“Why would he do that?” she demanded. “He wants me to follow. He knows that once we’re in Ireland, I’ll find it much more difficult to refuse him. He has money and influence, while I am quickly running out of resources. He thinks I’ll have no choice.”
“But why does he want to marry you?” Colin asked. “That’s the question I want answered.”
How very lowering. Was she so unmarriageable?
“If he were desperately in love with you, I’d understand it, but I don’t think he is.”
Was she unlovable, too? She shook off these stupid thoughts. “No, he’s not,” Bridget said, recalling her earlier pondering. “He kept saying he loved me, but he wasn’t convincing.”
“And since he’s never bedded you, he’s not dwelling on fond memories, either.”
At least Colin believed her about that. “I don’t think he cares about having me in his bed. I’m not saying he would have married me and then left me unsatisfied, but he didn’t even try very hard to kiss me. He seemed...preoccupied.” But with what?
“You’re not heiress to a fortune, either,” Colin said. “Apart from being gorgeous and alluring and a tigress in bed, there’s nothing to recommend you.”
She gaped at him, but recovered herself. “He doesn’t know I’m a tigress,” she snapped.
“Poor, deprived bastard,” Colin said. “To continue, you’re far too contentious to make a comfortable wife, and I get the feeling Fallow enjoys his comforts.”
“Don’t all men?”
“Too much comfort can be stultifying.” He sounded almost contemplative until he said, “Frankly, you’re dangerous. You might get annoyed and put a curse on his hapless cock.”
“Stop it. This is serious. We have to find Sylvie!”
“There’s another reason for him to lead us astray,” Colin said. “By now, Fallow has learned of my reputation with both pistols and swords. He knows it won’t only be you following him.” He narrowed his eyes. “He’s afraid of me and rightly so.”
“You’re so arrogant,” she said.
“No, I’m merely telling the truth.”
“And planning how you’ll kill Martin, I assume. Well, stop it! Once we catch up with them, he will have no choice but to hand her over, and that will be the end of it.”
“You want me to just let him go? I should have him taken in charge for abduction.”
“And create a huge scandal for nothing?”
“It’s not nothing,” Colin said. “He stole my daughter.”
“He doesn’t believe Sylvie is really your daughter. All that matters is getting her back, and I don’t know how you can be so sure they’re not headed for Ireland. Colin, we can’t afford to go wrong.”
“That’s why we’re going to the stable where he hired his coach. They’ll tell us which direction he really took.”
“I remember them,” said one of the postilions, a lanky boy with a crop of black curls. “Fair-haired gent traveling with his little daughter and her nurse.”
“Where were they going?” Bridget asked.
The postilion scratched his chin. “I don’t recall which of the boys went with them. Not the Bath road; that would have been me.”
“I knew it,” Colin said with self-satisfaction and handed the man a coin.
“Then where did they go?” Bridget cried. “And why?”
“Who might remember their destination?” Colin turned a few more coins over and over in his hand.
“Jimmy!” called the postilion. “Come out here. Gentleman needs to ask you summat.” He chuckled. “The brat could have done with a birching, but we surely enjoyed watching her give him lip.”
“She’s definitely her mother’s daughter,” Colin said.
Bridget suppressed the urge to snarl at him.
“Seems the nurse told the girl she’d give her a special treat, but turned out the treat was just to see the gent. ‘Mr. Fallow is not a special treat,” says the chit. ‘Sweets are a treat. Barberry ice is a better treat,’ she says. ‘I want my mother.’”
“Oh,” Bridget whispered, caught between laughter and tears.
“We’re taking you home,’ he tells the chit. ‘Your mama has to finish up some business in London first, and then she’ll come home, too.’ ‘That’s right,’ the nursie says. ‘She’ll come right after. Don’t you want to go home?’ ‘No,’ says the girl, ‘I want my mother and an ice.’ But they bundles her into the coach and off they goes.”
“Good for her,” Colin said. “Give ’em hell, Sylvie-love.”
“They’re going home?” Bridget said. “But why?”
A groom ambled out of the stables, chewing on a straw.
“Jimmy,” the postilion said, “’member them folks yesterday with the little girl what wanted an ice? Where was they off to?”
“Took the Holyhead Road,” Jimmy said.
“They are going home,” Bridget said.
First hurdle surmounted. Colin intended to recover Sylvie safe and sound, but that meant managing Bridget. So far, so good.
She sat upright on the bench, hands clasped in her lap, as they pulled into the street. “Isn’t Fletcher coming with us?”
“He’ll follow with most of my baggage.”
“Oh.”
Was she thinking of the temptation their unaccompanied travel presented? Not that Colin would let Fletcher’s presence prevent him doing as he pleased, but Bridget had already made it clear that she didn’t intend to bed him.
“He has a great deal of packing to do. I’m not returning to London,” he said by way of explanation.
“Until when?”
“I have no idea.” On a whim, he’d given up his lodgings. “I’m fed up with London.” This was true, but why had it taken him so long to realize it? “I should spend time on my estate. My steward will be astonished to see me show some interest.” Also true. “I’ll visit my old nurse and tour the factory.”
“Factory?”
“Tilworth, my father’s valet, invested his savings in a concern that finishes rifles for the army. What with the war with France, they’ll be busy.” He grinned suddenly. “And I’ll judge at the village fairs—hand out ribbons for the juiciest gooseberry and plumpest sow.”
“I can’t picture you doing any such thing.”
“I’ll devise my own special prize for the boar with the most revolting farts.”
She chuckled. “Very well, I can easily imagine you doing that.”
How down-to-earth she was, never shrinking in ladylike pretense.
“My Johnny was delightfully vulgar at times, too.” She sighed; still mourning her long dead husband? Or simply missing those happier days when she’d been bedded regularly.
Colin would gladly bed her anytime she liked. What a pity that, apart from her unwillingness, he seemed to have come down with a case of moral scruples.
It’s not a disease.
He started; he must have dozed off, for that was Emma’s amused voice.
No? he retorted silently. It definitely makes me queasy.
He was fully awake now, so Emma didn’t reply; instead, Bridget eyed him with an understanding smile. “You got even less sleep last night than I.”
“Nothing better to do in here,” he said grumpily, which of course made him think of something more fun. He avoided her gaze; no point in knowing if her thoughts reflected his.
He didn’t want to have moral scruples. He didn’t want to not have them, either. He didn’t want to think about them one way or another. First things first: he had to recover Sylvie. Next, he had to dispose of Fallow, preferably in a suitably painful manner, regardless of what Bridget wanted. Let him go? Not a chance.
Just why, exactly, was Fallow taking Sylvie back to Lancashire? “This move
of Fallow’s must make some kind of sense, but damned if I know what it is.”
“To put more pressure on me,” Bridget said. “If he arrives home in possession of Sylvie, it will be even more difficult for me to refuse to marry him.”
“You’re forgetting that he tried to send us on a wild goose chase,” Colin said. “He expects to be in Lancashire for more than a week, maybe even a fortnight before you. Why? What’s he going to do while he waits for you to arrive?”
“Have the banns called?” She’d been gazing out the window, but now she turned, fuming. “Oh, how dare he?”
Colin shook his head. “Would the vicar call the banns if you’re not there to agree to it?
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Oh, what does it matter?”
“He must have a reason for going there. I think Sylvie and the nursemaid are an excuse so that people will accept him when he arrives. Hmm . . .”
“What?”
“Tell me about your estate,” Colin said.
Her estate? What a strange request. “What about it?”
“Describe it,” Colin said. “As if to a prospective purchaser.”
She frowned. “I don’t intend to sell it.”
“I realize that. I just want to know what it’s like—not only the estate itself, but the surrounding area.”
“It’s a hundred-year-old manor house in a village called Littlecombe, northwest of Preston and several miles inland from the coast.”
He nodded. “I’ve ridden through it once or twice. Bit of a backwater. Tell me about it.”
“There’s nothing to tell. It’s like any other village—a church and vicarage, one inn, a green, a few shops, various cottages, and several larger properties, of which mine is one.”
“Who are the people of consequence?”
“The squire is Mr. Phelps, of no particular distinction but a tolerable sort of man. His wife no longer speaks to me. His two elderly aunts live close by. They are not as concerned with propriety as Mrs. Phelps, but feel duty bound to cut me as an example to the rest of the village. The only other house of any size belongs to my neighbor, a crusty old widower named McCrumb. His housekeeper has designs on him, but so far has not succeeded in persuading him to marry her. She assumed that by shunning me she would show him how ladylike she is.” Bridget chuckled. “Imagine her fury when Mr. McCrumb offered to make an honest woman of me. He’s the one person in the whole village who didn’t fall under Martin Fallow’s spell.”
“A discriminating fellow,” Colin remarked.
“Yes, and a dear, kind man, but far too old. He confided in me that he doubted he still had it in him to bed a woman, so he offered marriage only as the lesser of two evils.”
“You’re meant to be bedded, and often.” Colin’s dimple appeared.
Her fault; since they were stuck in this carriage together for three days at the very least, she should avoid any mention of bed sport.
Unsurprisingly, Colin wasn’t in the least disconcerted, reverting easily to the previous subject. “Are there any mills nearby? Or factories? Stables of repute? Other business concerns in which Fallow might interest himself?”
She shook her head.
“Then what the devil does that villain want there?”
“Martin isn’t a villain,” she protested. Yes, she was furious at him, but she didn’t think of him as evil.
Colin’s brows drew together. “Anyone who abducts a child is a villain.”
“Martin is not,” she retorted. “He can be selfish and self-righteous, but he also has some worthy qualities.”
Colin made a rude noise.
“He won’t hurt Sylvie,” Bridget said. “He would never harm a child.”
“He’d better not.” A few minutes later they approached a large coaching inn. Colin leaned out the window and called to the postilions to stop.
“Why are we stopping here?” Bridget asked. “It’s not time to change horses.”
“To inquire after that villain’s progress. I imagine they spent the night here.” Colin opened the door and jumped out. “Wait in the coach.”
Bridget gathered her skirts, jumped down as well, and followed Colin into the inn.
“Aye, they slept here, but not for long,” the landlord said. “Arrived after dark and left again at dawn.”
“A sweet sight it was,” agreed his plump, pleasant-faced wife, “to see the gentleman carry his sleeping daughter downstairs wrapped in a blanket. It was a cool morning, and he didn’t want to risk her catching a chill.”
“Bought the blanket off us, too, and paid good money for it,” the landlord said.
“That sounds just like him,” Bridget smiled. “Such a kind, generous man.” At her insistence, Colin had agreed to a story that they were brother and sister—Sylvie’s uncle and aunt—and that they were all traveling to attend a wedding. “He always has such a care for her. She’s not a good traveler, poor thing, so he’d rather she slept as much of the way as possible.”
“Very affecting,” Colin said, after the landlord had gone to fetch some ale.
Bridget stomped away to feed bits of carrot to the team. By the time she returned, brushing off her hands, she had recovered her temper. “You needn’t be sarcastic. Martin is taking good care of Sylvie. I told you he wouldn’t do her any harm.”
Colin was still glowering when they started up again.
She had to explain. “Martin cares very much for children.”
“You seem determined,” Colin said coldly, “to see the best in him.”
“Not at all,” she said. “But nor do I wish you to shoot him or have him arrested or any such thing.”
“You should be mouthing curses, not doing your best to forgive him.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re still a little in love with him, aren’t you?”
“No! Not at all, but—”
Colin turned away—almost as if he were jealous of Martin.
Which was absurd. “He’s my cousin. Some of my other relatives care very much for him. I don’t want him killed in a duel. I don’t want him arrested and thrown into prison. Not only that, the last thing Sylvie and I need is to be caught in the middle of a scandal. I just want Martin to go away so I can get on with my life.”
Colin said nothing.
“And that’s not my only concern. I don’t know what will happen to his orphanage if he is imprisoned or dies.”
That got Colin’s attention. “Orphanage?”
“Yes, he is the sole patron of an orphanage in County Kildare.” She didn’t want to explain how the institution had come into being. She hated thinking, much less talking about the rebellion of 1798, and Colin, being an Englishman, wouldn’t understand.
“Just because he supports a pack of orphans, just because you once loved him, doesn’t make him an angel.” He said the word loved as if it was the worst kind of folly.
Yes, she’d been foolish at sixteen, but not because she believed in love. “Of course he’s no angel, but like many Irish, he has witnessed a great deal of needless suffering. He wouldn’t wish to cause it to anyone, particularly a child.” She paused. “Just trust me about this, Colin. I know.”
Colin folded his arms. “Convince me.”
She blew out an exasperated breath. Stupidly, she didn’t want to find out how little Colin cared about what mattered a great deal to her . . . but she had no choice. “It’s because of the failed uprising in Ireland.”
“Last year, wasn’t it? It was squelched immediately.”
“No, the one in ’98. I don’t suppose you remember, as it can hardly have mattered to you.”
“I’m acquainted with a few fellows who were involved in the fighting. Couldn’t help but learn something of what went on.”
Bile rose within her. This di
scussion could only result in misunderstanding, recriminations, and an even greater rift.
“Extremely barbaric, I understand,” Colin added with unusual gravity.
She felt her mouth drop open. “Yes, appallingly barbaric, even for the English.”
He stiffened. “Some of the atrocities were the work of Irishmen, as I understand.”
“Yes,” she admitted sadly, unwilling to embark on an explanation of the many conflicting loyalties in that beleaguered country. “A source of great sorrow and shame, but war makes men do what they would never dream of in peacetime, and the rebellion never would have taken place if the Irish weren’t so oppressed to begin with.”
She waited for a response, but he showed none—or was that the slightest twitch of a shrug? She chose not to analyze his silence; she didn’t expect him to truly understand or care. “In any event, some of the innocent women and children who died were related to Martin and his servants.”
“This was around the time Sylvie was born?”
“No, she was born the following year. Martin came to visit my aunt whilst I was increasing, and he was still beside himself with grief.” Had almost gone mad with it, judging by what she’d seen of him; that was why she’d found it in herself to forgive his unkindness. “He wasn’t involved in the uprising, of course, but he couldn’t help but be sickened at the viciousness of the soldiers. Shortly after that he founded the orphanage. So you see, I am entirely certain he will do Sylvie no harm.”
Reluctantly, Colin decided to adopt a policy of wait and see. A pity, because he enjoyed imagining his fingers closing around Fallow’s throat. On the other hand, he didn’t want a pack of helpless orphans thrown into the proverbial snow to starve.
They made good time, checking now and then to make sure Fallow and his party had taken the same road. Eventually, darkness closed in.
The Rake's Irish Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 2) Page 13
