No, they’d traveled ten miles at most. In fact, she remembered the Runners—men who’d ridden into Littlecombe on the day of her father’s funeral. The vicar’s wife had railed about their impertinence. They’d asked prying questions of the villagers and even some of the mourners. Evidently the answers had satisfied them; even if they suspected her father simply because he was Irish, he’d been far too ill to participate in a robbery.
But not to provide a place to hide the rifles. Was that why he’d written to Martin and been so frantic for a reply? Impatience seized her—to get up and go, to find out for sure, to do something about it.
“Tilworth has hired plenty of guards since then. I told him to spare no expense, that I would gladly foot the bill.”
Why must Colin be involved in this catastrophe? Worse, why her father? Oh, Papa, how could you?
Oh, but maybe he hadn’t. Maybe she was letting her imagination run wild . . .
She knew she wasn’t.
She’d lost her appetite, but she concentrated on eating, bite by bite. She could scarcely manage to meet Colin’s gaze. At last he signed to the servants to leave the room.
“You’re still upset about Daisy, aren’t you, my love?”
“No,” Bridget said. “Truly, I’m not.”
He didn’t believe her, which was perhaps for the best, since she couldn’t tell him the truth.
“You don’t have to associate with Daisy,” he said. “It doesn’t matter to me whether she visits here. I can go see her at the Diving Duck if I need to.”
“It does matter whether she visits here. This is her home, no matter what she says or does. I couldn’t bear it if she gave up her horse and her music because of me.”
“Don’t you dare let that affect your decision,” he said. “She’ll realize you don’t object to her coming here, and if she doesn’t act accordingly, that’s her problem.”
“It won’t affect my decision.” If she was so fortunate as to have the opportunity to make it. The more she thought about it, the bleaker the future became.
She took a calming breath. “I think I could quite like her if she gave me a chance.”
“You could?”
“She’s on the defensive and therefore bristly and rude, but she doesn’t mince words, and I appreciate that.”
He smiled at her. “You’re such a sweetheart.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Let’s go to bed.”
She repaired, very properly, to her own bedchamber, but once she’d dismissed the maid, she joined Colin in his.
At least she had the perfect excuse to leave the bed in the middle of the night. “I’ll go back to my own bedchamber well before the servants wake up.” She might not return before morning—she couldn’t imagine seeing Sylvie and immediately leaving her again—but she would explain that she’d been unable to sleep and simply couldn’t wait any longer to see her daughter.
He was much more interested in undressing her than in what happened after they made love. “If you insist.”
“I do. It’s already improper that I’m staying at your house, and it won’t help my relations with your servants if I flaunt my lack of respectability.”
“Please do flaunt it with me,” he said, and she managed to laugh and surprised herself by behaving shamelessly without the slightest restraint.
But the problem with abandoning oneself to physical pleasure was that one also lost sight of one’s commonsense. The throes of ecstasy were all very well, but afterwards . . .
“I love you, Colin,” she said.
She loved him? Colin’s heart turned over with delight—far more delight than any sexual encounter could give him. She loved him.
Bridget put a hand over her mouth and rolled away from him. “I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have said that. It popped out before I could stop it. But you needn’t worry. You’re not required to love me in return.”
He slid closer and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Perhaps I do.” He kissed her. “Coming from a loveless family, I don’t feel qualified to say so, but I’m acting a bit besotted, wouldn’t you say?” He’d never been so happy in his life. Perhaps this was love. He hoped so. It couldn’t help but be better for a marriage than the indifference his parents had shown.
“You know a lot more about love than you think,” she said. “You loved Emma, you love Daisy, and you’re acting very much like you love Sylvie, too.”
“I’m protective,” he said. “That’s different.”
“Perhaps, but love expresses itself as caring for someone, and you do that without hesitation.” She sighed. For someone in love, she didn’t look particularly happy.
“So, you’ve confessed to loving me. Does that mean you’ll marry me?”
Her expression grew even more somber. “It means I most desperately want to.”
“Well, then?”
“Please just give me a couple more days to be sure.”
He began to be irritated. “If you love me, and if I love you, which I probably do, what earthly reason could you have for refusing me?”
She looked away, down at the coverlet, rather than at him. “As I said, I need a couple more days.”
Damn it, what was she hiding?
Nothing. What could she have to hide? She was merely affected by some convoluted female scruple.
He wasn’t about to beg. Instead, in the hope that it would annoy her a little too, he shrugged. And yawned. “Goodnight then, my love.” He rolled over and went to sleep.
Bridget assumed he’d turned away and closed his eyes out of pique, and she didn’t blame him. From his point of view, she was capricious and perhaps unkind. He was entirely justified.
It was a good thing, she told herself, that he’d fallen asleep. The sooner she left, the better.
She stayed a little longer to make absolutely certain, waiting until his breathing was deep and slow. She slid carefully off the bed, gathered her clothing, and took one last look at his recumbent form in the darkness.
With a frightening sense of loss, she left the room.
Now she turned her mind to practical matters. To the business in hand. She dressed in her riding habit, checked that her pistol was loaded, and tucked it in her cloak pocket. Holding her boots in one hand, she tiptoed down the stairs. It was a moment’s work to unbar the front door and slip outside. A pity she couldn’t lock it behind her, but hopefully no burglars would find their easy way into Colin’s home tonight.
She crept around the house to the stables, her heart beating far too loudly. If one of the grooms awoke, how would she explain herself? The dog Alfie growled low and dashed out from behind the building, but thankfully didn’t bark. He pranced up to Bridget and insisted on a good, long scratch behind his ears and down his back.
She finally got him to calm down—she was not as adept with dogs as with horses—and eased the stable door open, whispering softly in the Irish tongue, using the soothing words her father had taught her.
Her father, who might have been a traitor. She didn’t want to think about him just now. She slipped inside the stable, followed by Alfie, and carefully unshuttered the lantern. The horses watched her with varying degrees of interest, from excitement to sleepy bemusement. She greeted them one by one, hurried to the tack room, and returned with the only lady’s saddle to be found.
By the way Snappish eyed her, he would have made a huge fuss if she hadn’t chosen him.
She set the lantern down, saddled and bridled him, snuffed the candle, and led him outside to the block. She pushed the stable door shut. Behind it, Alfie howled.
Damn! She opened the door again. “Hush!” she whispered as she let the hound out. She shut the door again, led Snappish to the block, and mounted. “Stay,” she hissed to the dog, in case he had any ideas of coming for a run.
Reluctantly, Alfie st
ayed, and Bridget set off as if the devil were in pursuit.
Although in some ways, it felt as if she were riding toward him.
Colin woke to two certainties: one, that he hadn’t slept long, and two, that Bridget was no longer beside him. He sat up, lit a candle, and consulted his watch: shortly after midnight. They’d gone to bed early, but he couldn’t have been asleep for much more than an hour.
This, he decided, was carrying propriety much too far. He liked sleeping next to Bridget. If she refused to sleep in his bed, fine; he would join her in hers.
Grumpily, he padded barefoot along the corridor to the best guest chamber and walked in.
She wasn’t there.
Not only that, although the bed had been turned down by the maid, Bridget hadn’t slept in it.
What in God’s name?
Thoroughly aggravated, he prowled the house, hoping she’d gone to the pantry for milk, to the kitchen for a midnight snack, to . . . He checked the doors. The kitchen door was locked and barred. He didn’t think she knew her way to the side door, so he went straight to the front. Shut, but no longer locked. She’d gone outdoors, then.
For a moonlight stroll? Not likely.
Or . . . to her own home.
Where she would find that dastard, Martin Fallow.
Anger surged inside him, but he did his best to tamp it down. She didn’t want Fallow; she didn’t even like him. Maybe she had finally begun to worry about Sylvie.
It was a comforting theory, but he didn’t quite believe it.
Anxious now, he returned to his own bedchamber, dressed hurriedly, and headed straight for the stables. Alfie slunk forward guiltily, his tail between his legs. Colin opened the stable door and lit the lantern that hung on a nail. Sure enough, Snappish was gone; evidently Alfie felt he had failed in his duty to protect the stable.
How dare Bridget dash off into the night, unescorted? Irish touch or not, she’d never ridden that fiend of a horse before. Moreover, she wasn’t friendly with smugglers like Daisy. Anything could happen to her.
More worried by the second, he returned to the house for a pistol. Then he saddled the younger gelding and set off after her.
Chapter 11
Snappish was fast and energetic, and Bridget’s anxiety and determination overcame his occasional reluctance to do as he was told. She kept him to the roads, where there was less chance of mishaps, and still he carried her to the outskirts of Littlecombe in excellent time. The waning moon had risen, casting too much light, so instead of riding through the village, she took a narrow path that led behind Mr. McCrumb’s estate and approached her own home from the rear.
The house was dark, as it should be in the wee hours. She tethered Snappish in the meadow behind the herb garden and made her way silently to the house.
The kitchen door was locked. The side door, which should have been locked, was not. She lit a candle—there were always a few on the shelf by the door—and tiptoed through the silent house to Sylvie’s bedchamber. She opened the door, her anxious heart speeding up.
Even though she knew full well Martin would never intentionally harm a child, she’d still harbored a tiny fear in her heart. She breathed a relieved sigh. Sylvie lay curled under her blanket, fast asleep. Bridget leaned over and dropped a soft kiss on her hair. Sylvie mumbled something unintelligible but didn’t wake.
From the adjoining room came Mary Joan’s soft snores. Bridget made her way to her own bedchamber—empty, with no sign that Martin had occupied it. He’d had that much decency. His things were in the spare chamber across the landing from hers, but he wasn’t there.
Almost a pity. She would have loved to wake him and kick him out of her house then and there.
She tiptoed downstairs again, dreading having to inspect the cellar. She wasn’t easily frightened—she’d become used to taking care herself; nevertheless, she patted the pistol in her pocket. It wasn’t much comfort against the fatigue, the worry, nay the dread over what might happen if her worst fears proved justified—and if Colin found out.
There was no reason for him to find out. She would get rid of Martin and then make whatever arrangements she must. One hurdle at a time.
The cellar door creaked as she opened it. The darkness yawned horribly. In the depths of the cellar, her candle would receive no assistance from moonlight through the windows, as it did on the ground and first floors. She lit a lantern and returned to the top of the cellar stairs. All was quiet. She grasped her skirts in one hand, held the lantern in the other, and marched down the stairs.
Scrape.
She stopped short, heart hammering. Had she made that sound, perhaps with her boot? She ran her foot over the flagstones, making another sound entirely. She stood utterly still, listening. No other sound broke the silence; it must have been one of those rodents she so disliked. She moved slowly forward, circling the room. Old furniture, kegs of ale, the wine racks. She crept closer; the bricked-up door was definitely still sealed.
She released a long breath of relief. She had let her imagination run wild. Tomorrow morning she would return to Warren Hollow and accept Colin’s proposal, and all would be well.
Scrape.
This time the sound was much louder. Closer. She held the lantern high and ran its beam around the cellar again. No movement, no sound. There was no one here.
Rasp.
It came from the other side of the bricked-up door.
She tiptoed closer and peered behind the wine rack, spying nothing but a keg of brandy. She touched the bricks; they were cold, damp, and entirely solid, just as she’d already ascertained.
Scrape.
Someone was in that horrid little room. Martin? No doubt.
There must be another entrance to the bricked-up room . . . but where?
She returned to the ground floor, thinking hard. At the top of the stairs, she shuttered the lantern and went outdoors. The stables: no. The ice house . . . not easy to access. The dairy cellar, kept cool by the melt from the ice house. She’d rarely gone down there as a child; too chilly, but it might be on a level with the cellar.
She hurried past the ice house and down the hill, and was greeted by the friendly snort of a horse. “Hush,” she whispered to her own dear cob, Brownie, who was saddled and bridled, ready to be ridden. By Martin?
She crept further, now hearing the soft whuff of other horses and the crunch of footsteps, followed by a gentle thud. Then the same footsteps, retreating.
She gathered her courage and went forward with a determined step; there was no avoiding this confrontation. At the top of the incline that led to the dairy cellar stood a wagon with two stout farm horses hitched to it. The beam of the lantern revealed several crates piled in the wagon.
And a male figure, who whirled. “What the— Bridget?”
“Yes, Martin, it’s I.” She set the lantern down. “You are not welcome on my property. Pray pack your belongings and leave immediately.”
“Oh, come now, Bridget, my lovely, why so harsh? I brought your daughter safely home.”
“You abducted her, Martin, and now I find you’re a thief as well—and worse.”
“A thief?” He was horribly good at feigning surprise. “I’m merely retrieving some of my own property, which your father left to me.”
“Bollocks,” she said, purposely crude. “Those are stolen rifles, as you well know.”
An unpleasant pause. “Whatever gave you that foolish notion, my darling?”
“The firm from which you stole them is well-known to Colin Warren,” she said.
Martin cursed under his breath. “That worthless fellow. I suppose you fancy yourself in love with him.”
She ignored that. “I remembered my father bricking up that wall, practically with his last breath, and put two and two together. No
w I see why you wanted my property so badly. You needed access and sufficient time to remove the rifles without arousing suspicion.”
“I wanted you too, my darling.”
She refused to dignify that with a response.
“How could I not? You’re beautiful and alluring…” Visibly, he took stock of her indifference to this blather and heaved a dramatic sigh. “I realize you don’t love me. I’ve resigned myself to losing you.”
“You never had me, Martin, and all that nonsense about a letter to my father had nothing to do with protecting me. He’d written to tell you where the rifles were, hadn’t he? Because the robbers had hidden them to be retrieved later, once the theft was forgotten—but he knew he would be dead by then.”
Martin shrugged. “By the time it was safe to move them, it was too late.”
“So you were involved in the uprising of ’98.”
“No, but I knew some of those who were. Too many,” he said bitterly. “Everyone who knew about the rifles is now dead. I learned about them because your father wrote to me. His letter made my duty clear. I was the only one who could retrieve the rifles for Ireland, and therefore I am doing so.” He paused. “But he did want me to marry you. That at least is true.”
So much for undying passion—not that she’d ever believed it. “You’re a thief and a traitor, and if you don’t leave straightaway, you will suffer the consequences.”
“Don’t be a fool, Bridget. Those rifles are in your cellar. You’re in this as deep as I am. Go indoors now and pretend you didn’t see anything. By morning, I’ll be long gone.”
“I am not ‘in this’ at all,” she retorted. “I have committed no crime. I didn’t even know about these rifles until today.”
He snorted. “You think your new lover will believe that?”
“Why shouldn’t he?” She wasn’t about to admit her fears to Martin. “If I’d known about those rifles, I would have returned them long since.” Now she would have to do so—but how? If anyone would be able to restore them to their rightful owner without fuss, it was Colin.
The Rake's Irish Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 2) Page 19
