River Magic

by Martha Hix

  Despite her rising panic, she forced herself to think clearly. If Ridley wasn’t completely drunk, he’d certainly had a great deal to drink this morning. His senses would be dulled, his reflexes numbed by alcohol. Surely she could outwit him if she put her mind to it.

  With a sigh, she relaxed under him in seeming surrender. She even managed a moan of pleasure when he began to stroke her inner thigh, his large hand hot through her breeches. He grunted his contentment, softened his kiss, eased his hard grip upon her wrists. How easily gulled men could be, she thought. And if he was anything like the lecherous pigs in Carolina, no doubt he enjoyed kissing in the French manner. She prayed it was so. She parted her lips beneath his, hoping he’d understand and respond to her invitation. To her satisfaction, he immediately opened his own mouth and thrust his tongue between her lips and teeth. She waited a second—fighting her disgust—then bit down with all her might.

  He let out a bellow and flew off her as though he’d been shot, sitting up to clutch at his bloody mouth. “Damned bitch!” he roared.

  She gave him no chance to recover. She scrambled to her knees and drove her fist into his diaphragm with all her strength. He recoiled in agony and doubled over, gasping for breath. She was on her feet in a flash. She snatched up her three-cornered hat, pulled her knife from his boot top and turned toward the footpath. Her mouth was bitter with the taste of his blood; bitterer still with the knowledge that time was passing and she was no nearer her goal. Her stomach burned with hunger, and London and Wickham were long miles and days away. Somehow, that made her hate Ridley all the more. Ridley, with his careless, shallow lechery. What did he know of true suffering?

  She retraced her steps to where he still sat, rocking in pain. “Filthy whoremonger,” she said, and spat his own blood upon his bent head. When he looked up at her, she was pleased to see that the cold, indifferent eyes were—for the first time—dark with rage. “Laugh that away, Ridley,” she said. “If you can.” She turned on her heel and made for the safety of the trees . . . and the direction that would take her eventually to London and Wickham.

  And bloody vengeance.

  Sir Greyston Morgan, Lord Ridley, late of His Majesty’s Guards and survivor of many an incursion against the Mogul Empire, gingerly rubbed the sore spot beneath his ribs and muttered a soft curse. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the spittle from his hair, grunting at the pain that small effort cost him. The absurdity of the whole episode served to temper his anger. “Ambushed, begad,” he said, beginning to laugh in spite of his discomfort. He stuck out his tongue and dabbed at it, marveling at the amount of blood on the snowy linen. It was a wonder the virago hadn’t bitten his tongue clean off!

  “Are you hurt, milord?” Jonathan Briggs stood on the edge of the path, frowning in concern.

  Grey struggled to his feet and glared at his steward. It was one thing to be outwitted by a wench. It was quite another matter to be caught at it by a servant. “Damn it, I thought I told you not to follow.”

  “We heard you cry out, milord.” Briggs looked around the small clearing. “Where’s the boy?”

  Grey took a tentative step forward, relieved to discover that the could breathe almost normally again. “The ’boy,’ Briggs, turned out to be a woman.” His tongue was still bleeding; he stopped to spit a mouthful of blood against the base of a tree. “And a damned shifty bitch at that.”

  Grey watched in dismay. “Was the wench responsible for this? I’ll send Humphrey after her.”

  “No. Let her be. I’ll wager she’s halfway to London by now.”

  “What’s to be done now, milord?”

  Grey moved swiftly to the steward and leaned his arm on the man’s shoulder. “Help me back to the coach and open that bottle of gin.”

  Briggs shook his head in disapproval. “But, milord, do you think it wise, so early in the day?”

  He swore softly. “You tell me what’s worth staying sober for, Briggs, and I’ll stay sober. Until then, you’ll keep me supplied with all the drink I need. And no insolence. Is that understood?”

  Briggs pressed his lips together and nodded.

  By the time they’d reached the coach, Grey was feeling a good deal better. At least his tongue and his ribs were feeling better. He wasn’t sure of anything else. There was something disturbing about the woman. Something about her eyes, so large and dark and filled with pain . . . “Damn it, Briggs,” he growled, “where’s that gin?” He snatched the small flask from the steward’s hand and took a long, mind-numbing swallow. Why should he let the thought of a savage creature with a dirty face get under his hide?

  “Do you still want to go down to Ludlow, milord?”

  “Of course. The blacksmith promised to have that Toledo blade repaired by today.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want someone to go after the woman?”

  “I told you, no!”

  “But she tried to kill you. What if she should return and try again?”

  “She wants Ellsmere, not me.” He smiled crookedly. “I pity him if the witch should find him.” He took another swig of gin and shrugged. “Besides, if she should return to kill me, I’m no great loss.”

  “Nonsense, milord. You’re a great man, admired and respected by your tenants and servants. Everyone in the parish honors Lord Ridley.”

  Grey threw back his head and laughed aloud. “Such kind flattery, Briggs. You do it well, as befits a man of honor. But how difficult it must be for you. To serve a man you don’t even like. You’re the second son of a knight, aren’t you? You were predestined to inherit nothing from your father except his good wishes. Well, a house steward is a fine calling for a man with few prospects and a good education. And money speaks with a loud voice, as I’ve learned.” He leaned back in his seat and tapped his long fingers against the bottle of gin. “How much am I paying you?”

  “Forty pounds, milord,” murmured Briggs. He watched in silence, his solemn eyes registering dismay, as Grey downed the last of the gin.

  The liquor stung Grey’s injured tongue, but he was beginning to feel better and better. He chuckled softly. “What a disappointment I must be to you, Briggs. I think your upbringing was better than mine, though I, too, was the second son of a title. I regret that I don’t suit your ideas of proper nobility here in Shropshire. But if you can learn to hide that look of disgust on your face, I give you leave to take another thirty pounds per annum. If not”—he shrugged—“it’s simple enough to buy loyalty elsewhere, if one has the money.” He laughed at the sullen look Briggs shot at him. “God’s truth, I think if my brother hadn’t died and left me his fortune and title, you’d be pleased to knock me to my knees at this very moment. But you’re too much a gentleman for that. Too respectful of a man’s rank, even if he’s undeserving. Eh, Briggs?” He laughed again as the steward reddened and turned away.

  Grey closed his eyes. The rocking of the coach soothed him. And the gin had done its work. It was good to feel nothing but a comfortable hum in his brain. There was a surfeit of passion in the world, a stupid waste of emotion. He hated it. Hated caring, hated feeling. It was better to be numb than to suffer with rage and pain, one’s soul exposed to the agony of the human condition. Raw flesh held to an open flame. Like that ragged, dark-eyed creature, who burned with an intensity he couldn’t begin to understand. That he didn’t want to understand.

  “Briggs,” he said suddenly. “Do you remember the red-haired serving wench at the Kings Oak tavern in Newton? Find out if she’s still as agreeable as before. If so, pay her double what you did last time. Then see that she’s waiting in my bed tonight.”

  “Yes, milord.” Briggs’s voice was sharp with disapproval.

  Grey opened his eyes and smiled cynically. “She’s a shallow, greedy whore, Briggs. I know. But—like the gin—she gives me what I want. Forgetfulness.”

  And plague take all sad-eyed creatures who overflowed with more passion than their hearts could safely hold.

  SYLVIA HALLIDAY has written a doz
en highly praised historical romances under the pseudonyms Ena Halliday and Louisa Rawlings. Her Louisa Rawlings books include Forever Wild, a finalist for the RWA Golden Medallion, Promise of Summer, which received the Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Award, and Wicked Stranger which was a finalist for a 1993 RWA Rita Award. Born in Canada, raised in Massachusetts, Sylvia Halliday now makes her home in New York City.

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  Copyright © 1995 by Martha Hix

  ISBN: 978-0-8217-4863-3

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