Lights were on in the house and she was gasping by the time they reached a shed beyond the main stables. Carmichael said, “Wait,” and released her hand. He opened the wide double doors to reveal two saddled and bridled horses. “How good a rider are you? If you’re inexperienced, I can carry you on my horse, but that will slow us down.”
“I can ride,” she said as she panted for breath.
“Then I hope you can ride astride since I didn’t have time to find a sidesaddle.”
“I’d love to ride astride!” she exclaimed. “I was never allowed to.”
“Then into the saddle you go.” He linked his hands to help her mount.
She hiked up her skirts, then set her left foot in his hand and swung onto the horse. It felt odd to stretch her right leg over her mount, and this one had a broad back. But once she settled into the saddle, the position felt natural even though her skirts were rucked up to her knees. As Carmichael adjusted her stirrups, she tucked her skirts around her legs, covering as much bare skin as possible, and crisscrossed her blanket around her.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked. “You can have my coat.”
“No need. Let’s be off before they come after us.”
Carmichael nodded and mounted his own horse. He led the way out to the road at a fast walk, increasing his speed when he saw that Sarah kept up easily.
There was enough moonlight to show the way and when they reached the main road, they moved into a swift canter. This time Sarah did laugh out loud from sheer pleasure. This was the sort of adventure she’d dreamed of—flying through the night with a dashing hero who had saved her from durance vile. It was so much more enjoyable than being pawed by smelly drunkards and fed a starvation diet.
At this hour, they had the road to themselves. They put a good distance behind them before a mass of clouds obscured the moon and reduced the visibility to near zero. As a light rain began to fall, Carmichael slowed his mount to a walk and fell back beside Sarah. “Well done, Miss Clarke-Townsend. You’re a game one.”
“Call me Sarah,” she said. “It’s simpler. You’re Adam’s friend Rob Carmichael, aren’t you?”
He gave her a curious glance. “How did you know? We’ve never met.”
“Not formally, but you attended Lady Kiri’s wedding. My sister pointed you out as one of Adam’s old schoolmates.” Sarah smiled a little, remembering how Carmichael had intrigued her. “One of the society columns in a woman’s magazine listed you as the Honorable Robert Carmichael.”
“The magazine was wrong,” he said tersely. “I no longer have a right to be styled that way. Call me Rob or Carmichael as you prefer. Honorable, never.”
He was no longer an Honorable? Restraining her desire to ask what he meant, Sarah said, “Rob then, since we’ll surely be well acquainted by the time we return home.” Having a quantity of questions, she started with, “How did you manage to find me so quickly? You’re based in London, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but Bow Street Runners take commissions all over Britain. Ashton gave me an open invitation to stay at Ralston Abbey whenever I’m in the area. By sheer chance, I was taking him up on his hospitality the day you were abducted.”
Sarah’s friend Lady Kiri would call that fate, not chance. Hands tightening on her reins, Sarah asked, “Is my sister all right? I left her going into labor while hidden in the crypt of an abandoned church.”
After a hesitation, he replied, “She was safe back at the abbey and still in labor when I left in pursuit of you. Ashton and her friend Lady Julia were with her.”
Though that was some comfort, Sarah had a nagging feeling that the birth had been very difficult. But not fatal. Surely she’d know if it had been fatal.
She was sending a silent prayer for Mariah’s health when her horse lurched, scrambled desperately for footing, then pitched over. Sarah went flying and landed with a splash in water that covered her head. As she thrashed frantically for air, strong arms lifted her head above the surface.
“Are you all right?” Rob asked sharply. “Any bones broken?”
“I . . . I don’t think so,” she gasped as Rob lifted her to a sitting position. She’d landed in a water-filled ditch, not deep but capable of drowning her if she’d been alone and unconscious. “Water and mud are softer than solid ground.”
He lifted her the rest of the way out of the water and set her on her feet, one arm around her waist for support. “Your horse lost his footing on the edge of the ditch.”
She leaned against Rob, every muscle in her body aching. “Is he hurt?”
“A lame ankle, but I think no worse. Time for us to go to ground in a nice quiet barn near here.”
Sarah nodded, shivering. A bitter wind sliced right through her saturated garments and she’d lost hold of her blanket when she fell. This time she didn’t object when Rob peeled off his coat and draped it around her shoulders. It fell almost to her knees and helped some, but she still felt like a block of ice.
“I’ll put you on my horse and lead yours to the barn,” he said as he helped her back onto the road. “It’s not far, perhaps a quarter of a mile.”
Rain was beginning to fall again. Sarah squinted into the darkness. “You can see in this?”
“I noted places that might be useful when I rode through this afternoon,” he explained. “Habit.”
The habit of a good Bow Street Runner, she guessed. When he helped her onto his horse, she could barely lift her right leg over its back and her fingers were so numb she couldn’t feel the reins.
By the time they reached the barn, which was at the end of a muddy lane, Sarah was shivering so hard she could barely stay on horseback. Rob unlatched the door and led the horses inside.
It was dark as the inside of a barrel, but getting out of the pouring rain and cutting wind was heaven. Sarah tried to control her chattering teeth and wondered wearily if she’d ever feel warm again.
“Time for some light.” Rob produced a tinderbox and struck a spark, which he used to light a candle.
At this season supplies of fodder were low, but there was a large pile of hay in one corner. Other than that, the barn was mostly empty except for some farm tools leaning against one wall.
A lantern hung from a hook in one of the overhead beams. Rob lifted the lantern and set his candle inside. The reflective tin behind the candle increased the light, though it wasn’t much for the size of the barn.
Sarah was half unconscious when Rob lifted her from the saddle as easily as if she was a child. “I’m going to do something that would embarrass you if you thought about it, so close your eyes and don’t think about it,” he said mildly as he set her on her feet.
She gasped, shocked awake when he moved behind her and started unlacing the back of her sodden, daffodil-colored gown. “Mr. Carmichael . . . ?”
“You need to get out of these wet clothes before you freeze to death,” he explained as he deftly peeled off her gown, leaving her standing in her saturated shift and stays and stockings. “Because I thought the journey out of Ireland would be simpler if you were dressed as a boy, I bought some used boy’s clothing in Cork.”
“As . . . as long as the garments are clean,” Sarah said through chattering teeth. “No, never mind clean. I’ll settle for warm!”
“You will be soon.” Still behind her so she didn’t have to look him in the eye, he stripped off her under-things and began rubbing her naked body with a coarse blanket.
It was the strangest experience of Sarah’s life. Someday she might think of this as wonderfully wicked. Now it was just . . . strange to be standing rigid and stark naked in a barn with a good-looking man and mostly thinking of how cold she was.
The friction of the blanket warmed her skin a little. He started with her back and arms, then her front, hips, and legs. She closed her eyes as he’d suggested. Think of the blanket, not the large, strong male hands moving the deliciously rough fabric over your tender bare skin....
The rubbing ended. Rob raised her arms
and dropped a boy’s shirt over her head. Made of well worn and often washed linen, the fabric fell smoothly over her torso and well past her bottom. Grateful to be covered and a little warmer, she turned to face him. “I trust you have more than a shirt?”
“Drawers, trousers, stockings, boots, and a coat,” Rob said, as unruffled as if he’d just rubbed down a horse. “Can you manage, or do you need help?”
“I can manage.” She accepted the stack of folded garments and scrambled clumsily into the drawers and trousers.
As she rolled up the trouser legs and tugged on the stockings, Rob unsaddled the horses and pulled a paper-wrapped parcel from his saddlebags. “Have some cheese and bread. Food is warming.”
Sarah pounced on the packet and tore it open greedily. The bread and cheese had been sliced into small pieces so she didn’t have to waste time tearing it up. “This is the best cheese I’ve ever eaten,” she said reverently as she put a second chunk of cheese on a slab of bread. “The bread is really good, too.”
“Hunger, the best of sauces.” Rob accepted a piece of cheese on bread that Sarah handed him. “But Irish cheddar is fine, no question, and so is the soda bread.” He polished off the food in two bites, then turned back to the horses.
After putting hay within reach of both beasts, he examined the lame rear foot of her mount. “No permanent damage, but this fellow won’t be taking you anywhere tomorrow. We’ll have to trade him for another horse.”
Sarah bit her lip as she began to think beyond being free and freezing. “Will the abductors pursue us?”
“Very likely.” Rob began brushing down her horse with handfuls of hay. “I suspect the kidnapping is at least partly political. Did you hear anything to support that?”
“Yes, the men are part of some radical independence group. They wanted to get me to their leader without any damage, which spared me from being ravished.” She tried to keep her voice level and was embarrassed to hear a quaver. “I’m not sure whether they planned to ransom me to raise money for their group, or execute me as a symbol of the evil English aristocrats.”
“Would you have told them that you aren’t the Duchess of Ashton?”
She shrugged. “I doubt they’d believe me. I didn’t want to tell them that too soon because that might remove what protection I had. And if I’d told them as they were raising the headsman’s ax, they would just think I was desperate and cowardly. Feeble.”
The corner of Rob’s mouth quirked up. “You’re right, it would be hard to convince them you weren’t the duchess but her identical twin sister. Too much like a gothic romance.”
She wrinkled her nose. “So it is. Vulgar and implausible.”
“Life is often both.” He reached for a fresh handful of hay and resumed grooming. “Dressing as a boy to avoid being caught is also gothic, but practical. In that outfit, you’ll be much less noticeable than traveling as an elegant young lady.”
“Elegant young lady?” she scoffed. “I look like I’ve been dragged through a bush backward.”
“Which makes it particularly impressive that you still look elegant,” he said as he continued to groom the horse with the same brisk efficiency he’d used on her.
She frowned, not sure if he was serious, or had a really dry sense of humor. She was inclined to think it was humor, because she certainly wasn’t elegant.
After wringing excess water from her hair, she began finger combing the knots out, which gave her a chance to study her rescuer. Tall and lean and muscular, he moved beautifully, never wasting a motion. Though he had a dangerous edge, she felt no fear. She realized with a shock that as long as he considered her his charge, he’d protect her with his life. It was a humbling thought.
Yet he was a mystery to her. She wondered about his personal life. Did he have one? Did he have a wife or a mistress? Any family? He gave the impression that he needed nothing and no one.
Not realizing she spoke aloud, she mused, “What do you care most about?”
He looked up over the back of his horse and stared at her with cool blue eyes, his hands becoming still. His brown hair was wet and tangled and his face was lean and strong, like the rest of him. Despite his ability to fade into the background when he wished, he was a remarkably handsome man.
“I’m sorry,” she said, blushing. “That was an impertinent question.”
“True, but an interesting one.” His brows drew together as he thought. “I suppose I care most about justice.” He resumed his grooming. “Life and society are often unfair. Sometimes I can balance the scales of justice a little.”
It was an intriguing answer. But then, he was an intriguing man. “That’s why you became a Bow Street Runner? So you could uphold the law?”
“That’s part of the reason.” His voice turned dry. “Equally important is that a man must eat.”
Rarely did the sons of lords admit they must work for a living. She liked his matter-of-fact attitude even as she wondered why he was no longer the Honorable Robert Carmichael. But she didn’t want to ask another impertinent question so soon. “What is your plan for returning to England? If you have a plan.”
He tossed away the handfuls of hay he’d been using to wipe down the horse. “Make our way to the coast without getting caught and hire a boat to take us back to England. We don’t want to head straight back along the roads to Cork or Dublin. A smaller port might be better. Beyond that, we’ll just have to see how things go. Much depends on whether we’re pursued, and how much time we lose because of this fellow’s laming.” He patted the rump of her horse.
“At least the rain will wipe out any tracks we might have left.” She smothered a yawn, unsure whether fatigue or cold were stronger. “I’d best lie down before I collapse.”
He frowned as he studied her. “You’re still shivering. We need to use the oldest form of heating. Animal warmth.”
Confused, she asked, “Sleep with the horses?”
He grinned and looked far less intimidating. “With each other, in a very chaste way. We’ll burrow into the hay and I’ll hold you and we’ll both be warmer for it.”
Sarah blinked at him. In other words, she’d sleep with a man for the first time in her life, and a relative stranger at that. Oh, well. She was long past the stage of being shocked, so she just nodded and crossed to the piled hay in the corner.
She settled gingerly into the pile. The dry stems and leaves prickled a bit, but the hay was soft and sweet scented. With a sigh of relief, she curled up in a compact ball to generate what warmth she could.
Rob blew out the candle, then moved across the barn to join her in the hay. Even though Sarah trusted him to behave, she tensed as he stretched out beside her.
“Relax,” he murmured as he pulled hay over them both like a light, gently fragrant blanket. Then he tucked her against him, her back against his front. He was large and warm and comforting.
Sarah sighed with pleasure as she stopped shivering and began to unwind. There was nothing passionate about his embrace, only warmth and protection.
For the first time since Sarah’s abduction, she slept well.
Chapter 8
Mr. McCarthy’s kitchen looked like a war zone, with overturned furniture and smashed crockery. Flannery paced the length of the room, roaring at his battered and bloody troops. “The three of you let one man break in and carry off the duchess? You’re a bunch of bloody bog dwellers!”
Curran said feebly, “Me and Donovan was sleeping. He took us by surprise.”
“There were still three of you! And him not even carrying a gun.” He glared at Donovan. “Not until he took that fine pistol I bought you!”
“How was I to know the duchess would smash a cast iron skillet over my head?” the driver asked defensively. “I thought she was a lady.”
“She’s more of a man than any of you!” Flannery bellowed. “Her rescuer must be someone who works for Ashton to come after us so quickly. Wherever the two of them are now, they’ll be laughing their heads off.”
> “The damned fellow wasn’t one of Ashton’s men,” O’Dwyer said sullenly as he washed blood from his face. “I recognized him. The name’s Carmichael and he’s a bloody Bow Street Runner. One of their best.”
“A Scot?”
“Worse. An Englishman. Has quite a reputation for retrieving runaway heiresses and other delicate problems.” O’Dwyer grimaced as he explored the massive bruise on his temple. “Does a lot of special commissions for rich blokes.”
“Describe him,” Flannery ordered. “I’ll send word to Free Eire members along every road and turnpike from here to the coast. Carmichael may be a Runner, but traveling with little Miss Duchess will slow him down. Get yourselves cleaned up and fed. As soon as it’s light, we’re going after them. Remember, no duchess, no reward.”
“It was all going so well,” Curran muttered.
“That’s when you need to be most careful,” Flannery growled. “Remember, all we need is the duchess. The Runner you can kill.”
Reminding himself that Miss Sarah Clarke-Townsend was a client and a damsel in distress, not a sweet little armful, Rob concentrated on mutual warmth instead of her femaleness. Except for the small part of his mind that was always alert, he fell into exhausted sleep, grateful that she wasn’t the sort to have vapors. In that, she resembled her sister. From what Rob had seen, the duchess was admirably levelheaded and down to earth, traits Sarah shared, even if they both did resemble fluffy golden chicks....
He awoke with a burning erection and a soft female body locked in a heated embrace, only clothing preventing them from joining. His “Good God!” sounded at the same time as her “Merciful heaven!”
Shocked into wakefulness, they scrambled apart. Rob lay on his back and knotted his hands as he cursed himself. He was a grown man, not a hot-blooded youth!
Once more giving thanks that Miss Sarah wasn’t given to vapors, he managed to say in a level voice, “I’m sorry. I don’t generally seduce the females I rescue.”
Sarah made a breathy sound as if she was also clenching her fists. “I don’t think that was a seduction. Just . . . animal warmth in action. Because I’m very warm now!”
Mary Jo Putney Page 5
