Kissing Cousins

by Joan Smith

  “A complete hand,” Samantha said to Edward. “I do think he’s right, Cousin. This curricle offers poor security if the man decides to use that pistol.”

  “Couldn’t you discover who he is?” Salverton asked Sykes.

  “I meant to break it to you gentle,” he said, aiming his words at Samantha. “I fear it’s bad news. Me pals tell me he calls hisself Mortimer Fletcher, a London rogue. Fletch, for everyday use. He’s just out of Newgate, where he did ten years. He would have been Jack Ketch’s breakfast but for the lack of a witness to the man he kilt.”

  “Good gracious!” Samantha exclaimed, and grew pale. “What can he want with us?”

  “As you two have done nothing, I h’assume he’s following you to find Darren. Or Wanda—or both of ‘em. P’raps Sir Geoffrey hired him. You’ll want another pair of fists when you do find them. I’ll try to lose Fletcher along the way. I know a few spots where we might manage it.”

  “Very well,” Salverton said. “Where is this unmarked hired carriage, Sykes?”

  “Just around the corner. I’ll bring it forward while you send this rig back to the stable. Handsome prads, melord. Sixteen miles an hour, I wager.”

  “Yes, pity we won’t be using them,” Salverton said.

  His instinct was to tell Sykes to go to the devil, and continue on in the open carriage with Samantha. He had been looking forward to the trip with considerable pleasure, but he couldn’t put her life in jeopardy on a mere whim. He sensed, too, that Sykes—damn his eyes—would be a good man in a brawl.

  It was some small consolation that Sykes was handling the ribbons of the carriage. At least he wouldn’t be inside with them for the entire trip. He was also an unexceptionable fiddler who was intimately acquainted with all the roads of England, to hear him speak, at least. The horses looked like goers as well. Salverton wondered what outrageous sum he’d have to pay Sykes for having hired them.

  It occurred to him that Sykes might have invented this villain following them, until he peered out the rear window and saw the unmarked sporting carriage. The bays drawing it looked like excellent horses. It was impossible to get a good look at the driver. He had his hat pulled low over his eyes, but he was a big brute, with shoulders as broad as the Parthenon.

  With all this in his dish and missing the opera besides, it quite amazed Salverton that he could still feel relatively cheerful. He kept a sharp eye on the carriage behind them. The driver was crafty enough to allow a few carriages between his rig and his quarry’s, but he was always there, dogging their steps. He cast a shadow over what would otherwise have been a thoroughly enjoyable outing.

  “Don’t worry so, Edward,” Samantha said when he checked the rear window half a dozen times. “Mr. Sykes will lose him. He is an excellent fiddler.”

  This, unaccountably, only worsened her cousin’s mood.

  Chapter Twelve

  The top finger of the signpost said Tunbridge. The finger below it said TUNBRIDGE WELLS, SIX MILES. The drive through the fertile Weald south of the North Downs had been pleasant, but a few side excursions and ruses had not succeeded in shaking Fletcher from their tail.

  “Has Sykes forgotten he was going to escape from Fletcher?” Edward said.

  “He hasn’t forgotten. I’m sure he has some plan,” Samantha replied calmly.

  They soon entered Tunbridge, an ancient, timbered market town. Salverton assumed Sykes would drive through the village and continue southward. Instead, the carriage was driven to a recreational area on the banks of the Medway. Before there was time to inquire, Sykes was at the window.

  “Time to lose Fletch if we’re ever going to,” he said. “He likes his ale, does Fletch. He gargled down three at Grinstead while I had one. I figured if we could convince him we was making a longish stop, he’d not be able to resist the temptation to wet his whistle. If you and Miss Oakleigh care to alight and go for a stroll, melord, I’ll handle Fletch.”

  “What do you plan to do?” Salverton asked.

  “Go to the Chequers Inn for a bite. He’ll figure the carriage can’t leave without me, and take the chance to have a wet. I’ll linger a spell at the inn, p’raps fool him entirely by hiring a room and going up to it, while you drive the rig out of sight. When he comes back here to check out the rig, I’ll slip out of the inn and meet you on a back road. Not the main road to Tunbridge Wells, mind. That’s where Fletch will be looking for you when he sees the carriage is gone. There’s another small road that heads south as well. It don’t go directly to Tunbridge Wells, but a mile beyond the city there’s a turnoff. Take it and backtrack to Tunbridge Wells.”

  “That’s ingenious, Mr. Sykes!” Samantha exclaimed.

  Salverton couldn’t think of a better plan, but he contained his enthusiasm. “Where do I find this smaller road?”

  “Turn around and go back the way we came. Just before you come to that half-timbered farmhouse on your left, you’ll see an unmetaled road. It looks a mite rough. It don’t get better, but it don’t get worse, either. And what do we care, eh? The rattler and prads are hired.”

  “Spoken like a scoundrel!” Salverton muttered, but he agreed to the plan.

  Salverton and Samantha alit. He put his hand on her elbow and they began a walk along the banks of the Medway, stopping to watch some children floating toy boats. From the corners of their eyes they saw Sykes drive the rig into the parking area and leave on foot for the main street. After a moment Fletch drove by. When he spotted the carriage, he also drew into the parking area at the far end, looking back over his shoulder to see where his quarry were going.

  “Buy us an ice,” Samantha suggested. “He’ll think you can’t go to the tavern because of me.”

  “You’re becoming as bossy as Lady Louise,” Salverton said.

  She gave him a saucy look. “Is she bossy, Edward?”

  “Outspoken, I should have said,” he replied.

  He bought two ices. As he handed one to Samantha, he saw Fletch leave his carriage and follow Sykes. As Fletch’s broad back disappeared around the corner, Salverton headed to the man’s carriage.

  “What are you doing?” Samantha asked. “Salverton! Are you going to disable his carriage? How clever! You’re becoming nearly as sneaky as Mr. Sykes.”

  Salverton had intended no more than searching the carriage to try to discover what Fletcher’s business might be, but when he heard Samantha’s idea, he decided to act on it. He and Samantha strolled about the parking area, seemingly examining the various equipages and nags.

  When the guard lost interest in them, Edward tossed his ice aside, removed a clasp knife from his pocket, and began cutting the leather straps of the reins. Samantha kept the team quiet by stroking them and speaking in the dulcet tones of a horse lover. One of the horses discovered her ice, and with one flick of his big tongue removed the ice from the cone. Salverton continued working until he had severed every strap. When he had finished, he made a quick examination of the rig, but found nothing to identify the driver.

  He said, “Let’s go now, before Fletch comes back.”

  “That horse ate my ice, Edward!”

  “A small price to pay.”

  “I was quite enjoying it. Couldn’t I have another? It’s very hot and dry.”

  “Oh, very well.” He would have enjoyed another ice himself, but he had to drive.

  He bought her the ice and they returned to their carriage. A few heads turned to see a gentleman in such an elegant blue jacket driving his own rig, but then, the Corinthians were up to anything. It was a common sight to see one of them take the reins of the mail coach.

  He turned the carriage around and retraced the road to the half-timbered house on the corner. The unpaved road was there where Sykes had said, half hidden by a dense stand of thorn bushes. It looked extremely rough, with holes as big as boilers. They drove through a virtual tree tunnel. Tree branches intruded into the carriage’s path, brushing at Salverton’s face as they advanced, but the road was passable.

 
Six miles seemed an eternity, being jostled up and down and eating dust. After half an hour Salverton stopped to check the horses. Samantha got out and joined him. She had removed her bonnet in the carriage and didn’t bother to replace it. Her hair had sprung loose from its combs to wanton about her cheeks.

  “It’s very bumpy inside,” she said. “I had to close the windows because of the dust. I’m stifling with the heat.”

  “Would you like to trade places?” he asked irritably, brushing dust and dead leaves from his shoulders. He drew out his handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his brow.

  Samantha drew her bottom lip between her teeth. “That was thoughtless of me. And when you were kind enough to buy me a second ice, too. Gracious, you look a mess! Here, let me help. You’re only making it worse.”

  She took the handkerchief and began wiping at his face, where the perspiration and dust had combined to leave rivulets of mud on his forehead,

  “Bend down,” she ordered like a mother speaking to a child.

  “I can’t. I have a crick in my back from bending under that low ceiling of trees.”

  “Sit down on that rock, then,” she suggested. “I can hardly reach you.”

  He took her hand and led her to a rock that stood by the edge of an apple orchard. He sat down with a weary sigh and lifted his face to the sun. A stray breeze blew over him, carrying the scent of newly mown hay and clover. The brilliant azure sky above was unmarred by a single puff of cloud. A noisy jay went squalling from one of the apple trees.

  Samantha began to wipe away the dirt. She noticed the fine lines on Edward’s forehead, and felt a twinge of sympathy for him. Once the bird left, it was almost unnaturally quiet. The only sound was the whisper of the breeze through the treetops and the soft chewing of the team that had taken advantage of the rest to chomp at the grassy verge.

  “This really needs water. A pity there isn’t a stream. We could water the horses while we’re here,” she said.

  When Salverton didn’t reply, she lowered her gaze to his eyes. He was staring at her in a dazed sort of way.

  He felt that same softening inside that he had felt in the carriage the night before, when Samantha was stroking his brow. Only this time he could see her as she leaned above him, with her full breasts only inches from him. Sunlight glinted on her blond curls, turning them to a golden cloud, backed by that azure sky. She seemed unreal, like one of those mischievous angels in a Renaissance painting. Her eyes, gazing into his, were fanned by long lashes. As he gazed, her ripe lips trembled open to say something.

  For the first time in many a long year, Edward lost control of himself. He pulled her down onto his knee and wrapped both his arms close around her. As her soft breasts melted against his chest, his lips found hers and firmed in a hot embrace that sent his blood flaming like wildfire through his veins and throbbing in his throat.

  It was a momentary madness, completely out of character, yet irresistible. Strangely, Samantha didn’t resist, either. She not only let him kiss her, she kissed him back. His heart pumped harder when he felt her arms go around his neck, tentatively at first, then squeezing gently. Her fingers moved disturbingly in the hair at the nape of his neck, sending dangerous quivers up his spine.

  The last two days had seemed unreal to Edward, like some special magical period apart from reality, and as the kiss lingered, he knew that the past hours had been leading ineluctably to this moment. He had wanted to kiss those cherry lips from the moment Samantha had come into his study with those horrid coquelicot ribbons on her bonnet.

  Or perhaps it was when she had removed her pelisse and he realized that she had grown into a charmer that he had first felt this urge. Her provincial manners and outspokenness should have disgusted him. In theory, they did. But in fact, they excited him. They made her seem less a lady, and more a woman.

  As the moment’s madness subsided, Samantha withdrew from his arms and stood up. She felt shaken at what had just happened. She had let him kiss her out of curiosity, to see if Salverton was as cold-blooded as he pretended—and perhaps, she admitted, because she just wanted him to kiss her. She hadn’t realized a simple kiss could so swiftly accelerate to passion. She saw at once that Edward was as shaken as she was herself. He didn’t know what to say. His scarlet past was too far behind him to make him comfortable during this little contretemps.

  She playfully lifted a finger and said, smiling, “Now, Cousin, you promised Miss Donny you would behave. We shall forget this happened, if you please, and continue on our way. There, I’m being bossy again.” She hoped he hadn’t noticed that she was breathless.

  Salverton rose. “Samantha—I’m sorry. That was unforgivable. A moment’s madness. You were so close, and—”

  She gave him a saucy look. “And you are still young enough to succumb to temptation. Well, that is something, anyway.”

  She walked calmly to the carriage and let herself in. Salverton stood looking after her. He had never seen a lady move so gracefully, with a lithe, swaying motion in her hips. Her waist was ridiculously small. He wanted to go after her and kiss her again. Lord, he had thought he was over that schoolboy fever for women.

  What must she think of him? He must show her by his behavior during the rest of this escapade that he was completely trustworthy. But there lingered at the back of his mind the fact that she hadn’t tried to stop him.

  While he drove the carriage along the rutted path, his mind wandered to Lady Louise. He had been courting her for six months, and never felt the least urge to misbehave so shamelessly as he had with Samantha. He hadn’t felt that way about any of the pretty girls who were regularly thrown at his head. They had all seemed alike. He must marry, and since the girls were all alike, why not choose the best-born and best-dowered of them? Except that he no longer wanted to marry Lady Louise.

  How could he, when he felt like this about Samantha Oakleigh? Of course it wasn’t love, he told himself severely. It was merely one of those powerful fascinations that would soon run itself to a standstill, and it was a great pity that it should have occurred just then, when he was on the verge of success with Louise.

  Samantha argued with herself, too, as she was jostled along the rutted path. She really shouldn’t have let Edward kiss her like that. It was for the lady to impose boundaries. If she had behaved more like a lady, he would have treated her like one. He obviously thought her no better than she should be. He would never lose control like that with Lady Louise. He respected her too much.

  She would behave with a good deal more propriety from now on. But she felt that if he wanted to kiss her again, she would be hard pressed to deny him. It had been a surprisingly warm kiss.

  He hadn’t seemed like Lord Salverton at all when he attacked her. He had seemed more like Lord Salty. That wilder side of Edward hadn’t died; it was still there, dormant, waiting to burst out when his guard was down, and she liked him better for it. She was relieved when the end of the road was finally in sight. The tree tunnel thinned, and at its end stood Jonathon Sykes, his legs apart, arms akimbo. He came forward, wearing his usual jaunty grin.

  “I see you made it, melord.”

  “Did you manage to lose Fletcher?” Salverton asked.

  “He’s loitering about town. I booked myself a room for the night, paid for it—I’ll add it to your bill. I managed to slip out the back door of the inn. We’d best head straight to Tunbridge Wells, if you’ll just hop down and let a fiddler take hold of the reins, melord.”

  Salverton was already in a bad mood. He didn’t think it was by chance that Sykes cast these aspersions on his driving. A “fiddler” indeed! Salverton was well known for his skill in handling the ribbons. And of course Samantha was listening to every word.

  “Well done, Mr. Sykes!” she called from the lowered window. Sykes, the demmed jackanapes, bowed low.

  Salverton climbed down and let himself into the carriage. If he waited for Sykes to open the door, no doubt another pound would be added to his bill.

/>   The atmosphere in the carriage was strained. Each was determined to forget what had happened in the tree tunnel, and behave with the utmost propriety.

  “How is the crick in your back, Cousin?” Samantha asked when they had driven a few hundred yards without speaking.

  “Improving. If I just lay my head back against the squabs, it will pass.”

  He did this, and closed his eyes into the bargain, which would have made conversation difficult if there had been any. As neither of them could think of anything to say, there was no talk until they were nearly at Tunbridge Wells.

  “We’re nearly there,” Samantha said then.

  Salverton opened his eyes and looked out the window at picturesque hills and moorland. “Pretty,” he said. “My aunt used to come here for the chalybeate waters.”

  “What are chalybeate waters? Are they like the horrid sulphur water at Bath?”

  “Equally horrid, but flavored with iron instead of sulphur. You can try a glass at the Pump Room, if you like.”

  “I would rather have a nice cup of tea.”

  “So would I. As soon as we find Darren, we’ll have tea, then head straight back to London.”

  “That will be nice,” she said primly.

  After this stilted exchange, they both turned to look out the window, where a lively scene greeted them. As they drew into the town, carriages of all sorts were plentiful, as were holidayers. The company was not composed entirely of valetudinarians come to take the waters. There were a few families and a liberal sprinkling of lightskirts come to prey on the elderly gentlemen.

  “Jonathon knows where Sir Geoffrey’s house is,” Samantha said.

  “Of course he does. He knows everything.”

  Samantha saw that her companion was still in one of his moods, and said no more. If it weren’t so ridiculous, she would think Edward was jealous of Mr. Sykes.