  In fact, they were running from an angry Oslo, who burst out of the Grinning Boar after them. “Stop! Thief!”

  Then Lum spotted Asher and all hell broke loose. His eyes gleamed with triumph as he mouthed, “Holt,” and a cruel smile split his face.

  “Stop! Thief!” Lum shouted, pointing to Asher.

  The villagers wore confused expressions but started to crowd toward the carriage.

  Recalling many of the faces from the tavern last night, Asher was forced to slow the horse to keep from injuring anyone.

  “Thief! Thief!”

  This time, the shout came from a lilting feminine voice he knew quite well.

  And when he looked across the square, there was Winn beside Oslo’s wife, pointing at Lum and Jamey. “Those are the highwaymen who robbed my husband and me. Stop them! Please, stop them!”

  Those same villagers who’d been about to corral Asher suddenly turned their glaring attention to the henchmen.

  They both stopped and Lum stripped off his hat, placing it over his heart. “We’re the innocent ones. The chit’s lying! That’s our gig. Just ask the man from the carriage house.”

  The stablemaster pulled his pipe from his teeth and Asher held his breath.

  “The lady’s right. Them’s the two thieves.”

  Oslo came up behind Lum and Jamey and clamped hands on their shoulders. “Been paying with brass farthings, they have. Where’s the smithy?”

  Relief rushed through Asher, but he knew they weren’t out of danger yet. Without wasting time, he drove the horses around the blockade and toward Winn.

  “You promised to wait,” he said with a grin as she took his hand and climbed up to the curricle’s black-painted bench situated beneath the curved hood.

  She blinked innocently, holding the shawl on her lap. “I was waiting in the general vicinity. Someone had to watch over you, after all.”

  He was so busy grinning like a fool that he almost didn’t see Lum and Jamey break free from the jeering crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, he witnessed them push an old man aside and appropriate his horse cart.

  “Hold on, crumpet,” Asher said and snapped the reins, spurring the horses forward and jolting them both back against the hard bench.

  The henchmen were rounding the well, kicking at the villagers who tried to stop them.

  “Did you steal it?” Winn asked in a scandalized stage whisper laced liberally with excitement. Someday he would have to chide his little heiress for her criminal predilections.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Don’t tell me you gambled this morning.”

  “I didn’t gamble,” he said absently, trying to focus on finding a path out of the square.

  The sun was bright, cresting the trees just enough to blind him. Squinting, he turned through a shaded opening that he thought was the way to the main road.

  It wasn’t.

  Instead, he found himself in a small grassy paddock, charging toward an open gate on the other side. Beyond that was a cottage with a yard full of chickens and a woman bent over a tub, scrubbing clothes beside a wash line tied between two trees.

  Winn swatted his arm. “Well? How did you acquire this curricle, then?”

  “You could say that I . . . bartered for it.”

  “With only the few coins that I—” She gasped, covering her mouth. “Oh, Asher, not your knife.”

  He swallowed. “There was no other way.”

  With a glance, he saw her eyes flood with tears, her bottom lip trembling. Then she buried her face against his shoulder and cried. “This is all my fault.”

  “Of course it isn’t,” he crooned, turning his head
to press a kiss to the top of hers. “Waiting outside the church to kidnap you has been the best—”

  The rest of his words were drowned out by a bucket of dirty water that slapped him in the face. He sputtered and spat, wishing he would have been paying closer attention as he passed the washer woman.

  Coughing, his mouth filled with the bitter taste of potash and . . . well . . . he didn’t want to think about the rest. His eyes stung, too, and he squeezed them closed to stop them from burning. But that was a mistake.

  Squinting at the narrow path between the cottage and the paddock fence, he barely caught sight of another woman, and this one was shaking out a rug from the first-floor window. All the dust and filth fell on him, sticking to his skin and eyelashes.

  He couldn’t see a thing.

  He sneezed and coughed again, slowing the horses.

  “Why are we . . .” Her question trailed off as she lifted her head and began to pat his coat. “Whatever did you drive us through? A storm cloud and an ash heap? You’re positively filthy! And half of my dress is speckled and dirty.”

  “Winn, are there men still chasing us in a horse cart?” Using one hand, he began to untie his cravat since his handkerchief was tied around her shoe. “Because if they are, perhaps we can talk about this later.”

  “Then let me drive,” she said with impatience.

  “Do you know how to drive?”

  She was already taking the reins from him as he slid the cravat from his collar. “Of course. After all, how difficult could it be?”

  Alarm jolted through him at the same time she spurred the horses, catching Asher off balance. He nearly lost his seat.

  “Apologies,” she said in singsong, giving the lead another flick and spurring the horses faster. “You’d best hold on tightly.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, there’s a narrow turn up ahead. But I think I see the road.”

  “What do you mean, you think—”

  All at once he felt, rather than saw, the curricle lifting onto one wheel as they made the turn.

  When it slammed back down on two wheels, Winn laughed with pure, throaty joy. “I love driving!”