Thorncroft glowered, a sharp retort burning in the back of his throat, but then he saw the splatter of bright red blood on her sleeve. “You’re hurt,” he said as all of his anger instantly gave way to concern. “You’re bleeding.”
She stared at him blankly for a moment before she absently lifted her fingers to her forehead. When she lowered them again they were slick with blood, drawing Thorncroft’s attention to the thin gash peeking out beneath her hairline.
The cut was no longer than the length of his pinky, but he knew better than most that appearances could be heartbreakingly deceiving. When he had found Katherine…
No.
He would not think of it.
“Do not move,” he ordered.
Clara blinked. “Where exactly do you think I would go?”
Their gazes locked and held, cold gray clashing against bright, distressed blue. It was insane, but Thorncroft suddenly felt compelled to reached inside the carriage, snatch Clara against his chest, and kiss her senseless. He wanted to taste strawberries on her tongue. Wanted to bury his hands in her wet hair. Wanted to lick and nibble every inch of soft, creamy flesh until she begged him to take her.
Bloody hell.
His jaw clenched as he battled back the overwhelming wave of lust that had surged through his body like an electric spark. Now was not the time to be thinking with his cock instead of his head. A young woman’s life was in danger and instead of playing the knight-in-shining-armor he was swooning over Clara like some addlebrained buffoon.
Pull yourself together, man.
Easier said than done when his mind kept betraying him with flashbacks to another scene eerily similar to this one. It had been raining then as well and there had been blood. Lots and lots of blood. By the time he’d finished dragged the broken, lifeless bodies of his wife and child from beneath their overturned carriage his hands and shirt and face had been covered with it.
“Are you going to help me or not?”
Clara’s voice, tinged with both pain and annoyance, broke through the dark haze that had settled over Thorncroft’s line of vision. With a hard, violent shake of his head he banished the past to the shadows and forced himself to return to the present.
“Is there anyone else here with you?” he asked roughly. “Where is your coachman?”
“He and my friend Poppy went to get help.”
“And they left you behind?”
Clara frowned. “Well you needn’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like they were doing me a grave disservice. I asked for them to leave me here.”
Of course she had.
“And why,” he said through gritted teeth, “would you tell them to do a stupid thing like that?”
Looking at him as though he were some sort of monster dragged up from the deep she said in a very matter-of-fact tone, “Well someone had to stay and look after the horses, didn’t they? I couldn’t very well leave them here all alone.”
Thorncroft closed his eyes.
The horses. She was more concerned about the bloody horses than her own life. What kind of woman was she?
One not quite right in the head, he decided as he ducked his shoulders and took a cautious step inside the carriage. It immediately made a loud groaning sound and began to slide deeper into the ditch. He froze, every bone and muscle locking into place.
“Clara,” he said slowly.
“Yes?” she asked, completely oblivious to the danger she was in.
“I cannot come any further into the carriage. My weight will send it into the ditch. Can you crawl out to me?”
“Crawl out to you?” More blood trickled down the side of her temple as her forehead creased into two perplexed lines. “Whatever for? I am quite content in here, thank you very much. Besides, I told Poppy I would wait for her. What if she returns and she cannot find me?”
Thorncroft wondered if it was physically possible for one to expel steam out their ears. “The nearest town is over ten miles away. It will take them at least two hours to reach it and another two hours before they get back. You’re shivering and you’re bleeding and you most likely have a concussion. You need help. I am here to help you. Now stop being so bloody stubborn and come out of that damn carriage!”
She frowned at him. “You should really work on your temper.”
The hell with it.
Moving with lightening quickness Thorncroft lunged inside the carriage, lifted Clara into his arms, and was back out on solid ground just in time for them both to watch as the carriage and everything in it collapsed into the ditch with a mighty splintering of wood and grinding of metal.
“Oh dear,” Clara said faintly, her blue eyes overwhelming her pale countenance.
“Stubborn brat,” Thorncroft muttered under his breath as he carried her across the road to where his own carriage stood waiting. The driver, now conscious, greeted them with a red face and a stuttering apology which Thorncroft waved off.
“Take us to the nearest doctor,” he said tersely before he climbed into the carriage and gently sat Clara down. Removing his greatcoat he settled it around her trembling shoulders as he studied her with a critical eye.
Her face was so white her freckles stood out like dots of ink splattered across her nose and cheeks. Her clothes were soaked through to the skin. Her hair was a wet tangled mess around her shoulders. She had a blank look in her eye, one that Thorncroft recognized as delayed shock. The urge to comfort, to protect, to shield her from the elements and keep her safe was so unexpectedly strong he had pulled her back into his arms and was holding her cradled in his lap before he quite knew what he was doing.
When was the last time he had given a damn about anyone, let alone a headstrong slip of a girl with hair the color of sunrise and eyes so blue a man could easily drown himself in their cerulean depths?
He could not remember.
Bemused by his actions and the strange weight he felt tugging at his heart Thorncroft nevertheless continued to hold her as the carriage began to move. He held her as the rain stopped and the skies cleared. He held her as her breathing softened and her head grew heavy on his chest. He held her as his own body finally relaxed and the demons that had been chasing him for seven long years made their first retreat into the shadows…
A muffled scream burst past Clara’s lips when she roused herself from the inky darkness of unconsciousness and realized she was sprawled on a man’s lap with her skirts pushed up and her shoes and stockings removed. Arms flailing and bare toes wiggling she struck out instinctively against her attacker and managed to get in one solid blow to the side of his jaw before he captured her wrists with one hand and encircled her waist with the other, fingers splaying across her ribcage.
“Stop it,” a furious voice growled in her ear. “Stop fighting before you hurt yourself.”
Twisting in her captor’s arms she managed to glimpse one side of his face. A stormy gray eye framed by a menacing brow glared down at her. His nostrils were flared. The half of his mouth she could see was twisted into a scowl. Recognizing that scowl - and that eye - she immediately stopped trying to bludgeon him over the head with her fist, but she did not relax. How could she when she was sitting in his lap with her dress rucked up above her knees and no memory as to how she had gotten here?
“Let me go at once,” she demanded. The hand holding her wrists together slowly opened but the hand on her stomach remained, making Clara intimately aware of just how close they were sitting. She could feel the hardness of his thighs through the thin fabric of her skirt. Feel the steady lift and fall of his chest against her spine. Smell the faint note of peppermint on his breath.
Her pounding head went fuzzy around the edges as she recalled their kiss in the middle of the stream. It was a moment she’d relived over and over again. One she’d clung to late at night when her eyes had filled with helpless tears at the thought of being forced to marry someone against her will. And now the man she’d dreamed about was here in the
flesh, looking every bit as angry – and devastatingly handsome – as she remembered.
“Have you calmed yourself?” he asked. When Clara nodded he slowly loosened his grip, allowing her to tumble awkwardly off the side of his lap. Righting herself, she quickly shook out her skirts before scooting to the far edge of the seat.
“How did I get here?” she asked, taking in her surroundings with wide eyes.
They were in one of the largest, most opulent carriages she’d ever seen let alone been inside of. Gleaming mahogany trim lined the walls. Thick velvet cushions the color of ripe peaches covered the seats. The floor was carpeted. The windows covered with thick curtains that had been parted down the middle to reveal a glimpse of the passing scenery.
Clara turned her head and caught flashes of rolling green and clear, endless blue. They were still in the country then. But hadn’t it been raining? She seemed to recall rain. Great buckets of it falling from the sky. She remembered other things too. The sharp crack of something breaking. Poppy’s high-pitched scream. A horse’s frantic whinny.
Her memories were fragmented into pieces, like pages torn out of a book. There were words missing. Sentences. Entire paragraphs of blankness.
She could only assume one of those missing paragraphs included how she’d ended up here of all places, separated from her maid and coachman and in the company of a man whose mouth she knew but whose name she did not.
“You mean you don’t remember?”
The skepticism in his voice grated on Clara’s already tender nerves. Of course she did not remember! Why would she be asking him if she did? All she knew was that one moment she’d been in a carriage headed for London and the next she was in a different carriage heading for heaven only knew where.
“Where are my shoes?” she asked, peering down at her bare toes.
“I threw them out,” the stranger replied matter-of-factly.
Clara’s mouth dropped open. “You threw them out? Why would you do something like that? They were the only shoes I had!”
He regarded her without expression. “They were filthy.”
“Which is why I would have cleaned them, not thrown them away!”
“I will buy you a new pair.”
“I do not want a new pair. I want my old pair!” In the back of Clara’s mind she recognized that arguing over shoes was rather silly considering she still had no idea where she was or where she was being taken, but it was the idea more than anything else that struck a chord deep inside of her. The idea that this perfect stranger had made a decision for her that he had no right making, even if it was about something so inconsequential as a pair of shoes. Would she never be free to make her own decisions? Perhaps her shoes had been dirty and old and badly in need of repair, but they were hers. Hers to wear and hers to discard when and if she so chose.
“I’ll buy you ten pairs just like them then. Although I suspect we’ll have to pry them off the feet of beggars.” He was silent for a moment, gray eyes intent as he studied her face. “Do you truly not remember what happened to you?”
Digging her fingers into the soft edge of the seat cushion, Clara wordlessly shook her head.
“Your carriage overturned in a ditch. You were by yourself when I found you.” His mouth twisted into something that vaguely resembled a smile. “You said you couldn’t leave the horses behind.”
Clara blinked. Even though she did not recall that exact conversation, it did sound like something she would say. “And then?”
“And then I carried you to my carriage. You hit your head which is probably why you do not remember much of the accident or what happened after.” His gaze slid to her hairline, prompting Clara to tentatively reach up and brush her fingertips against a rather large and painful lump protruding from the top of her forehead. “You slept through the entire night and nearly half of the day. Since your breathing was steady I saw no reason to wake you. We stopped at a local village but the doctor was out on call which is why I am bringing you to my personal physician in London. We should arrive in three to four hours.”
He was taking her all the way to London?
“No,” Clara said with so small amount of alarm. “We need to stop and go back. Poppy–”
“I left word at two separate inns that you were under my care. Your friend should have no difficulty finding you.”
“But what about–”
“I also sent someone to fetch your horses,” he said, anticipating her next question. “They will be brought to a local stable yard and kept there until further notice. No harm will come to them. I assure you.” Something in his gaze shifted and softened as he watched the myriad of emotions flicker across her face. Reaching between them he gently took her hand, thumb brushing across the delicate ridge of her knuckles. “You are safe, Clara.”
The words, so simply and honestly spoken, touched Clara’s heart. When was the last time she had felt truly safe? Not since Father left and never returned, she realized with a dull, familiar ache that resounded deep inside of her chest. And now here she was, away from the only home she had ever known, in the company of a man she knew nothing about, and she actually did feel safe. For the first time in a long time she felt protected. For the first time in a long time she felt as though she were worthy of being protected which was, at least to Clara’s mind, a very important thing indeed.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“You are welcome,” he said gruffly.
His gaze fell to her lips and Clara’s stomach muscles tightened in breathless anticipation of another kiss. Having tasted his mouth once she yearned to do so again. She knew it was wicked of her. Sinful, even. But surely something that felt so good couldn’t be entirely wrong.
There was a connection between them. Clara might have thought she’d imagined it had their paths never crossed again, but she felt it as strongly now as she had then. Something was pulling her towards him. Something light and heavy all at the same time. She knew he felt it too. She could see it in his eyes. In the dark flicker of awareness whenever he let down his guard and the faint dilation of his pupils when he looked at her lips.
Her lashes quivered down towards her cheeks when he lowered his head, but at the last possible second he abruptly pulled away and turned to face the window instead, leaving her staring at his tense shoulders in bewildered frustration.
What a conundrum her brooding rescuer was! Kissing her senseless one moment, demanding she never set foot on his property the next. Growling at her like some sort of half-tamed beast. Holding her cradled against his chest as though he never wanted to let her go.
Which was the real man? She suspected even he did not know, or if he did he had somehow forgotten. One thing was for certain: there was more to him than met the eye.
Yes, he was undeniably handsome and roguishly charming (when he wanted to be) and quite wealthy if his clothes and carriage were any indication. But there was sadness there as well. Oh, he kept it well buried beneath his cynicism and his biting remarks and his temper. So well hidden she doubted most people ever dared to look beneath the surface. But it was there. She was sure of it, for she harbored the same sadness deep inside of herself.
They were like two wounded birds, she and him. Life had been cruel to them in unimaginable ways. It had broken their feathers and snipped their wings. It had knocked them out of the sky and left them reeling on the ground. But when he kissed her…when he tangled his hands in her hair and held her against his chest as though he never wanted to her go…she finally knew what it felt like to fly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Thorncroft did not speak another word until they reached London. He couldn’t even turn his head and look at Clara, not when he knew that if he did there was a very high chance they’d soon find themselves in a compromising position.
Her dress, wrinkled beyond repair and still damp in some places, left little to the imagination, especially once she had removed his coat. The color had slowly returned to her cheeks, leaving them warm and rosy.
Her wild hair glowed like fire against her smooth ivory skin, tempting him to reach out and wind a tendril around his finger just to see if it felt as hot as it looked. Even unkempt and bedraggled and bruised she was a great beauty.
And an even greater innocent.
He had not made the common mistake of confusing enthusiasm with experience. While the sheer intensity and passion of their kiss had caught him completely off guard, he’d known the moment that he claimed Clara’s mouth with his own she had never been kissed before. A lesser man might have taken advantage of that fact. A lesser man might have done far more than kiss her. But Thorncroft was not a lesser man.
Short-tempered and brooding, yes. At times even cruel. But the sort of man who would prey on the innocence of a young beauty? No. He wasn’t that.
Or so he told himself which was why he had not let his ardor get the better of him despite the open invitation he’d seen in Clara’s bright, inquisitive blue eyes. Because she did not know what she was asking for. Not really. If she did she would have been running in the opposite direction as fast as her legs would carry her, not calmly sitting beside him watching the buildings around them grow taller and taller as they traveled deeper into the city.
Struggling to find a clear path through the crowded London streets the carriage slowly and steadily made its way towards Grosvenor Square where trees with small white blossoms lined the sidewalks and the houses were set back behind iron gates and manicured lawns. Eventually the driver guided the exhausted team of horses to a halt in front of a large four-story house with a rooftop terrace, crisp white shutters, and a front balcony overlooking Hyde Park.
It was not Thorncroft’s largest residence in town, but it was his most private. Until he sorted out precisely what to do with one Miss Clara Witherspoon it would be an ideal place to keep her. The last thing he wanted – or needed – were prying eyes and wagging tongues which was precisely what he would get if anyone knew he was keeping a young woman under his roof.
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