Patricia Frances Rowell

by A Scandalous Situation

  “So I am chosen—already damaged goods.”

  “Don’t ever let me hear you say that again!”

  At the thunder in his voice, Iantha jumped and stepped hastily back. His lordship did not move, but his voice softened. “Forgive me. I did not mean to shout. But I am serious, Iantha. Do not allow them the victory of seeing yourself that way. Do not allow anyone to do that to you.”

  Iantha stared down at her shoes. He was right, of course. “I try not to, but it is very hard.”

  “I’m sure it is.” She sensed him reaching for her, then dropping his hand to his side. She didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry that he hadn’t touched her. Perhaps he didn’t want to. She lifted her gaze to his. The expression in his eyes surprised her.

  There was a wanting in them.

  Could he possibly really want her?

  Praise for Patricia Frances Rowell

  A Dangerous Seduction

  “Rowell creates a wonderful Gothic atmosphere,

  using beautiful Cornwall and its history of smuggling

  and shipwrecks to enhance her story.”

  —Romantic Times

  A Perilous Attraction

  “…promising Regency-era debut

  …a memorable heroine who succeeds in capturing

  the hero’s heart as well as the reader’s.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Ms. Rowell has a nice touch for penning

  likeable characters…a relaxing, romantic read.”

  —Romantic Times

  DON’T MISS THESE OTHER

  TITLES AVAILABLE NOW:

  #715 THE HORSEMAN

  Jillian Hart

  #717 THE WIDOW’S BARGAIN

  Juliet Landon

  #718 THE MERCENARY’S KISS

  Pam Crooks

  PATRICIA FRANCES ROWELL

  A SCANDALOUS SITUATION

  Available from Harlequin Historicals and PATRICIA FRANCES ROWELL

  A Perilous Attraction #621

  A Dangerous Seduction #668

  A Scandalous Situation #716

  This book is for my talented sons—

  Andrew Nathaniel, James Houghton and

  John Adam Annand. We grew up together, didn’t we, guys?

  And for grandchildren Amber Niccole

  (because I spelled her name wrong the last time) and

  Aidan Thomas (because we didn’t have him the last time).

  And for Johnny—always my hero.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENT

  My thanks to Paul D. Ware, M.D., and Jean Cason, MSW,

  who taught me how people recover from trauma,

  and many other important life lessons.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Just North of London, 1801

  I must be dying.

  She could no longer feel the pain.

  Then again, perhaps the agony had simply increased to the point of numbness as she lay on the frozen ground, drifting in and out of the blackness.

  Death would be better.

  They were still there. She heard them moving about.

  And she smelled them. A strange smoke. The odor of nervous and excited men.

  She fought to control a shudder.

  She must not move, not even breathe.

  Perhaps they would believe she was dead. Oh, God, please let them believe that! Let it be so. Then surely they would not do it again.

  Against the background of her closed eyes distorted images swirled. Heads swathed in crimson masks. Eyes glittering through the eyeholes. Hot breath pouring through the mouth openings. Gleaming blades.

  Pain. Pain everywhere.

  Mask after mask after mask.

  The blackness sought her. She reached for it, welcoming it. Suddenly a loud, braying laugh, the sound of a hand striking flesh and an angry, hissed whisper snatched it away.

  “Quiet, fool!”

  She held her breath. The creak of leather. Horses galloping away. Empty silence.

  The smell of blood. The cold.

  And blackness.

  Chapter One

  Cumberland, England, 1807

  Careful not to move, he sat astride his bay stallion with his hands in the air and concentrated on the pistol pointed at his heart. A pistol held in the steady, gloved hands of a lady. Not a large lady, true. Dainty, rather, and delicate. But a lady wearing a very determined expression.

  He could probably disarm her. Probably. A sudden charge. A quick grab. It would work. Probably. Of course, he always stood the chance of getting either himself or his horse shot. Robert Armstrong was not a man who liked probably. Not with a pistol leveled at his chest. No, for the moment discretion definitely appeared to be the better part of valor. He did his best to sound soothing.

  “Ma’am, I assure you I mean you no harm. If you do not allow me to get down and help you free your horse, the next mass of snow that slides down that mountain will bury not only your gig, but you and the horse as well.”

  As if to punctuate his words, a small cascade of frozen chunks tumbled down the hill and landed at the feet of the very determined pistol-pointing lady. She flung a quick glance upward, then steadied the pistol. “I fear you are correct. Your assistance would be most welcome. You may dismount.”

  Rob raised one sardonic eyebrow. “Much obliged to you.”

  Feeling not at all welcome, he swung himself down from his mount and waded through the deep snow to the overturned conveyance. The woman stepped away cautiously, keeping the pistol trained on his back. A spot between his shoulder blades began to itch. He shrugged uneasily. Surely she wouldn’t shoot him in the back while he was extricating her from her predicament.

  Would she?

  Murmuring softly to the frantic cob, still harnessed to the gig trying desperately to keep his feet, Rob took hold of its bridle and surveyed the situation. The small snowslide had knocked the carriage into the drifts on the far side of the road, turning it half on its side and all but engulfing it. The very determined lady could count herself fortunate indeed to have been thrown clear. The far shaft had broken free of the body of the gig, and the off-balance horse had stepped over it with a hind leg, thus jamming itself firmly between the splintered stub and the near shaft.

  “Got yourself into the very devil of a scrape, haven’t you, old fellow? We’d best get you out before you’re much older, or I’m likely to find myself in the same case.”

  Rob studied the hillside above him with narrowed eyes. Not very high, but very steep and almost devoid of vegetation, the escarpment was crowned by a long, sheer rock precipice. The surprisingly mild day had softened the snow, causing the slide, but soon it would freeze solid once more. He could feel the temperature dropping. The rising wind blew sparkling flurries from the crest against a mounting backdrop of blue-gray clouds. Another storm. Matters were going from bad to worse.

  At any moment the wind might trigger another small avalanche. Rob pulled the knife out of the top of his boot. At a sharp hiss of indrawn breath behind him, he looked over his shoulder.

  “What are yo
u doing?” The lady’s already pale face had gone deathly white. The previously steady hands that held the pistol now trembled. Not a good sign.

  Rob straightened and frowned. “Ma’am, please. Lower your weapon. I have no wish to end this misadventure with a bullet lodged in me. I must cut the straps loose from the shafts, and I have no time to waste dealing with frozen buckles.”

  “I…” She took a deep breath and stilled her shaking. The pistol wavered, finally pointed at the ground. “Yes, of course. Please proceed.”

  Rolling his eyes skyward, Rob went back to his task. What ailed the woman? Fear was writ in every tense line of her slender body, her clenched hands, her taut face. Surely he had done nothing to inspire it? Except… Yes, he had drawn his knife. Until that moment she had been merely wary, but now she looked terrified. Why?

  Tabling that question for a more opportune moment, Rob turned back to the task of calming the small horse and delivering it from its entanglement. This he accomplished with a few efficient strokes of his blade. Pausing only long enough to sheath the knife and pick up the handle of a rectangular leather case that had spilled out of the gig, he led the badly limping cob toward its mistress.

  “I’m afraid your horse has strained a tendon. He will not be able…”

  A deep rumble and a faint vibration of the earth were all the warning he had. Rob dropped the reins of the cob and launched himself at the woman. Neither thinking nor pausing, he scooped her up across his shoulder and ran, his powerful legs slicing through the soft snow. The pistol went flying and discharged with a loud crack. Both horses galloped ahead of him, whinnying in fright. A wall of rocks, earth and half-frozen snow roared down the slope, picking up speed as it came. Rob doubled his effort, desperately traversing the hillside, trying to get them out of the main path of the slide.

  Suddenly, he tripped, and both of them went sprawling.

  He flung himself over the woman, trying to hold the leather case over his own head. A rock struck it and bounced away. Another. A clod of dirt and ice hit his shoulder and icy slush filled his boot and trickled inside his collar. Great God! Were they buried?

  Time seemed to stretch interminably as the roaring mass came ever closer. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the roar came to an abrupt halt. Near panic, Rob thrust himself upward. To his untold relief his head and upper body emerged into a startling silence. Carefully he sat up and looked around him.

  And shuddered.

  He lay just beyond the edge of a huge pile of debris that now filled a section of the shallow valley. The overturned gig could no longer be seen at all. The road disappeared under the heap of snow and dirt. Rob pulled his leg free of the mass and turned to the still-recumbent lady. “Ma’am, are you hurt?”

  She lay as if frozen, her eyes tightly shut, her skin completely devoid of color. For the first time Rob had the opportunity for a close look. She was younger than he had thought. The silvery hair peeping from under the hood of her ermine coat had misled him. She had the unlined face of a very young woman, no older, surely, than her mid-twenties. She didn’t move.

  “Miss? Miss!” Alarmed now by her pallor, he shook her shoulder gently. Had he knocked the breath out of her? “Miss, can you speak?”

  Her eyelids fluttered and Rob found himself staring into eyes as deep a violet as the mountain sky. Their clarity took his breath away. And his voice. “Uh… Uh, miss…” He cleared his throat. “Are you injured?”

  She took a long breath and swallowed. “No… No, I do not believe I am.”

  She struggled to sit and Rob quickly got to one knee and offered his hand. She regarded it gravely for a moment, then put her fingers in his and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet as he stood. She glanced about, looking bewildered. “What happened to my carriage?”

  “I’m afraid it is now completely buried.”

  “And my pistol?”

  Rob shrugged. Just as well to see the last of the pistol. “I have no idea.” He stamped the snow from his boots and brushed it off his clothes, gazing around for the horses. “But I believe it is best that we make haste away from here.”

  “But where…?” The lady turned in a circle, searching the buried road. The strengthening wind molded her damp coat to her slight frame, and she shivered. A few flakes of fresh snow danced around her.

  “My home is there, atop the cliff.” Rob indicated, a little distance away, the outline of an old fortress against the growing clouds.

  The lady’s eyes widened. “The Eyrie? I thought it unoccupied.”

  “It has been for some years. I have just recently returned from India. I’m Robert Armstrong.”

  “Baron Duncan?”

  “The same.”

  “I see. I…” She lifted her chin proudly. “I am Iantha Kethley.” She did not offer her hand.

  Nor did she smile.

  Ah, well. Not exactly the reward the gallant rescuer of a beautiful maiden in distress might wish for. At least, she might be a beautiful maiden had she deigned to smile.

  Whistling for his bay, he retrieved the cob from where it stood forlornly a few yards away and ran his hand expertly down its leg. “We will both have to use my horse. Your poor pony is considerably the worse for two narrow escapes. Let me mount first, and I will lift you up before me.”

  “Uh…” The fear flickered once more in those remarkable eyes. “No. That is… I prefer to ride behind you. I will mount first.”

  “But the road is very steep. You will likely slide off. It would be far safer—”

  “I will ride behind.” Her lifted chin took on a stubborn tilt.

  Rob sighed. “As you wish. We have no time for argument.” He glanced at the lowering sky and got a face full of snow for his trouble. “Whatever we do, we’d best do it soon. That storm will be upon us in earnest very shortly.”

  As he was about to lift her, she stopped him again, backing away from him. “My paints.” She pointed to the leather case. “I will carry them.”

  “Your paints?” Rob smothered a snort of exasperation. “Very well. As soon as you are seated.” He caught her before she could make yet another objection, his broad hands all but encompassing her fragile waist. She seemed almost to float upward as he set her sideways behind the saddle. Handing up the case when she had settled herself, he gathered up the cob’s reins and mounted his own horse awkwardly, swinging his foot over the animal’s head. The bay sidled, signaling his annoyance at this unorthodox procedure.

  Rob settled into the saddle, only to be jabbed between the shoulder blades by something sharp. Now what? Turning, he realized that his damsel in distress had placed the paint case between herself and his sturdy back and was trying to hold on to him around it. That was the outside of enough!

  “Give me that!” He unceremoniously yanked the case out of her grasp and balanced it across the saddle in front of him with one hand. “Now hold on to me. We have no time for this nonsense.”

  Urging his mount across the escarpment below the towering cliff, Rob made for the old castle by the shortest route. The wind howled around them now, the snow blowing sideways, stinging their faces. More drifts were already forming across what was left of the road below them in the valley. It would be of no further use to them, but his path would take them directly to the trail that led up to his home. His bay might have made short work of the trip had not the lame cob held him back, but they should still safely reach shelter.

  As the laboring horses struggled up a sharp incline, Rob heard a strangled squeak, and the small arms around his waist abruptly disappeared. The bay reared slightly as his load shifted. Rob steadied him and looked back in alarm to see his passenger sitting in the snow, legs stretched before her and her skirts above her knees, exposing white leather knee boots.

  And another pistol strapped to the top of one boot.

  Great heavens, the woman went about armed to the teeth!

  To his relief she looked startled, but not stunned. She scrambled hastily to her feet and came to where Rob waited
aboard his mount, nobly forbearing to say I told you so. She at least had the grace to appear chagrined, two rosy spots coloring her cheeks. He extended a hand. “Put your foot on top of mine and push as I lift you.”

  She obeyed this command without a word and, giving her the paint case to hold, Rob pulled her up into his arms and set her in front of him. His arm tightened around her waist as he dug his heels into the bay’s sides. Immediately her whole body went stiff. He frowned, puzzled. What was wrong with her? It wasn’t as though he were kidnapping her. He was rescuing her, for God’s sake!

  He pulled the horse in. “Miss Kethley.” She did not respond. He couldn’t see her face. She set it resolutely ahead, like a prisoner going bravely to meet her fate. He grasped her chin and turned her toward him. He gazed into her face, baffled.

  “Miss Kethley, please tell me what I have done to offend you so.” She shook her head, opened her mouth to speak, and closed it again. “Have I offered you any harm, any insult?”

  She swallowed and shook her head. “N…” She moistened her lips and tried again. “N-no.”

  “Nor will I.”

  Rob shut his mouth grimly and set off up the mountain.

  As they made their way up the slope, Iantha sat in the shelter of the baron’s body and willed herself to think, to remain calm. She would control her fear. The man had done nothing to provoke it. He had done nothing but what was right and proper—gallant even. Yet when he had fallen across her, she had thought her heart would stop. Even the roar of the snowslide had been drowned out by the roaring inside her mind; the fear of being buried alive paled beside the fear engendered by the weight of his body on top of hers.