The Runaway Heiress

by Anne O'Brien

‘At least she didn’t fall on you. And look, here comes Matthew to the rescue.’

  ‘But how did you know where to find me? I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s not important now.’ He was very aware of her confusion as reaction began to set in. ‘Let me get you home.’

  ‘But what of my beautiful riding habit?’ She was suddenly conscious of the sodden cloth of her underclothes clinging uncomfortably to her body and its liberal smearing of mud and slime. ‘The velvet will be ruined. It was so beautiful.’

  ‘I will buy you a new one.’ He was even able to smile at her disordered priorities. ‘I will buy you a dozen!’

  He stripped off his coat to wrap it around her trembling shoulders, hoping to transfer some of the vestigial warmth from his body to hers. Then he swept her into his arms, in spite of her instant assertion that she was perfectly capable of walking, and carried her towards the curricle and Matthew.

  At the Priory Aldeborough carried her into the house and up the stairs, fending off explanations and expressions of concern, issuing orders for hot water, towels, and her ladyship’s maid. Only when he had shouldered his way into her room did he lower her to the ground. He turned her to the light to scan her face intently. There were faint shadows under her eyes, a pale shade round her mouth, and a bruise was beginning to develop on her hair line. Her hair hanging limply on to her shoulders was an impossible damp tangle of curls. The sodden cloth clung to every curve and swell of her body. Beneath his concern Aldeborough was shocked by the sudden tightening in his loins and an unexpected wave of desire that all but swamped his senses. He forced it under control as, with trembling fingers, he began to deal with the buttons and strip off her close-fitting jacket and then her skirt. She simply stood unresisting, arms at her side, following his orders, too stunned to respond, tremors still racking her body. By the time she was standing in her petticoats, her maid arrived with footmen carrying a bath into her dressing room, followed by more with buckets of steaming hot water.

  ‘I will leave you in competent hands. Take care of her,’ he instructed the maid, his mouth grim.

  ‘Of course, m’lord. Her ladyship will soon feel more the thing.’

  He beat a grateful retreat to his own dressing room. He was almost as wet as Frances and needed time to regain his composure.

  An hour later he re-entered her dressing room. It was empty apart from the debris of water, towels and ruined velvet, so he continued on into her bedchamber. Frances was alone, seated before a fire that had been hastily lit, looking pretty and fragile in a lace and satin robe as her hair dried into unruly curls. Her colour had returned. She looked pink and relaxed from the hot water and, to his relief, immeasurably recovered from her ordeal.

  She looked up at the opening of the door and smiled shyly. ‘I am sorry I caused you so much trouble. Riding was my only talent, if you remember. I can not even lay claim to that now.’ Her smile took on a wry tinge.

  He smiled sympathetically, but shook his head. ‘The bridge was damaged. You could not have prevented it. Kington reported the damage caused by the storm this morning so that is why we had come to find you, in case you chose to ride in that direction. Your talent still stands.’

  ‘That is a relief. It does my self-esteem good.’

  ‘You will need it. I am reluctant to mention it, but by tomorrow you will have a magnificent black eye to explain away.’ He resisted the temptation to run his fingers over the injury, to soothe the hurt. He thrust his hands into his pockets.

  Silence fell between them.

  He too had stripped off his wet clothes and was clad in a magnificent dark-grey dressing-gown with black frogging and velvet revers. She had never seen him in it before. His face was stern, his mouth unsmiling, but she thought he looked magnificent. She could think of nothing to say.

  He walked towards her, placing his hands on her shoulders to pull her from her chair, feeling her shiver, her breath catch at his touch. Without a word, without thought, he allowed instinct to dictate and dragged her to him, holding her against his chest, and crushed her mouth beneath his in urgent need. He was already hard for her and his emotions were running high.

  ‘My lord, it is broad daylight,’ she stammered when he at last raised his head to scan her face with a fierce stare.

  ‘So it is.’ He released her for one moment and strode across the room to lock the doors.

  ‘Now, my lady. I want you. I will try to be gentle, but God help me, I want you now.’

  He stripped the cover from the bed and lifted her there with consummate ease. His hands made short work of her robe, in spite of her inarticulate protests, leaving her exposed to the bright rays of the sun that gilded her curves and cast entrancing shadows, enough to heat a man’s blood if he were not already aroused. She had no idea, he thought, how alluring she looked at that moment. He shrugged out of his dressing gown and came to kneel beside her.

  ‘Let me look at you. You are so beautiful.’

  His eyes swept her body, so finely boned, so delicate, the curve of her ribs and the swell of her hips enticing him to run his fingers along the length of curves, dips and hollows from throat to knee. He needed to touch her, to reassure himself that she was alive and unharmed. And that she was his. The blood pumped through his veins, hammering in his loins. He fought hard to keep control but was, for once, not confident.

  ‘Do you realise how beautiful you are?’ Her skin was tinted palest rose at his intimate appraisal, but she had recovered from her initial shock and responded, to his delight, without shyness.

  ‘You are beautiful too,’ she said. His laugh became a groan as she raised her hands to spread her fingers over his chest and move them slowly down over his flat stomach to his hips, not in denial but in blatant invitation. Nor was there any mistaking the anticipation in her eyes.

  For good or ill, his restraint was at an end. He took her wrists to pinion them above her head and launched an assault on her mouth with his own. His kiss was hot and urgent, seducing her lips apart so that his tongue might invade and possess. She responded willingly, her blood heated by his words, the passion in his eyes, the hard-held control in his sinews and muscles as he held himself in check. He used his tongue and teeth on her nipples, first one and then the other, until they became erect peaks of desire and she cried out in shocked pleasure, astounded by the depth of need and delicious sensation that he could ignite in her, arching her body against him, wanting to give more, wanting him to take more.

  When he sensed her readiness he stretched over her to spread her thighs with the weight of his body, releasing her wrists and tightening his hold on her hips so that he might lift her and allow him to enter. It moved him beyond words that she needed no persuasion, but opened herself willingly. One strong thrust was all it needed for him to bury himself in that incredible hot, tight, velvet glove.

  ‘Look at me. I want you to look at me when I take you.’

  He all but drowned in her beautiful eyes. He could not hold back. His thrusts became harder, deeper, his breathing heavy, sweat glimmering on his face and shoulders. She clung to him through the onslaught, her nails inflicting crescent wounds into the slick skin of his shoulders until with a final surge, a tightening of muscle in arms and thighs, a hoarse groan of satisfaction, he emptied himself into her.

  They lay still, the room silent except for their heightened breathing as it returned to normal. He pushed himself up on one elbow and thigh to look at her. She returned his gaze with a steady acceptance and then smiled, the sun striking sapphires from her eyes. He lifted a hand to stroke her hair but for a moment hesitated as a blinding thought pierced his brain, sharp and devastating as a lightning strike—and just as unnerving. No! He pushed the idea away. It was a normal reaction, merely of the moment and the circumstances because he had feared that he had lost her. But he could not quite rid himself of it.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I was thinking …’ He shook his head as if to clear his mind and continued smoothl
y, ‘I was thinking that I have been a very selfish lover. I wanted you too much.’

  She shook her head in denial, letting her fingers drift over his shoulders and then along an old sabre wound that marked his ribs in a long slash from breast bone to hip.

  ‘You are scarred too. I did not know.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She lifted herself to press her lips to the raised welt. He drew in a breath at the impossible tenderness of the gesture and was surprised to feel an immediate tightening in his belly although he had thought himself sated. But it would please him to use it to her advantage.

  ‘This is for you, Frances.’

  He leaned across and lowered his mouth to her in the gentlest, most tender of caresses. Where he had been dominant and demanding, now he awoke her body with slow caresses, of lips and tongue. When he parted the soft flesh between her thighs with experienced fingers, stroking, pushing into the warm, clinging wetness, she sighed and abandoned herself to his will. He awakened in her such feelings as she had never experienced, never dreamed of. Her skin was so sensitive, his touch so glorious, that she hovered on the edge of exquisite agony. Her only awareness was the intensity of the heat in her belly and thighs that seemed to be slipping out of her control—and for a moment she knew fear.

  ‘No,’ she gasped. ‘I cannot …’ She resisted, trying to turn from his impossible demands on her body, only to whimper in rapture as his teeth closed over a nipple, torturing it into life.

  He raised his head. ‘Yes. Yes, you can. Let me give you the pleasure you gave me.’

  He slipped effortlessly inside her, filling her with a need she did not understand. He set the pace slowly now, thoroughly, allowing her time to absorb every sensation, withdrawing and then reclaiming her with long firm strokes. He watched her reaction as the heat built. And when it burst through her whole body in a shower of gold, imprisoning her in long shudders that were completely beyond her control, she cried out. And it was his name she cried. Only then did he complete his own pleasure, control once more in place, until he lay spent beside her. He was as breathless and dazed as she was. She turned and hid her face against his shoulder, her hair spread over his chest.

  Aldeborough was descending the stairs in mid-afternoon when a visit from Selby swept his intense sense of well-being away. He was waiting for him in the entrance hall.

  ‘I think you should come down to the stables, Captain.’

  ‘What is it, Selby? A problem?’

  ‘I believe so, Captain.’ His face was set in lines of concern. ‘I need you to take a look at the mare.’

  Beeswing was placidly eating oats in her stable and whickered softly on Selby’s return. Aldeborough was surprised to see Kington already there.

  ‘What’s wrong? She seems to have recovered well enough.’ He ran his hands over her shoulder.

  ‘What do you make of this, my lord?’

  Aldeborough bent and ran an expert hand down the mare’s off fore to where he knew the would find a deep graze across the shin. It was quite deep and very even. The bleeding had stopped and Selby had been mixing a concoction to apply as a poultice to the swollen flesh.

  Aldeborough looked up sharply at Selby, a faint chill creeping insidiously through his veins.

  ‘A bullet?’ He had seen enough wounds on men and animals in Spain to recognise it immediately.

  ‘Aye, Captain. And look at this. Kington here found this buried in one of the uprights of the bridge balustrade which had fallen in the water.’

  On the palm of his broad, callused hand was a familiar object. A lead shot from a pistol. Aldeborough picked it up, rubbed his fingers over it consideringly, making sense of Frances’s recollections.

  ‘So that was the sharp crack Frances heard. A bullet. Not the wood. The supports held but the mare was struck, panicked and fell through the balustrade.’

  ‘Most likely, my lord,’ Kington added his corroboration. ‘It came from the direction of the spinney, it looks like. It would have been easy to use it as cover.’

  Aldeborough’s lips thinned, his eyes becoming glacial. ‘I don’t want this to go any further. Don’t talk about it to anyone. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. There’s no point in worrying her ladyship.’

  No, there was no point in worrying Frances, agreed Aldeborough silently as he returned to the house. But this put an entirely different complexion on the attack by the highwaymen. Just who was the target?

  Chapter Ten

  Aldeborough was careful to allow no reference to the incident at the Chinese Bridge to cloud Frances’s enjoyment in the following days. As far as he was aware, only Kington and Selby knew of the discovery of the evidence and they could be trusted to keep silent. Although she could not be ridden, Beeswing continued to make a good recovery and the wound knit well. It would leave hardly a scar. Meanwhile the Marquis devoted some of his time to introducing his wife to the more far-flung reaches of the estate and the tenants who lived in the village beyond the church. He put her up on one of his hunters and rode the estate with her. And he found himself appreciative of her company. She had charm and a ready wit as her confidence increased and she relaxed in his presence. She was also interested in his schemes and plans and was willing to explain her own ideas.

  It was not all estate work. They galloped across the park, head to head, revelling in the wild glory of speed and sensation. Her eyes sparkled and she smiled. When she beat him in a race to the stables she laughed aloud with the joy of it. It pleased him to see the shadow of old fears fade from her eyes and the lines of ever-present watchfulness smooth from her face. The contentment suited her, giving her a youthful bloom and a beauty of which he had not been aware. It pleased him that he could do that for her and he would preserve that contentment with whatever means at his disposal. And it delighted him to see the colour steal into her cheeks when a new green velvet riding habit—and such a perfect fit!—arrived mysteriously from town.

  At night he lost himself in the soft curves and enticing secrets of her receptive body, so slim and apparently delicate, but so firm and smooth to the caress of his hands. She was his and he felt the power of ownership when her skin warmed to his touch and her body moved beneath his, and when she sighed in his arms and curled against him as she fell exhausted into sleep. It was a novel experience to have his eyes and thoughts drawn to her when she turned her head in a particular way or lifted a hand in a graceful gesture to tuck in a stray curl. He wanted to let his fingers stroke down her cheek, her throat, all the elegant length of it, and press his mouth to where the pulse beat beneath the fair skin. Indeed, he could not get her out of his mind.

  Her bruises might have faded to mere shadows, but his increasing desire for her staggered him with its intensity.

  For Frances the days were in the nature of a revelation. She had never experienced companionship before and here there was friendship and perhaps even affection freely offered. Her growing love for him she firmly smothered beneath a friendly exterior. He did not want her love and she was relieved that he did not look for it. It made it easier for her to dissemble. If it hurt her heart, then so be it. She would accept what he was prepared to offer. Perhaps it was her own love that made her receptive to the affection and respect from those around her for the new Marquis, from Rivers and Webster and the house servants to Selby, Kington and those involved in the running of the estate. And the tenants in the village. As an onlooker, perhaps she saw more than Aldeborough did. There was never any overt criticism of Aldeborough’s father or of Richard, owner of the title for such a short time, but Frances got the strong impression that her husband was regarded as an enlightened man who would remedy the neglect of past years.

  Even with her ignorance of the details of estate management, it was easy for her to see the signs of neglect and lack of investment. Poor road surfaces, dilapidated cottages, no evidence of any development of the resources of the estate, basic and outdated farming techniques. The tenants and local community looked to Aldeb
orough for a commitment and he was strongly aware of it. Huckerby was not the only one to complain about his leaking roof.

  So Frances found herself discussing schemes for quarrying on the eastern boundary of the estate and the merits of crop rotation or the wool production of different breeds of sheep. And the possibility of developing some selective horse breeding if the stables were to be extended and further improved. But he would not talk about Spain, apart from the odd casual reference. And he would never mention Richard’s name. She shrugged and wisely left both topics alone.

  Of her uncle and cousin at Torrington Hall, there was no word. Frances heaved a sigh of relief. There were enough potential tensions without further contact from that quarter.

  ‘You asked me to meet you here, my lord.’ The library was flooded with bright sunshine, dust motes dancing in the unseasonably warm air and a faint perfume pervading from the vase of early daffodils. It was now near noon and the business between Aldeborough and Hedges was almost at an end. They sat on either side of the magnificent desk, a welter of papers spread over its surface between them. Frances detected an air of restlessness, of dissatisfaction even, about her husband, but that hardly surprised her as she now knew his tolerance of paper work to be low. As she entered he looked up, a shadow of concern crossing his features, but it was quickly gone—indeed, perhaps she had imagined it—and he rose to greet her with a smile that made her pulses leap. The fingers which she placed in his outstretched hand trembled at his touch. Would she ever learn to control her responses to him? She had no hope of it.

  ‘My lady. I am delighted to see you. You are an excellent excuse to abandon all this for half an hour.’ He indicated the official documents and estate maps on the desk. ‘Hedges will tell you that I will accept anything as an excuse, but then he has not had the pleasure of meeting you before. Let me introduce you.’

  Hedges, Aldeborough’s man of business from York, an elderly lawyer with receding hair and heavily lined features, rose stiffly to his feet and acknowledged Frances with a bow and a few words of congratulation on her recent marriage. His sombre face relaxed into a smile as he agreed that a break from boundary disputes was always welcome and especially when the interruption was so pretty. Frances laughed at his unexpected gallantry and offered to ring for the refreshment that Aldeborough, in the throws of legal complications, had clearly forgotten.