How a Lady Weds a Rogue fc-3

by Katharine Ashe

  “Can you tend horses, lad?”

  “Yes, sir. My brother works the pulleys at Merthyr Tydfil. I helped him with the animals there before my sister came on and we hired at Cyfarthfa.”

  “I will pay you in coin for your labor, and you will be fed.” He turned to Miss Lucas and said in English, “He will come.”

  Her face lit into a smile. “Splendid. What is your name?”

  “Owen, miss.”

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Owen.”

  Wyn watched the lad squirm, unaccustomed to pretty ladies paying him attention, no doubt. But he could prove useful later in the day. Although he gazed at Miss Lucas with the instant devotion she drew from most she encountered, the boy would not gainsay a fellow countryman. Welshmen were a loyal band. Her generosity, Wyn knew, would serve him well.

  He gestured for Owen to take the luggage and turned toward the stable. He paused.

  “Oh, good heavens,” she whispered at his shoulder.

  “Good heavens, indeed,” he replied quietly, the rain on the cobbles beyond the archway muting their voices.

  “That is the Misses Blevinses’ groom, isn’t it?”

  “It is.” The old coachman stood in the shadow of the carriage house, stroking the neck of one of Sir Henry’s horses. A thoughtful frown crumpled his wrinkles.

  “What an unfortunate coincidence.” She bit her lip. “He has recognized the carriage.”

  “It seems so.”

  “If he is here, the Misses Blevinses must be too.”

  “Have you still got your valuables in that bandbox?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good girl. Go inside now. Take Mrs. Polley with you.”

  “And then?”

  “I will come for you in three minutes. Three. Be ready to depart swiftly.”

  She turned and drew her companion into the inn. Owen’s dark gaze shifted to the stable, curious yet aware. Wyn almost smiled, but now was not the time to enjoy having returned to his native land, to appreciate the quick, savvy mind of another Welshman.

  “Owen, did you see a large man saddle a roan in that stable earlier, perhaps an hour ago?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Where is that man now?”

  He shrugged. “Haven’t seen him since.”

  Eads had remained very close; his horse had been saddled in its stall when Wyn went to prepare Galahad and the filly. The Highlander would not be far now, ready to follow when they departed. But his momentary absence was sheer good luck.

  He took Galahad’s lead. “Go fetch that horse. Tell the ostler that the gentleman named Eads intends to drive my carriage today. Then meet me below the crossing.” He pointed down the main street.

  “Yes, sir.” With a light step the boy went toward the stable. Ramses followed for a pace, then returned to Wyn.

  “It seems we are to amplify our party by two,” he murmured to the dog.

  Ramses’ black eyes peered up at him.

  “You are thinking what I am thinking, of course. The more people she has to protect her from me, the better.”

  She’d thought he was trying to teach her a lesson. And perhaps at the moment he had been. Perhaps he was trying to stop himself from dishonoring her.

  But he would prove no further threat to Miss Lucas. He had set aside the bottle once before. It hadn’t been particularly easy, but then he didn’t have particular reason for it then, he merely wished to prove to himself that he could stop. Pride: the sin his father and brothers had accused him of so often.

  He had exemplary reason now.

  He could not frighten her into returning home voluntarily; her spirit of adventure and confidence were far too strong. But now he would use the serendipitous appearance of the Misses Blevinses to finally bring her to the place he’d told her stepfather to retrieve her—a place where the locals would not reveal their presence to any lawmen who might happen to catch up with them. Upon the road the rain would also be his ally, as well as her care for the people in her company. She would agree to stop for a time if it meant their comfort, long enough to allow Carlyle to arrive. If not the baron, then Kitty Blackwood. Kitty and Leam must be in London now, and the note he’d posted an hour earlier would ride the Mail to town swiftly, and Kitty would come.

  In the meantime, he would regain control. The girl with the wide lapis eyes deserved it.

  Sometimes behind the silvery gray she saw the eyes of a bird, intense and predatory. Or perhaps merely very, very hungry. Perhaps not the eyes of a predator but of a creature that wished to eat but who would not allow himself to kill. Behind the silver hid the famished eyes of a scavenger.

  Mr. Eads had called him a raven. The Raven.

  But his eyes only looked like that in the morning, before he began drinking spirits. He never drank them in the morning, although it seemed that at noon he gave himself leave.

  Not today. Perhaps he did not trust himself. Perhaps he did not trust her. And well he should not. She had proven herself untrustworthy.

  But as the morning slipped into afternoon and the rain became a steady drone, his eyes took on the hungry look again. Still, his boots trod the puddle-strewn road in steady strides. For hours he had walked thus, not sharing her mount even once. She was sore from riding awkwardly on a man’s saddle, but he must be exhausted. Yet his stride did not falter, his hand firm on the lead of the big horse he had stolen from the inn’s stable when they left Sir Henry’s carriage behind.

  “Mrs. Polley is asleep again.” She glanced over her shoulder at Galahad bearing her companion and the luggage like a mule. Owen walked beside Lady Priscilla.

  Mr. Yale did not respond.

  “She does not believe we must travel quite this far west to escape the Miss Blevinses’ notice,” she tried again.

  Still he did not speak, his gaze on the narrow road flanked by rock walls stretching endlessly ahead into the haze of rain. To either side, hills rose steeply in glorious hues of emerald and evergreen, copses of trees cresting the heights and sheep speckling the fields oblivious to the rain in their thin, late summer coats, all of it now veiled in silvery gray.

  “I suppose she has less concern than we since she knows nothing of the threat Mr. Eads poses.”

  No reply.

  She had been talking to herself like this all day. And staring at him, his broad shoulders covered by his black overcoat, the damp curl of his hair about his collar. She had touched him there. She still couldn’t quite believe it. But she had the memory of sensation within her gloves now, and everywhere else in her body. And, of course, there was his altered mien, not in the least uncivil, only subdued.

  He regretted having kissed her, touched her, and he did not remember it. She—brazen, wanton daughter of a wayward, wicked mother—remembered every moment. And she could not stop thinking about it.

  “Are you familiar with this part of Wales?”

  “I heard many stories of it in my childhood.” He did not sound exhausted, or piqued, or unhappy. He sounded . . . normal.

  She released a tiny breath. “What sorts of stories?”

  “In Knighton, the town we left this morning, there is a clock tower at the top of the main street. Did you notice it?”

  “Yes.” She hadn’t. She’d noticed only the regret on his handsome features and the flicker of relief when she refused his offer of marriage.

  “If a man of Knighton wishes to divorce his wife, he may bring her to that clock tower in the center of town and sell her to whomever will take her.”

  She laughed. “That is positively barbaric!”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Of course you would never do that.”

  “Of course not.” A pause. “Only if she were very troublesome.” For the first time since the Bates’s stable, his voice seemed to smile.

  Happiness caught at her, simple and warm. She swiped rain off the tip of her nose. “Then it is a good thing we are not to marry after all, because I daresay you would be selling me at the clock tower
within days.”

  He did not immediately respond. Then: “I daresay.”

  She swallowed over the sudden thickness in her throat. “Are we lost, Mr. Yale?”

  “Not precisely, Miss Lucas.”

  He had called her Diantha the night before. And for a moment, in that moment, he had truly frightened her.

  “Slightly lost?”

  “Possibly.” Another silence, washed by the steady stream of rain about them and punctuated by Mrs. Polley’s snores.

  “Probably lost?”

  “Yes.”

  “What shall we do about it, then?”

  He glanced up and she realized that she missed his eyes when he did not look at her. She drank in the profile of his jaw and the contours of his mouth. Droplets of rain fell from his hat brim onto his coat.

  “Mrs. Polley is sodden to the bone,” she continued, because speaking was considerably easier than contemplating his mouth and wishing for things she could not have, “and I think Owen is sleeping as he walks.”

  “It will be best to find a place to hide for a bit.”

  “To ‘hide’?” He did not strike her as the sort of man who hid. From anything.

  “To take shelter.”

  The rain fell heavily now, silencing all but itself. But he also did not seem the sort to shy from bad weather.

  “Oh,” she said. “For my safety from Mr. Eads.”

  Back to no reply again.

  “But you said he agreed to allow you to assist me on my quest because of a tragedy having to do with his sister and a brothel.”

  “That was before you rode out of town on his horse.”

  Her hands jerked on the reins and the big roan snorted.

  “You stole—” She glanced back at her sleeping companion and lowered her voice. “You stole his horse?”

  “It was Eads or the law.”

  “Hm. I see. Given the policy on troublesome wives in that town, one might not hope to meet with justice over the theft of a carriage and pair.”

  “My thought precisely.”

  “Probably a good one. You don’t think he will turn us in to the authorities?”

  “I believe he will wish to avoid the authorities altogether.”

  She looked over her shoulder. The road behind was swathed in gray. “Perhaps we should pick up our pace a bit?”

  “Or take shelter off the road where Eads will not look.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. My available time is already growing short and we have had to make more detours than I like. It would be silly to advance yet farther. How far is Bristol from here?”

  “Several days’ ride.”

  “And perhaps the man in brown has confederates too. I would not want to run afoul of any more of your enemies.”

  “It cannot be wondered at.”

  “It would further delay us.”

  Finally the slight smile shaped his mouth. Diantha could not look away, her insides all tangled again.

  “Why are you smiling now? You have not smiled at me all day, which cannot be wondered at, of course. But I cannot imagine now that this is a good sign.”

  He drew the horse to a halt. “The rain is worsening. I will send Owen ahead to scout out a place to rest for the night.”

  “An inn upon this deserted road? And you did not answer my question.”

  He glanced at their companions approaching from behind. “An inn may be too much to expect.”

  “A farm then.” She could not ask if they would once again pretend to be married.

  He seemed thoughtful. “I would encourage you to come down from there and rest while he goes ahead if it weren’t for the mud and the prospect of Eads catching up.”

  “I would come down if Owen would take the opportunity to ride. Or you.”

  The smile lingered at one corner of his mouth. “You think infrequently of yourself.”

  “What on earth do you mean? I’ve done nothing but think of myself since I left Brennon Manor.” Especially with him, begging for kisses when he told her not to.

  His regard shifted to Ramses trotting ahead on the narrow road, his coat a matted mass, then again to Owen and Mrs. Polley. “You adopt strays,” he said beneath the rattle of the rain.

  “They needed our help, and we needed theirs.”

  “Not precisely.” His eyes seemed to glimmer now. “Why do you do it? Do you intend to save the world from its ills, one lost soul at a time?”

  He did not tease. She could see this. His voice held a desolate note that burrowed into her and made her feel achy again, but not like the night before. This ache was different.

  “Give me your hand, Mr. Yale.”

  His gaze arrested. He did not move.

  “Please,” she said more quietly, her voice nearly lost in the rain.

  He did as she asked, offering his hand, palm up. She brought hers beneath it and through her sodden gloves felt his heat so that, within, she stirred.

  “Your hands are large and strong. You are accustomed to doing with them what you will. With very little effort, I suspect, you have an effect upon others.” She could no longer hold his gaze. She laid her other hand upon his, matching palm to palm, fingers to fingers. “My hands are quite small, as you can see. I can do very little of effect. But what little I am able to do, I will always try to do.” Wresting her courage from her soaked shoes, she lifted her gaze. He drew a visible breath.

  “Hem.” Galahad appeared beside them, Mrs. Polley staring pointedly from the saddle.

  Mr. Yale’s hand slipped from hers.

  “Owen, walk a pace with me up the road while I apprise you of our—” He glanced at her. “—plan.” He set his hand on the boy’s bony shoulder and the two moved away.

  Mrs. Polley glared after them. Of course, she would glare much more pointedly if she had any idea that the hand he’d just allowed Diantha to hold had been up her skirts the night before.

  She sighed. “I do wish you would cease looking at him as though he were a villain intent on my ruination. He has no such designs.” Would that he did. Teresa had told her there were many duties gentlemen expected of their wives, other men’s wives, opera singers, and an occasional French maid. Diantha thought she had discovered one of those duties last night while pressed up against his bedchamber wall. She wanted to discover more but that, unfortunately, was not in his program. “He merely wishes to help me, you know.”

  “I’ll not be saying what I think his true intentions are, or not,” her companion said with a wag of her head, bonnet spewing water in all directions. “But I’ll warn you, miss, gentlemen with a dark look like that one do only what’s to their advantage.”

  “Well don’t we all? I think you will soon come to see your mistake.”

  Mr. Yale came toward them, alone now. “He is looking for a dry refuge ahead.”

  Mrs. Polley clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “There’s nothing dry for miles, sir. You’ve brought us into Noah’s flood.”

  “I am sorry for your discomfort, ma’am.” He stroked down the filly’s neck with quiet care. Diantha’s insides went wobbly. He looked up and found her staring at him, and his eyes shaded. “No doubt we will find shelter soon.”

  Three quarters of an hour of green hills and muddy road later, Owen reappeared.

  “Found a house ahead, back from the road.” He glanced at her with a shy smile. “It’s a grand place, miss. Looks like a church. But there’s no one about. Knocked on all the doors and the gatehouse.” He was speaking English for her sake, and she smiled in return. His cheeks bloomed with red spots beneath his pallor. Even he was tired, all of them weary of the rain, Diantha’s teeth chattering and Mrs. Polley’s face pale.

  “Well, if it has a dry stable we might borrow it for a bit, mightn’t we, Mr. Yale?”

  “We might.” He studied the boy. “Fine work, Owen. Thank you.”

  The lad took Galahad’s lead. “Just up the road a bit, sir.” He gestured.

  They went. Not more than a quarter mile ahead, whe
re the road bent south, a tiny lane led off north, overhung by a stand of old oaks interspersed with the tall dark pines that seemed so comfortable in this lush world. Vines twined in thick majesty around the gatehouse built of gray stone and the stone fence running along the lane, some still flowering and content in the rain. The drive was pebbled, sprigs of grass poking up here and there.

  Hidden behind a copse of ancient trees, the house sat on a rise, a very large structure that did indeed have the look of a church about it—rather, several churches all connected in one grand sprawl. Its roofs sloped steeply to points, turreted towers of gray stone rising over the treetops. But the towers featured chimneys of modern appearance. Windows gleamed dimly, reflecting the black trees and the gray sky above.

  A long, low building ran along the drive to another barnlike structure—the stable and carriage house, presumably. Huge rosebushes clustered about the buildings’ knees. Beyond, close to the low wall that ran another fifty yards to a fenced sheep field, a wooden rope swing hung from a branch of a solitary grand oak.

  “It’s perfectly charming,” she whispered, although of course that was silly since the horse’s hooves were loud enough to be heard by a stable hand if there were one. She glanced at Mr. Yale. He scanned the house, his face sober.

  “Owen, go around to the back and make certain there are none here.”

  Owen disappeared at a jog.

  Mrs. Polley accepted Mr. Yale’s assistance dismounting. “We’re here now, sir. So what would you have us do?” She made a show of stretching her back, her squat round form like a tilting teapot, bonnet and cloak drooping. “It’d best be deserted or the poor souls that live here will have a sorry shock when they discover us soggier than stewed mutton on their doorstep.”

  “Stewed mutton sounds wonderful right about now,” Diantha mumbled.

  He smiled his slight smile and came to her. “Wishing for roast and shepherd’s pie?” He grasped her by the waist and drew her off the horse. The moment her feet met the earth he released her, but he did not move away and she was obliged to pretend to him up close that his hands on her hadn’t felt like heaven. Her knees and behind were wretchedly sore, but a tingle danced inside her now where he had touched her so deeply the night before.