The Highlander's Forbidden Mistress

by Anna Campbell

  "You were coming toward me, when you hit a patch of black ice and slid right across in front of my team. God’s blood, I thought we were all a goner."

  "Is Erskine safe?" Brock asked.

  "If that’s your coachman, sir, I do believe he’s broken his arm. He was thrown clear in the accident."

  "Bugger," Brock muttered. "Poor sod. What about the horses?"

  "Better news there. I’ve released them. They’re frightened, but no injuries."

  "That’s something."

  "Can I help you out of there?"

  "Aye, please. Take the lady first." Brock bent his head to speak into Selina’s ear. "Can you move, sweetheart?"

  "Yes, I’m sure I can," she said, although letting go of Brock soaked up most of her remaining courage.

  "Stretch up toward me, my lady, and I’ll haul you out."

  Tentatively Selina pushed away from Brock and held out her hands. She’d jarred her shoulder in the crash and her arms hurt when she shifted, but she suspected she suffered nothing worse than bruising. She was able to move, at least, so she doubted she’d broken any bones. Brock’s condition worried her. He’d taken most of the impact of the crash.

  The man’s hands closed around hers with reassuring firmness. Brock flattened his hands on her rump ready to push. All this movement inside the cabin made the carriage rock in a most alarming fashion. She bit her lip and told herself that a fit of hysterics would do nobody any good.

  "My name is Plaistow," the man said in a calm voice. "Lord Derwent’s coachman."

  The coincidence of his identity barely registered. She was too frantic to escape the carriage before it overturned.

  "Are you ready?" the man asked.

  "Yes," she said, sounding surer than she felt.

  Between Plaistow pulling and Brock pushing, she managed to climb out of the carriage. Plaistow straightened and held her arm as she found her balance on the road. "Are you all right, my lady?"

  She took in the carriage’s precarious position, leaning over the deep ditch. It wouldn’t take much for the vehicle to overturn completely.

  "Yes," she said faintly. Her legs seemed just about capable of holding her up and while her escape from the vehicle had unleashed a volley of aches and pains, she was in one piece. Her dress was torn along one sleeve, and her hair had come down in the accident. But thanks to Brock’s heroism, she’d emerged unscathed from what could have been a disaster. "Let me help you with his lordship."

  She heard an ominous creak, but when she saw Brock’s head emerge from the open doorway, she released a gasp of relief. Although with all that blood smearing his face, he looked ghastly. "Help his lordship, Plaistow."

  "Can you stand?"

  "Yes." Another creak from the wrecked carriage had her panicking. "Quick, before the coach goes."

  Plaistow rushed forward to grab Brock’s arms and heave him free. The violent movement was too much for the carriage’s equilibrium. With a volley of sharp snaps, the once-opulent vehicle lurched into the ditch, landing with a resounding crash and the tinkle of more broken glass.

  Selina rushed up to support Brock before he collapsed to the ground. She staggered as his full weight rested on her.

  "All set, my lord?" Plaistow asked. "We were lucky nobody was killed. I thought my time was up, I don’t mind telling you."

  "Thank you for your help," Brock said, managing to stand on his own feet before she folded under him, thank goodness.

  Now the immediate danger passed, Selina started to shake like a leaf. She clung to Brock’s arm and dragged in a shuddering breath to clear the fog from her head. For the first time since the accident, she paid attention to her surroundings.

  They were standing on an empty stretch of road, with flat, lifeless fields extending around them. It was a cold, bleak place to be stranded. Nobody had done anything to round up the horses since Plaistow had unharnessed them from Brock’s carriage. Now the frightened animals milled around, snorting and shying and trailing broken leather straps. It was a miracle that they seemed to have survived the smash without serious injury.

  Brock’s carriage was beyond repair, so she hoped Plaistow and his passengers were willing to take her and her lover up with them. At the Blue Wagon, Kitty and John would be worried sick about her.

  On the edge of the road, Erskine slumped on the ground, nursing his arm. Beyond him, two well-dressed men stood in conversation in the shadow of the other carriage, which appeared to have suffered no damage.

  Horror filled her when she realized one of the men was Lord Derwent. But that was nothing compared to her reaction when the other man turned toward her.

  Across the distance, she found herself staring into Cecil Canley-Smythe’s appalled face. He made an uncertain step in her direction. "Selina?"

  Then he took in the fact that she stood beside one of the most notorious rakes in England, and his features tautened with fury.

  Chapter 11

  Brock felt Selina stiffen beside him, then he heard someone speak her name. He turned from contemplating his wrecked carriage in time for Selina’s fiancé to shove him away from her.

  Taken by surprise, he didn’t offer immediate resistance as Cecil grabbed her arm and wrenched her toward him. "What the devil are you doing here?"

  Brock watched the confidence he loved blanch out of her face, leaving her looking ashamed and frightened. "Cecil, I…"

  "Let her go," Brock growled.

  Cecil sent him a haughty look. "You have no rights over this woman."

  "Cecil, please don’t make a scene," Selina pleaded, wrenching back to try and break his hold.

  "Canley-Smythe, what is this to-do?" Lord Derwent strode over to Cecil, then he took in Selina and Brock’s presence. Aristocratic displeasure hardened his features as he realized who had occupied the other coach. "Mrs. Martin, your servant. Bruard."

  "Derwent," Brock said coldly. He struggled to come up with some unexceptional reason for him to be with Selina. "Mrs. Martin has been staying with a friend in the locality, and I arranged to collect her on my way back from my hunting box on the coast."

  "I…see," Derwent said slowly. To his chagrin, Brock knew that he did indeed see. Far too much, blast him.

  "Mrs. Martin has had a shock, and it’s cold out here. Could I prevail upon you to drive her to the Blue Wagon? She has a carriage waiting there to take her to London."

  Cecil flung Selina off as if she was infected with some contagious disease. "Better to let the traitorous hellcat freeze."

  "Cecil, as Lord Bruard said…" she began, sounding even less convincing than Brock had.

  "I didn’t come down in the last shower, you lying slut. You’ve been with that lecherous bastard since I left you."

  Brock saw Selina flinch, and he stepped nearer to extend his arm, but she recoiled from his protection. The frozen misery on her face had threatened to break his heart. It was worse now when she refused to accept any help from him.

  "Mind your tongue when you speak to the lady," Brock snapped.

  "I’ll call it as I see it."

  Derwent winced. It was clear that he was eager to avoid dramatics. "Canley-Smythe, I realize this encounter is unexpected, but theatrics benefit nobody."

  Brock saw Cecil consider a heated response, but self-interest must have kicked in. He wouldn’t want to offend such a powerful patron as Lord Derwent. In seething acknowledgment, he bowed.

  Derwent nodded, although his expression didn’t warm. He presented his arm to Selina. "May I offer you a seat in my carriage, Mrs. Martin?"

  "Thank you, but if…if Erskine has a broken arm, he should go. I was only bruised in the accident, my lord."

  Pride threatened to burst Brock’s chest. Even on what must count as the worst day of her life, she thought of someone else’s trouble before her own.

  Derwent scowled, as if the idea of a menial sharing the rarefied air he breathed offended every drop of his blue blood. "There’s room for four. If we take the injured man, Mr. Canley-Smythe
or Lord Bruard must remain behind."

  Horror flooded Brock at the prospect of letting Selina go without him. He didn’t trust Cecil, who looked ready to commit murder. It was the closest thing to passion he’d ever seen the cod-faced poltroon display. But then Brock had known from the first that while Selina didn’t want Cecil, Cecil most definitely wanted her.

  Selina broke away to cross to where Erskine sat, pale and in obvious agony. Brock followed, itching to do something to make all this better for Selina and hating to be so powerless.

  "We need to splint that arm before you travel, Erskine," she said in an impressively steady voice. "I’m so sorry you were hurt."

  "Och, madam, nae need to worry about me. I’ll be right as rain in nae time." But when the man tried to stand up, he jarred his arm and went as white as milk.

  Relieved to have something practical to do, Brock returned to his carriage. He slithered down the bank and felt his boots sink into the mud as he snapped a length of wood from the rails. He tossed the stick back onto the road, then collected the baggage from the back and tossed that up to safety, too.

  Plaistow appeared at the top of the ditch. "May I be of assistance, my lord?"

  "Good man. Can you give me a hand up?"

  The sides of the ditch were steep and slippery. Brock had made it down with relative ease. He wasn’t sure he’d make it out again without help.

  When he was back on the road, he rummaged in his bag and produced half a dozen neck cloths. He also took the chance to rub some snow over his face and hands to clean off the worst of the blood.

  He turned back to Plaistow. "Will you help me splint my coachman’s broken arm?"

  By the time Erskine was ready to travel, after an interval of excruciating pain that he bore with astonishing stoicism, Derwent and Canley-Smythe had retired inside the undamaged coach. Neither had offered to assist with the coachman’s injuries.

  "More brandy, Erskine?" Brock asked, as he and Selina helped the stocky young man up onto shaky legs. Now Erskine was as ready to travel as he was going to be, Plaistow had left them to check that his horses were fit to run.

  Erskine was ashen, and it was clear shock was setting in. "Aye, thank ye," he mumbled, staggering as he found his feet.

  "Keep this." Brock handed the man the silver flask. "You might need it again before you reach the Blue Wagon."

  With some stumbling, Brock and Selina got Erskine across to the carriage. Derwent emerged as they approached. "If we take your man, someone has to stay behind."

  "Be buggered if I’m giving up my seat for that petticoat-chasing bastard," Cecil snarled from inside the vehicle.

  Brock caught a flash of terror in Selina’s eyes at the prospect of being trapped with Cecil. He lowered his voice as he spoke to Derwent. "I believe it’s best if Mrs. Martin isn’t alone with Canley-Smythe."

  Derwent still looked as though something in the vicinity stank to high heaven. "You have my word that she’ll come to no harm, Bruard."

  The sneer he sent Selina indicated that despite his assurances, he believed she deserved all she got. Brock fought back the urge to beat the self-righteousness out of the sod. Right now, he and Selina needed Derwent’s help – and his discretion, although Brock had a grim feeling that was too much to ask.

  "Thank you," he said, although the words stuck in his craw.

  "You can wait here and we’ll send back help, or you can follow us on one of your carriage horses," Derwent said coldly.

  Now Selina no longer fussed over Erskine, the brief purpose faded from her expression. She was back to looking like the world ended. Damn it all to hell.

  "I’ll ride one of the horses." He raised his voice so that Cecil heard him and noted that Selina’s defender intended to arrive at the inn soon after she did. "I should be just behind you. Derwent, when you get to the Blue Wagon, can you please wait with Mrs. Martin, so that no ruffians annoy her?"

  He meant one ruffian in particular. To Brock’s relief, Derwent nodded. "It would be my pleasure."

  He didn’t sound like it would be a pleasure, but at this stage, Brock would take what he could get. "Also could you arrange for someone to return to round up the rest of the horses?"

  "Of course."

  Brock bowed to Selina and sent her a smile meant to bolster her courage. "Such bad luck that our short trip together ended in grief, Mrs. Martin."

  She didn’t look up at him. Brock burned to tell her that everything would be fine, that he would make it so. He burned to claim her as his, and consign Cecil to the devil. He burned to take her in his arms and kiss her, until she looked like the brave, vital woman he knew she was at heart, and not this crushed, frightened waif.

  But all this burning did him no ounce of good. While they had an audience, he had to do his best to preserve appearances, despite every man here knowing just why Mrs. Martin had shared a carriage with the scandalous Earl of Bruard. Hell, the horses probably knew.

  Derwent offered his arm again. "Mrs. Martin, may I assist you inside?"

  Selina cast a nervous glance into the shadowy interior. "I think Erskine should go first."

  "Erskine, I’ll help you," Brock said, before Derwent could protest.

  "Thank ye, my lord. I’m gey sorry I’m causing all this palaver."

  "I’m sorry you’ve been injured in my service," Brock said.

  Maneuvering a man with a splinted arm into the confined space took more effort and time than either Erskine or Derwent appreciated. Cecil made his displeasure felt when the coachman settled beside him, but Brock was determined that Selina wasn’t going to sit next to her betrothed. At least if she sat beside Derwent, she’d have some protection. How Brock loathed that he had to let her go without him, although he’d do his best to catch up before they reached the inn.

  Derwent took his seat opposite Cecil and Erskine. Brock caught Selina’s arm and spoke under his breath, as she stepped up into the coach. "My darling, I’m hellish sorry…"

  "Not now," she muttered and pulled away to find her place. Brock didn’t miss the fulminating glare Cecil leveled on her, but he hoped Derwent’s presence – and perhaps Erskine’s, too – would preserve the niceties as far as the Blue Wagon.

  "Shut the damned door," Cecil snarled. "It’s bloody freezing."

  His heart heavy with guilt, regret and foreboding, Brock slammed the door and stepped back. As the short, cold day closed in toward night, Plaistow set the horses moving.

  ***

  Selina clasped shaking hands in her lap and told herself she wouldn’t cry. She fixed her gaze on the bleak view out the window, although she didn’t see anything of the landscape. Instead, she struggled to come to terms with the mammoth scale of the disaster that had befallen her.

  Brock had done his best to place an innocent gloss on her presence, but not even a babe in arms would believe his flimsy story. Nausea churned in her belly when she imagined what might happen now that Cecil had discovered her infidelity.

  Not just Cecil. There were other witnesses, apart from a fiancé who, if he had any sense, might see some advantage in smothering the scandal. After a week with the Derwents, she was under no illusion how far the delicious morsel of gossip about prim Mrs. Martin spreading her legs for that libertine Lord Bruard would travel. A morsel made even more delicious, now it included the spicy addition of the lady’s betrothed catching her in the seducer’s company.

  She wanted to sink into the ground and disappear. Shame and fear placed an iron band around her chest, a band that tightened with every second and threatened to cut off her breathing. After the accident, she was sore and stiff, but her physical discomfort didn’t come near to matching the rank wretchedness seething in her belly.

  Black spots clouded her vision. She realized she was on the verge of fainting – which would lacerate her pride worse than crying. A sharp pain from her lungs reminded her to suck in some air. Her sight cleared, but that offered no relief. Devastation lay in every direction, and she wanted to die of humiliation.
>
  Since Gerald was born, she’d done her best to be a good mother. She’d protected him as far as she could from the effects of his father’s excesses. She’d offered him secure and steady love. She’d tried to teach him right from wrong.

  Now the almighty scandal about to break over her head would make her son think that his mother was a round-heeled slut. It didn’t matter that when Brock touched her, she felt purer than she’d ever felt in her life. She was just another empty-headed strumpet who had succumbed to Lord Bruard’s fatal charm. That her stupidity had cost her a marriage to one of the richest men in England provided even greater fodder for tattle. From Land’s End to John o’Groats, people would snicker and point their fingers and click their tongues in delighted disapproval.

  Selina’s fingers clenched in her skirts until the knuckles shone white. She didn’t know how she could bear the anguish to come.

  Even worse, she’d lose her son. Without Cecil, she had no money to support Gerald. Even if she did, his trustees would insist on removing him from her dangerous influence. His grandmother would take him and subject him to the same suffocating treatment that had turned Roderick into a wastrel.

  My darling boy, I’m so very sorry.

  Selina couldn’t imagine he’d understand. He was too young. And once he left her, the talk would convince him that his mother was a whore. He’d grow up to hate her.

  God forgive her, how on earth could she have done this terrible thing?

  A cry of distress rose in her throat. Struggling to maintain a dignified silence, she fisted her hands even tighter in her skirts.

  The silence in the carriage vibrated with hostility. Poor Erskine looked like he was in terrible pain, and as if he wished he’d stayed behind with Brock’s horses. She couldn’t blame him. Lord Derwent regarded her as if she was mud beneath his feet. Which was the height of hypocrisy, given that his long-term mistress had been a guest at the recent house party. The highborn ladies might have turned their noses up at Selina, but her presence hadn’t restrained their gossiping tongues.

  She flinched. Gossiping tongues that would soon flap with tales of the rake, the social-climbing Midas, and the wanton widow.