by Candace Camp
Priscilla moved back and gazed at John. He nodded. “It’s Oliver, isn’t it? The Duchess’s paramour?”
“Yes. But what on earth is he doing talking to your kidnapper? That is the fellow who was guarding you, isn’t it?”
“Most definitely.”
“Do you think that he was in on the plot to abduct you?”
John shrugged.
“What reason would Oliver have for wanting to kidnap you?”
“I have no idea.”
“Do you think you know him? Can you imagine what a shock it must have been when he saw you?”
“He certainly hid it well. I never suspected that he recognized me.”
“Nor did I. But then, he saw us before we saw him. Remember, he called to me, and then we turned and saw him? We don’t know how long he was there. He could have had enough time to compose himself. And he was rather curious about you. He asked me to introduce you, and he wanted to know why you were here.”
John nodded, frowning thoughtfully.
Priscilla peered around the corner of the building again. “Oliver is leaving now.” She turned back to face John. “Shall we face your ‘friend’ now, or wait for the innkeeper to leave?”
John pulled himself back from wherever his thoughts had taken him. “Now. I don’t want him to go back inside and join the other one. The innkeeper won’t fight for him, I think.” He paused, then said without much hope, “I don’t suppose I can persuade you to stay here and let me handle this.”
Priscilla shook her head. John sighed and started off around the corner, with Priscilla right behind him.
CHAPTER TEN
JOHN MOVED ACROSS THE STREET ALMOST SILENTLY. Priscilla envied his quiet movement on even these old cobblestones. She had to walk on tiptoe to keep her heels from clacking on the stones. John, she thought, knew some rather unusual things.
Unfortunately, they had not yet reached the pair in the doorway when the kidnapper somehow sensed their presence. He looked up, eyes narrowed, then let out a noise when his eyes lit on John. Priscilla had expected the man to run away. To her surprise, he leaped forward, bellowing, “Will! Will!”
He startled Priscilla so much that she froze for an instant. John rushed forward to meet the man, and the innkeeper, after a hasty look around, took to his heels. John crashed into the kidnapper, but it was not enough to knock the sturdy fellow over. The short man wrapped his arm around John’s neck, trying to choke him. John rammed an elbow into the other man’s stomach. The man let go, staggering and trying to catch his breath. John gave him no opportunity to do so, but smashed his fist into the man’s face. The man reeled backward, yelling “Will!” once again.
John started after him again, but at that moment, the door of the building flew open and the tall kidnapper ran out, launching himself at John. They fell in the street, rolling and punching. Priscilla stepped closer to them, wishing she had thought to bring her parasol. It would make a fairly decent weapon, although at the moment, given the way the two were thrashing around, she would not even be able to strike a blow for fear of hitting the wrong man.
The shorter kidnapper apparently thought the same thing, for he had moved closer to the struggling men, but was only watching them. Suddenly John was on top of the other man, his fist thudding hard into the man’s face. The short man ran forward, clasping his hands together and raising them to bring his fists down with all his force against the back of John’s head. Priscilla, shrieking, leaped onto the man’s back. Wrapping one arm around the man’s neck, she hung on tenaciously, and with her other hand she whacked her reticule down repeatedly on his head.
He let out a yowl and reached back for her, trying to pry her loose. His hand caught in her hair, and she shrieked again and boxed his ear. Clawing, hitting, kicking, they lumbered around in a clumsy, bizarre dance. Then a loud retort split the air, startling them all. The kidnapper froze, and Priscilla tumbled down from his back, ending up in an ignominious heap on the street. She looked over at John. He, too, was still, as was the man he was fighting.
Another man was standing over them, the end of a gun barrel pressed against the back of John’s neck. “All right, now,” the stranger said loudly. “You get up, mister. Slowly,” he added, as John began to move.
Priscilla struggled to stand up, hampered by her petticoats and skirts. “Wait! You have the wrong man! It is these—”
The stranger favored her with a contemptuous glance. “You shut up there, missy. Less you want your fella’s head taken clean off.” At Priscilla’s shocked expression, he chuckled. “Guess he wouldn’t be such a handsome one then, would he? Now, the two of you get up and step back. I run a clean inn, and I won’t have any rapscallions bothering my customers.”
John stood up and stepped back, his mouth tight and his eyes flashing with anger. The tall man on the ground staggered dazedly to his feet, helped up by his shorter companion. The two of them hobbled off inside the building.
“You are letting them get away!” Priscilla exclaimed indignantly.
“Shut your trap, missy, or I’ll do it for you.”
“You don’t understand,” John told him. “It is those two men who are the villains. They kidnapped me and took all my money.”
“Yes!” Priscilla agreed. “Call the constable, and you will see. I am Priscilla Hamilton. My father is Florian Hamilton. I am not whatever it is you think I am.”
The man looked her over drolly. Priscilla was acutely aware of the fact that her skirts were twisted, her petticoats were showing and her hair had slipped out of its pins and was sticking out all over the place. Her hat had gotten completely knocked off and was dangling down her back, held only by the ribbons she had tied around her neck.
“Oh, yes, I can see you’re a regular lady,” the stranger agreed, chuckling. “Frankly, I don’t care who you are, or this one, either. Those men are staying under my roof, and I won’t have anyone bothering them. You understand? Now, get along, both of you.”
“But—” Priscilla started again.
The man motioned threateningly with his gun. “Go on! I told you, I won’t have anyone messing with my customers. Now get away with you. Go on.”
Reluctantly John started away, taking Priscilla’s hand and pulling her along with him. She shot one last fulminating look at the belligerent innkeeper and followed John.
“That man!” she fumed, twitching her skirt and petticoats back into place. “He let them get away. You would think he could at least listen to our story. He could have called the constable and let him straighten it out.”
“I suspect he doesn’t much want the police in his establishment.” John rounded the corner and stopped. “Nor is he overly worried about who is in the right. All he wants is to protect his customers. No doubt that is very important to his business, given the nature of his clientele.”
Priscilla made a disgruntled sound as she reached up and started untying the ribbons of her hat. They had been pulled into a knot as she fought, and she had a difficult time undoing them now. John’s face softened into a smile as he gazed down at her, and he smoothed a piece of hair back from her face.
“What a fierce one you are.”
Priscilla grimaced. “You needn’t laugh at me. I know I look a perfect mess. Oh, why won’t this stupid thing come undone?”
“I am not laughing at you. You don’t look like a mess. You look…utterly adorable.”
He bent, taking her chin between his fingers, and kissed her. Priscilla’s knees went weak suddenly, and she leaned forward, holding on to his jacket for support. All thought of the two villains fled her mind, and she was aware of nothing but the feel of John’s mouth moving on hers. She moaned softly, and his arms went around her, pressing her to him. His kiss deepened; his breath was hot against her cheek. Priscilla clung to him, kissing him back fiercely. Desire flooded her, leaving her weak and trembling.
“Oh, God.” John raised his head, gazing down into her eyes. “I did not mean to do that. I don’t know how—I mu
st be mad to be doing this here. Now.”
“Yes.” Priscilla nodded dazedly. “I think that I have been a little mad ever since you came here.”
“I want you so much.” His voice was dark and husky with passion. “I have never wanted a woman like this. But you—”
He drew a long breath and stepped back, holding her at arm’s length, as if he were setting her away from him. “We cannot do this.”
“I know.” With a sigh, Priscilla tore her gaze from his and began to smooth down her skirts and fuss with her hair—small, meaningless gestures to distract herself, to make her keep her eyes off him. But that was the only place she wanted to look.
John turned away, clearing his throat, and walked back to the corner. “The landlord is no longer there with his trusty gun,” he commented. “But no doubt that means that those two have safely cleared out. Either that, or they have barricaded themselves inside. Either way, I have little chance of getting to speak with either of them now.”
“We can get the constable and come back.”
His face changed subtly, and he looked away. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“If we show up with the constable, I can guarantee that they will be out the back door, if they haven’t left already. No, I think we have no more hope of catching them today. Perhaps another day, if I come back disguised and loiter around the area.”
“But the constable could be on the lookout for them.” When he did not reply, Priscilla went on, “John? What is the matter? Why are you looking like that?”
“I…” He rubbed his chin, then sighed. “I’m not sure I will like what the constable finds out. What if I am involved with them somehow? I mean, what if I’m like that fellow Oliver? Some sort of scoundrel or cheat? Maybe I am just as wicked as they, and they are only after me because I stole something of theirs?”
“Oh, John, no! You could not be. Why do you even consider such a silly thing?”
“Because I know nothing about myself!” he blurted out. “I have no idea what I am really like. If I associated with people like these, what is to say I was not like them? It would stand to reason.”
“It is just as obvious that you are their enemy,” Priscilla pointed out. “If someone wicked hates you, it is more likely to mean that you are a good person than a bad one.”
He gave her a sideways glance, a smile quirking the corners of his mouth. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. And don’t you forget it.” Priscilla smiled back, relieved to see the darkness gone from his face. She knew, with everything in her, that he could not be a bad person. Even if it turned out that he had done some things that were wrong, he could not be, deep inside, a bad person.
“Now,” she went on briskly, taking his arm and starting down the street. “We know they are in Elverton. We can return another day and start looking for them all over. If we found them once, surely we can do it again. Why do you suppose they are remaining here?”
“They must want something from me pretty badly. Since they went through all my possessions, it must be something I hid somewhere, or it’s something in my head.”
“Something you know.” Priscilla nodded. “That makes sense. Otherwise, why wouldn’t they have killed you and been done with it? They do not seem the sort who would hesitate at murdering someone.”
“I imagine you are right about that. The larger question, though, is what do they have to do with our Mr. Oliver? Why would a man who is cozily installed as a duchess’s favorite be fooling around with these two?”
“I have no difficulty believing that he was involved with criminals in his past. I have always thought he was a snake.”
“Still, it is a risk for him to associate with them. After all, the Duchess might find out.”
“It might be even worse if she learned whatever it is you know.” Priscilla brightened. “That’s it! Oh, this explains it all! You know something very detrimental about Mr. Oliver, and you were coming here to inform the Duchess of it. Oliver knows, as do you, that she will toss him out when she finds out this thing, whatever it is, so he and his cronies try to stop you.”
“Why not just kill me?”
“This close to where he lives? No, it would be a scandal. Nobody would talk about anything else but the murder for months. Why, people still speculate on that killing thirty years ago in Lady’s Woods. There would be an investigation, and it might easily turn up the fact that you were somehow connected to Oliver. He would be terrified of that. No, the best thing would be to hold you, to keep you from getting to the Duchess.”
“I will grant you that. But he could not expect to hold me forever. What was he planning to do?”
Priscilla waved that objection away. “I don’t know. Maybe he is going to leave soon anyway—rob her or cheat her out of some large amount of money. After that, it wouldn’t matter what you told her. He just wants you out of the way until then.”
He nodded. “It makes sense.” He smiled. “You’re quite good at this, did you know that?”
“People say I have a good imagination.” She looked at him. She wanted, in that moment, to tell him about her writing. She wanted him to know that she had written the book he enjoyed last night. More than that, she wanted him to know her, to know everything about her. He would not be horrified, she thought; after all, he was worried that he had been a criminal of some sort. Her vocation of writing would probably seem quite innocuous compared to that. He did not seem to have the usual prejudices and entrenched beliefs.
Priscilla hesitated, on the verge of telling him. Then she pictured the shock that might appear on his face, the disbelief. He would never look at her in the same way again; she could not call back her words or make him forget them. If she was wrong, it would be disastrous. Anxiety clutched at her, paralyzing her. She swallowed and did not tell him.
Instead, she said, “The Duchess is having a party Saturday evening.”
“Really?”
“Yes. She should, not because they are still in mourning, but they have always had a large party in the spring at Ranleigh Court, and she says she does not want to break tradition. Personally, I think it is more that she loves parties. I think it would be just the thing for you to accompany us.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. I would like to see what Mr. Oliver does when he sees you arrive. Maybe he will make a mistake and let out who you are. Or perhaps you could question him in private.”
“Yes. Perhaps I could.” He smiled. “An excellent idea, my dear Miss Hamilton. Excellent.” He paused. “Now, if only I can remember how to dance.”
“Don’t worry.” Priscilla smiled up at him, dimpling. “I shall teach you.”
PRISCILLA SLEPT LATE THE NEXT MORNING. They had tried out John’s dancing skills in the drawing room after dinner, with Miss Pennybaker providing the music on the piano. It turned out that John remembered quite well how to dance—so well, in fact, that they spent the rest of the evening dancing. He had even twirled Miss Pennybaker around the room while Priscilla played the piano. Miss Pennybaker’s face had flushed pink with pleasure, and even Florian had been drawn from his study by the sounds of their gaiety and stayed to listen to the music, tapping his foot. By the time she finally went up the stairs to bed, Priscilla had been quite happily exhausted.
This morning, when she awoke, she found herself bursting with ideas, and she sat down immediately at her small desk and began to write. She did not even change out of her nightgown, simply threw a light dressing gown over it. She scribbled away without stopping for almost two hours, and when at last she set down the pen, her hand was cramped. She got up, smiling as she rubbed her aching hand. She had been worrying over this scene, between the hero and the woman he had saved from certain death for some time now. She had rewritten it twice, but she had never been satisfied with it. This morning, however, it had come to her, perfect and complete, and writing it down had been like opening up a dam and releasing
the water. It was wonderful when it came like that.
She dressed and went downstairs, humming contentedly and wondering what she and John would do today. There was something very pleasant in the idea of having someone with whom to share her day—no, if she was honest, it was in having John with whom to share her day.
However, when she got downstairs, she did not find him in the sitting room or in her father’s study, nor even in the kitchen, flirting shamelessly with Mrs. Smithson. When she asked Mrs. Smithson if she had seen him, the cook replied, “Why, yes, he headed off to the village this morning. Said he had some things he had to do and would be back as soon as he could.”
The day suddenly seemed not nearly so bright. “Oh, he did, did he?”
“Yes. I told him to look out for those villains, for Miss P., she told me what ye said about what happened yesterday afternoon. But ye know that lad. All he said was, ‘Now, Mrs. Smithson, me love, don’t you know it’s those villains that better look out for me!’ He’s a sight, that one.”
“Mm… A sight. He certainly is.”
“It’s past noon, Miss Priscilla. Won’t ye be wanting yer meal now?”
“What? No. Yes. I don’t know. I am not feeling very hungry.”
“Well, ye should eat anyway. Can’t have you turning into skin and bones.”
Priscilla sat down distractedly at the table while Mrs. Smithson bustled around, dishing up a plate of meat and potatoes and setting it down on the table in front of her. At first Priscilla felt only deflated by the fact that John had taken off for the village without her. Why had he denied her a part of the fun? Did he simply not want her with him?
But she knew that was not it. He was doubtless protecting her, keeping her out of danger. The more Priscilla thought about it, the more irritated she became. She’d thought he had reached the point where they were sharing things together equally, both danger and fun. She’d thought he had grown to understand that she did not want to be left out, did not want to be swaddled and smothered with patronizing concern. She wanted to participate, to take part in it all. She wanted to be with him!
