He gave her what he probably thought was a comforting smile, but all Mary could think of was how he’d looked at her the night before. A tingle of something—not fear—slid down her spine and she felt her breath catch.
He gazed out the window, his mouth settling back into its hardened lines. “Looks like rain,” he said, pulling a battered silver watch from his pocket. He frowned as he stared at the watch face, not seeming to see it, then snapped it shut and shoved it in his pocket.
He leaned back and closed his eyes again. Mary waited for a moment, just to make sure he wouldn’t open them again, and relaxed against the seat of the coach, as well.
She drifted into sleep moments later—she hadn’t felt safe like this in months, and her sleep had been affected.
Whatever other foibles her future husband had, he would keep her safe. Or at least safe enough to sleep.
It seemed as though only a few minutes had passed when Mary was woken abruptly by the marquess’s body being slammed into her. The carriage had stopped in its tracks.
He stared down into her eyes a moment, his pupils dark and enlarged, then shook his head and stuck a hand out toward the door, pulling himself off her slowly.
It opened before he could reach it, and a man thrust his head inside. Whatever hope she’d had that he might be friendly was destroyed when his mouth broke into a feral smile, showing broken, yellow teeth.
“Out with you, then,” the man barked. He waved a pistol into the coach when they didn’t move. “I said, out with you. And be damned glad I’m not shooting you right here.” The marquess didn’t react, didn’t do anything, just stood half-crouched in the carriage.
“Out with you!” the man repeated, louder now. He gestured with the pistol, just in case they hadn’t gotten the point the first time.
What was he waiting for? Mary shoved the marquess aside and clambered down the steps, holding the door open so that the marquess—she wouldn’t call him Alasdair, not even in her mind—could descend also.
He moved slowly, like he was moving through water, and she gritted her teeth as he made his way to the ground. He stumbled as he landed, and she gripped his arm to steady him.
He was shaking, and she saw sweat beading on his forehead. What was wrong with him? She didn’t think one lone highwayman was capable of frightening him, even one with a pistol. She’d seen him take on Matthias with barely a raised eyebrow. And she already knew he raised his eyebrow at the slightest provocation.
“Now, look here, my lord,” the highwayman said. His voice dripped with an unctuous confidence. He walked up and stood within a foot of the marquess, staring into his eyes as he poked him in the chest with the barrel of his pistol. “You’re traveling light, or is that with your lightskirt?” he said, glancing sidelong at Mary. Oh, wonderful, a witty highwayman. “She looks healthy, even if she ain’t a raving beauty.” His eyes were fastened on her chest, and he raked them down her figure, making her skin crawl. She drew her cloak tight around her body.
The highwayman stepped forward and took her arm with more force than necessary. “You stay right here, miss.” His grip tightened. He had a woolly, stale smell to him. “And you,” he said, nodding toward Alasdair, “no hero stuff.”
“Little chance of that,” Alasdair replied, swaying a little. Mary shifted her eyes away from the highwayman’s gun to the marquess. Her future husband.
He looked awful. Still handsome and imposing, of course, but he looked like the highwayman could knock him over with one well-chosen punch. What use was a man with good bloodlines if he couldn’t do something in a crisis?
There was nothing else to it, then. It was up to Mary to rescue them.
“Come down ’ere,” the man said, gesturing to the coachman, who seemed frozen on his perch. The man’s eyes widened, and he swallowed so hard Mary could see his Adam’s apple jerk convulsively. The marquess was only a few feet away, leaning against a tree, looking like he was going to pass out at any moment.
All three of them watched as the coachman descended with clearly shaking legs. Mary shot a few glances toward the marquess; yes, still totally useless.
Two men with her, one of them was frightened out of his wits, and the other seemed to have lost his wits entirely.
The highwayman shoved the coachman against the side of the carriage and yanked a piece of rope from his back pocket. He wound it around the coachman’s wrists and tied the ends of the ropes to the carriage lantern, forcing the coachman to hold his arms aloft. All the while, he was issuing a litany of threats of what would happen if either Mary or the marquess “got funny.”
Mary wished she could rap his knuckles with a ruler.
And perhaps she could.
She backed up against the carriage, a few feet away from where the coachman was strung up, and reached behind her. She was fortunate she was right in front of the carriage door handle. It was firmly attached, but perhaps—yes, there.
Mary slid her hands across the panel of the door and felt a wooden slat that was just a touch loose. She wiggled her fingers underneath the slat and tried to yank it without moving her body.
The highwayman was now rummaging through the coachman’s pockets, and the marquess was glaring at the man’s back, as if that would do any good. At least it was better than staring into the distance, she supposed.
The highwayman finished with the coachman and walked backward to his horse, still pointing the gun at them. He quickly put his spoils into a bag looped around the saddle’s pommel.
“Psst,” she said quietly, hoping the marquess would hear her. His head snapped around and those green eyes fastened on her with an intense stare. Good, he looked more alert. Thank heavens for small favors.
She removed one of her hands from the door and waved it, then pointed back at the door. “I’ll hit him,” she mouthed, pantomiming the motion as well.
His mouth set into a grim line, he shook his head. “No,” he mouthed back. “Not safe.”
She wrinkled her nose at him, put her hands back into position, and wiggled the slat a little harder. It felt loose; it just needed a bit more muscle.
He gave her one last disapproving look, then reached down to scratch his leg. A fine time to have an itch, she thought. He looked bored. Maybe he was accustomed to being held up at gunpoint. It wouldn’t surprise her.
It was a good thing, in fact, that she didn’t have a gun in her possession.
At last, the wood finally came free. Mary held her breath as the slat broke loose with what sounded like a clap of thunder. The highwayman was on his way back to them, but was tromping through the bushes, which helped obscure the sound. She clutched the slat in her hands and gauged its length—maybe a foot long, only about four inches wide. Not enough to really do any damage, but if she got into the right position, she could whack him on the head and get his gun.
As plans went, it was weak, but if it worked, this time it would be she who rescued him.
***
Damn it. Alasdair slid his knife from his boot, tucked it up into his sleeve, and glanced at Mary—at his betrothed. She was definitely going to get them into trouble, her and that measly little stick she’d torn off the carriage. After he’d told her no.
His head throbbed. He wished he hadn’t taken the dose so recently, but he’d needed sleep, and the pills were the only way to dull his memory.
He’d had enough of being the damned hero. Now, instead of letting the pill work its delicious magic, he needed to subdue the highwayman while somehow ensuring neither he, Mary, nor the terrified coachman got hurt.
“Empty your pockets,” the highwayman barked as he reached the carriage again. Mary stepped forward, her hands behind her back, before Alasdair could move. Damn her! Did she actually think she could disarm a man with a gun using a piece of torn-off wood? Idiotic woman.
“Sir.” She spoke in a tone that exactly recalled a disapproving schoolmistress. The man stood straighter in unconscious reaction. “We have very little money.” She gestured at
the carriage with the hand not clutching the wooden slat. “We are traveling to Scotland to be married. And,” she said, smoothing her hand over her stomach, “we are in some haste.”
She straightened her shoulders, making her magnificent bosom even more prominent. Alasdair watched in reluctant appreciation as the highwayman’s eyes bugged out.
The highwayman moved forward, his eyes still fixed on Mary’s breasts. “So, what’s yer point?”
She placed her hand on her hip and looked down her nose at him. A hard thing to do, since he was at least five inches taller than she was.
“My point, sir, is that we are in a rush, our families are no doubt following hard on our heels, and we have very little time, not to mention money, to spare. In addition,” she continued, “my betrothed is somewhat … confused,” she finished, her voice heavy with implied meaning. “He’s not carrying our funds.”
She slipped her hand inside the pocket of her cloak and fished inside, pulling out the bag that held her book of poetry.
Perhaps she thought she could dissuade the man from robbing them by reciting John Donne? Perhaps he was not the one who was touched in the head.
“Addled, is he?” The man snorted. “Maybe, miss, you should find yourself a man what ain’t so addled. You won’t mind if I just check ’s pockets, though.”
He reached forward and poked his finger into Alasdair’s waistcoat, withdrawing the folded paper holding the pills. Alasdair grabbed for it instinctively, and the man dangled it just out of reach, holding him off with the pistol.
“Ah, so maybe she ain’t telling all the truth. What’s this, then?” The blackguard opened the packet and dropped the pills into his hand.
Six small, brown tablets. Six chances to escape the reality of his life, of his failures. Now dropped into the man’s pocket.
Alasdair gritted his teeth as he watched his salvation disappear from sight.
“So hand over the ready, miss,” the man demanded, patting the pocket where he’d put Alasdair’s opium.
Mary darted another quick glance at Alasdair, and covered her eyes with her free hand. She began to sob, her shoulders shaking. Alasdair had to admire her acting, if not her wisdom.
“It’s all we’ve got, sir, and they’re after us, and now we’ll never be married!” She finished on a wail of anguish, and the man stepped forward, reaching to take the bag from her.
“There, there, miss, it ain’t so bad.” He opened the bag and looked at the contents in puzzlement. “You hid it in a boo—” Before he could finish, Mary whipped the wooden stick from behind her back and jabbed at his neck. The man slapped at her hand and gave her an annoyed look, yanking the bag close to his side. “What d’ya think you’re—”
Alasdair slid the knife down into his hand, and in the same motion, positioned the blade at the man’s neck, so quickly there was no time for him to react. He pulled the man’s gun from his fingers and flung it behind him, where it landed with a thunk. “Get the coachman untied, Mary,” he barked. “We’ll tie this one up with the rope. And put that away,” he said, nodding toward the piece of wood. “You might hurt someone with that thing.”
She glared at him as she dropped the slat and moved toward the coachman, muttering under her breath all the while.
Alasdair walked the highwayman out of earshot, which brought him the added benefit of not having to listen to her grumbling. “Give me the pills,” Alasdair demanded in a low voice. The man cocked his head. Alasdair’s hands itched to slap the smug look on his face.
“Does she know?” The man nodded toward Mary, who had her back to them as she untied the coachman. “About your little habit?”
“Just give them to me.” Alasdair spoke in a hushed whisper.
The man chuckled as he reached into his pocket and moved his fingers in a deliberate fashion. His eyes were locked with Alasdair’s the whole time.
Alasdair watched, frozen, knowing the highwayman was crushing them between his fingers, but unable to do more than hold the knife to his neck with a shaky hand.
The man withdrew his hand from his pocket, shaking a layer of brown dust from his fingers. “You still want them?”
He nodded toward Mary, who was still untying the coachman. “She don’t know about you. Mebbe I should tell ’er, warn ’er just what kind of ‘addled’ she’s dealing with.”
He opened his lips to shout, and Alasdair clamped his hand across his mouth.
Maybe she wouldn’t care. Maybe she would.
Why did it matter, anyway, if she found out?
Because, Alasdair thought, then he might not be able to save her. To rescue her as he’d promised her. And himself.
“Let me go,” the man wheedled, his voice muffled under Alasdair’s hand. “I won’t say anything to ’er, not if you lemme go.”
Alasdair withdrew his hand, despising himself for his weakness. “Fine. Go.”
The man rose to his feet and patted the pocket where he’d crushed the pills. “You’re a sensible gent. Must love the lady, hmmm?” He eyed Alasdair’s knife. “Yer good with that. Been in the army, or summat?”
“Yes.” Alasdair poked his knife into the man’s stomach. “Now be on your way.”
The man nodded, then looked over at Mary, who had turned back toward them, and tipped his cap. “Yer pardon, miss. It seems I am off. Pleasure meeting you.” He sauntered away, glancing back with a smirk toward Alasdair.
“Why did you do that?” Mary asked, striding up to him, still clutching the rope. The coachman followed more slowly behind, rubbing his wrists.
“He seemed a good sort of fellow.”
Mary’s voice rose to a squeak. “He had a gun, my lord, and was about to go through my bag to filch our valuables.”
“As I said, he seemed like a good fellow.” If he hadn’t been so consumed by the loss of the opium, he might’ve laughed out loud at the expression on her face.
The sound of someone crashing through the brush interrupted Mary as she was opening her mouth to argue the point. The coachman was running away, no doubt terrified at what further adventures traveling north would bring them. Not that Alasdair could ask him; by the time they’d noticed his escape, he was a good hundred yards from them.
They watched as he retreated into the distance. “He’s speedy, isn’t he?” Mary said, her voice tinged with amusement. “Well, at least we can follow his trail back to the inn. We can probably catch up with him fairly quickly.”
Alasdair bent down and sheathed his knife in his boot. He straightened, and then regarded her coolly. “We’re not going to follow him. If you’re as good with the reins as you are with a stick, I’ll be driving. We’re going on to Scotland.”
He swung onto the bench and looked at her. “Come on.”
Already his skin was starting to crawl with the itch of wanting more opium. He had to fight it, had to get her married to him and then to London, and safety.
It was going to be a hell of a honeymoon.
Chapter 5
“You can’t be serious.” Mary batted futilely at the marquess’s arms as he hoisted her up onto the outside carriage seat.
His only reply was to frown and push her, none too gently, into the corner of the seat. He walked around to the other side and swung himself up with lithe grace.
“Did you hear what I said?” Mary asked, glaring at his profile. He didn’t even give her the courtesy of turning to look at her.
“Yes. You’re already nagging me, and we haven’t even gotten married yet, Miss Smith.” His voice was bored, slightly impatient, and full of aristocratic hauteur. Mary wanted to box his ears. “So unless you want me to remove my cravat and stuff it in your mouth, I suggest you stop speaking about it.”
She could imagine him doing it. Mary clamped her mouth shut so she wouldn’t tell him just what an arrogant, idiotic lunatic she thought he was.
The next ten minutes were spent in complete silence, save for Mary’s occasional huffs of frustration. Except for a tightening around his m
outh, the marquess gave no indication he noticed her.
“When are we stopping?”
At last he looked at her. She noticed his eyes looked tired, although she knew firsthand he had slept well and long the night before. His skin, too, had become a shade lighter, and his lips were drawn, as though in pain. “Do you have to use the necessary?” he asked before turning his attention back to the horses. All thoughts of his appearance vanished at his words.
Mary felt herself color. She’d never discussed anything of the sort with a man, much less one she’d just met.
Of course, she hadn’t expected to ever share a bed with a man who wasn’t her husband, either. Though he would be soon. So she shouldn’t be surprised at anything that happened to her, not anymore. “No,” she said in a stiff, polite voice. “I am just asking when we are stopping. We cannot make it across the border today, and I was just wondering if you had a plan.”
He snorted, a derisive noise that set Mary’s nerves on edge. “I have a plan, yes, but it has nothing to do with where we are staying. We will drive until we stop. Is that enough of a plan for you?”
“Do you even know where we are going to get …”
“Married? From what I understand, one arrives in Scotland, finds some sort of minister, and does it. And Scotland is a good, God-fearing country, so there must be all sorts of ministers lurking about on the moors.”
Mary’s heart sank. He had no plan beyond taking her to Scotland. And from what she knew, it didn’t even take a minister. She’d heard about girls from her village who’d fled to Scotland to be married, and that all they’d needed to do was stand in front of a blacksmith. Why a blacksmith, she had no idea, but that’s how it always happened. “I don’t think there are moors in the part of Scotland we are going to,” she replied automatically. It was something she would have said to her charges a lifetime ago.
While the marquess had saved her, he was now causing her impossible delays. What would happen if—no, when—Matthias beat her to London with her mother’s letters?
Megan Frampton Page 4
