Miss Hastings' Excellent London Adventure (Brazen Brides Book 4)

by Cheryl Bolen

  “There now.” He spoke as if he’d just fed his dog.

  How could he be so casual when she felt as if she would explode with all these strange-but-wonderful feelings that threatened to overpower her?

  Her hands trembling, face flaming, she quickly disrobed, snatched her night rail and shimmied into it. "You can turn around now."

  He slowly turned. His gaze flicked to her, then he diverted his attentions to the other side of the bed from her. He sat on the bed, his back to her as he began to remove his boots.

  "Do men not wear night shirts?" she asked.

  One boot thumped to the wooden floor. He turned to face her. "Some do. My mother made all of us when we were lads, but as we grew older . . . well, I suppose men tend to get hot when they're beneath blankets. We don't wear . . . much."

  "Like last night? I noticed you only slept in your breeches. No shirt. I would have been cold."

  "The breeches were for your benefit."

  "I don't un-," she stopped, her eyes widening. "Do you mean . . . ?"

  "This subject is not fit for a maiden's ears."

  She wanted to cry out that she was a wife, a married woman, but she was too timid. She slipped beneath the covers.

  Moments later, he did the same, dousing the candle as he did so. "I shall sleep like the dead tonight."

  "It was very difficult to keep one's eyes open throughout the coach ride today," she said. "It seemed that every churn of the wheel was contriving to make me sleepy."

  "I felt the same. I will have no problem sleeping tonight."

  "I believe I should like to have a good-night kiss from you."

  He groaned. "Absolutely not."

  His words could have shattered her, but there was a lightness in his tone that surprised her. "Then you don't wish to be my best friend."

  "Best friends don't kiss."

  "Then what about wives?"

  "It's not as if you're actually . . ."

  "Your wife." She pouted. "I promise I will endeavor to learn to be a good kisser. I know I was mammothly disappointing that first time."

  "I don't wish to discuss kissing. I want to sleep."

  His words wounded. She wouldn't even say good-night to him if he was going to be such an ogre.

  * * *

  She was in a deep sleep when a pounding sound awakened her. Her brain was too foggy to determine what the noise was or where it came from. Cursing, Adam left their bed, stumbled to the door, and cracked it open.

  Who would be disturbing them at this hour? She bolted up in her bed, gathering the blankets to cover her shoulders.

  "So sorry to be disturbing you, sir," a woman said, "but a gent in the tavern says it's prodigiously important that he speak to you at once."

  "You must have the wrong room."

  "Yer Mr. Birming'am? Mr. Adam Birming'am?"

  "That's right."

  "'E said 'e's come from Lunnon. Something important about yer bank."

  Adam cursed again. "I'll be right down."

  Judging by how much the logs in their hearth had burned, she would estimate it must be around midnight. The candlelight flickered on Adam's lean torso as he slipped his shirt over his head.

  "Can I be of any help?" she asked.

  "No. Try to go back to sleep." He sat on the bed and attempted to put on his boots.

  She got up, came to him, then kneeled on the floor in front of her husband. "Here, let me help."

  A moment later, he was donning his coat. His hand on the door knob, he turned back to her. "I'll be right back."

  She had just slipped back into their bed when the door to their chamber opened.

  "You're certainly back - -." She saw that it wasn't Adam. A strange man with a patch over his left eye stormed into her room.

  "You have the wrong room!"

  He closed the door behind him and came closer to her. "No I don't, Mrs. Birming'am."

  Terror shot through her. Did the man mean to ravish her? She leapt from the bed and backed herself into a corner.

  Not the brightest move.

  He moved to her. Not tall like Adam, this horrid man was extremely muscular. And menacing. And she did not know how she could protect herself against him. If only she had a weapon.

  By the time she remembered Anne Fortescue's brothers' advice about kneeing in the groin, the man with the eye patch had completely backed into the corner with her. She couldn't have placed a book between them. Heartbeat stampeding, she fought him when he tried to tie a large sash around her mouth. He didn't want anyone to hear her scream. Her strength was no match for his. Her cries were successfully muffled.

  Good Lord, is he going to kill me? She suddenly remembered about all those mad men Aunt Harriett had told her about in wicked London. She fleetingly thought of the man on the horse who had followed them that day they went to Madame De Guerney's. Had he followed her to Yorkshire?

  He lifted her body off the floor and flung her over his shoulders. She tried to scream, but the cloth muffled her sounds. Hadn't Adam said he'd be right back? She prayed he'd come storming through that door and save her.

  "I'm getting you out of 'ere right now before yer 'usband gets wise and comes back."

  Chapter 17

  Where in the devil was the person who wished to see him? Adam went from one downstairs parlor to another, but each chamber was empty. Had everyone gone to bed? What the devil time was it? When he neared the tap room—the last chamber—he heard voices. Not as many as there had been earlier, but at least someone was still awake. There, he would surely find the man responsible for intruding on his sleep.

  Interruption of sleep aside, he could not help but to be upset. He thought of his bank as other men thought of their children. It had been his life for the past decade. What could have gone wrong?

  One aproned man stood behind the bar; two faced it. All three looked up when he entered the chamber, then they went back to their conversation without acknowledging his presence. That none of them attempted to speak to him told him none of them could be the man who sought him.

  He waited for a few moments. When no one tried to approach him, he approached the bar.

  "What would you like, sir?" the man behind the bar asked.

  "A woman whom I believe works for you awakened me a few minutes ago and told me that a man wished to see me downstairs on a vastly important matter."

  The bartender's bushy brows lowered. "Are you certain the woman was one of my staff? No woman has worked 'ere this hour past."

  "I'm not really certain. My name's Adam Birmingham. Has anyone been asking for me?"

  The man shook his head solemnly. "No one besides these two men has been 'ere in the past 'alf hour."

  The other two men nodded in confirmation.

  Adam exhaled angrily. What was he to do? His first instinct was to await the man here in the tavern.

  But for some reason he could not fathom, he suddenly felt compelled to return to the bedchamber he shared with Emma. Something told him she was in danger. At the thought, he raced from one dark chamber to another, then took the stairs two at a time. His heart raced—not from exertion—when he reached the landing.

  The door to their bedchamber stood open.

  He sped to the chamber, tore through their parlor, and stood facing their bed, sickened.

  Emma was gone.

  He fought against the optimistic hope that she'd gone looking for him. The dress she'd worn that evening still hung on a wall hook. She would never have left their chamber dressed in her night shift. Even if it weren't such a beastly cold night.

  His stomach went queasy. Fury slammed into him. Someone had abducted his wife. Good God Almighty, would she end up as her uncle had? At the thought, a pain as palpable as a sword tore through him. Involuntarily, he wailed.

  William! William would know what to do. He sprinted to his brother's chamber and pounded at the door. This was no time to be considerate of others. "Wake up!" he yelled.

  William, hiding his nakedness behind t
he door, yanked it open. "What the hell?"

  "Someone's taken Emma!"

  Lady Sophia shrieked.

  "I'll throw on my clothes." The door closed on Adam.

  Nick's door was thrown open. "What the devil's going on?"

  Adam moved to him. Nick had put on his breeches but was holding up the flap with his hands. "It's Emma. Someone's abducted her."

  "I'll be right there."

  A moment later, the three Birmingham brothers, now fully dressed, gathered in the corridor. Lady Sophia, most of her hiding behind the door, poked out her head. "It must have something to do with the man who followed us in London."

  Adam felt as if he could lose the contents of his stomach. "What man? You knew my wife was in danger?"

  "I'm sorry," she said in a shaky voice.

  "What did he look like?" Adam demanded.

  "We didn't see him. My coachman told us a lone man on a horse had followed us from your house to Madame De Guerney's."

  Adam winced. "Dear God."

  "Quick!" William said. "We can arm ourselves from the stash beneath my coach seats. I'll have Thompson come."

  William's valet was far more than a valet. He was the kind of man one wanted fighting on one’s side.

  While they waited for their horses to be harnessed, Adam asked the sleepy groom if he saw a man carrying a woman.

  "Indeed I did! When I 'eard the 'orse's hooves pounding away so quickly, I feared someone had stolen one of ours. I looked from me window. I couldn't see real good, but it was most peculiar to see a woman with such a little bit of clothing on such a cold night. And I coulda swore there was somethin' tied around 'er mouth."

  Adam's voice was splintered when he asked, "Which road did they take?" Poor little Emma. She might die from the elements—if not at the hands of the cut-throat.

  "They went south."

  "Back to London," William murmured.

  Adam was harnessing his own horse. He had to leave immediately—before something unspeakable happened to his wife. Just imagining how cold she must be made him feel as if he could weep like a woman.

  But this wasn't the time for weeping. It was the time for action. Cursing, he mounted and sped off, a sword at his side, a knife sheathed on his leg, and a musket fastened to his saddle.

  His brothers and William's valet—all bruising riders—soon caught up with him.

  * * *

  The horrid man who had abducted her had slung Emma over his horse as if she were a rolled-up rug. The blood rushed to her head. There was no way she could remove the cloth which silenced her because her hands were bound behind her with hemp.

  Even if it meant falling on her head, she was willing to propel herself onto the ground in order to get away from him. Once on the ground, though, success was not guaranteed, given her inability to scream.

  Before she could shimmy her midsection off the horse, her abductor mounted and spurred on the horse at a prodigious clip. To leap from the horse at that rate of speed would be suicide.

  She had initially been so frozen by fear that she hadn't even thought of her physical misery. But as they raced through the frigid night air, she became sickeningly aware of how brutally cold she was. Her teeth chattered. She felt as if the chill had penetrated into her bones. Her skin was in danger of frostbite. She had never known such discomfort. She might even die of exposure.

  Which was preferable to being violated by this odious man. It did seem odd to her that if he wanted to ravish her, why was he not doing so within minutes of leaving the inn?

  A chilling thought obliterated everything else. Perhaps defilement was not his intent. Perhaps her abduction was tied to her uncle's murder. Perhaps Ashburnham meant to kill the woman who was standing in the way of his ill-gotten gains.

  Fear paralyzed her.

  If her mouth weren't bound she could have asked the man with the eye patch where he was taking her. She could have asked him how much he was being paid. Surely Adam would pay him more for her safe release. She was certain of it. What a pity she was unable to talk to the disgusting man.

  Was he a killer? Had he been told to kill her?

  Tears came when she thought of dying so young. If only she had been able to capture Adam's heart before she died. If only she could have found herself in his protective arms.

  As their overloaded horse slowed its gait and her whole body began to tremble violently from the bitter cold, she fantasized about being back in the bed she had shared with Adam. How secure she had felt, how utterly content she had been. If only she could see him one last time. If only she could tell him how much she had come to love him.

  Even if he could never love her as he loved Maria, she knew in her heart that in some small way he did love her. He would be sad at her death.

  Now she wept. For her and Adam.

  * * *

  His horse pounding through the barren countryside beneath a moon obscured by heavy clouds, Adam felt guilty that he wore a greatcoat while his unfortunate wife had not even the warmth of a woolen dress. He prayed he would get to her before . . . before someone harmed her, before she perished from exposure to the cold.

  Not long after he left the inn's livery stable, his brothers and William's valet caught up with him. He prayed the four heavily armed men would be able to overpower Emma's abductor. He prayed that the vile man would take pity on his petite victim and cover her exposed body. He prayed they would not be too late to save her.

  The Birmingham brothers had always been able to count on one another in a crisis. Tonight, though, his brothers raced with the same abandon as he. It was as if each of them reacted as they would have, had their own cherished wives been in the same danger Emma was. His chest constricted. Having just begun to feel a deepening connection with his own wife, he felt all the sicker over losing her, felt all the sicker that he'd not been a true husband to her. How he wished he had taken her into his arms last night and made her his wife in the purest sense.

  He would give all his tomorrows to have that one night back.

  It ripped his heart to recall her telling him that he was her dearest friend. Now he wished he could tell her she was and always would be his dearest friend. He couldn't lose her—not now, now that he realized how very dear she was to him.

  Now that her very existence was threatened, he fondly recalled the many pleasant hours they had spent together. He hadn't enjoyed anything so much since he'd been a cricket-mad lad who had hated to see the sun come down at night. Every moment with Emma had been even more pleasurable.

  He regretted that he'd said his farewells to her each night at her bedchamber door. Why did I not try to be the husband of her heart?

  It only now occurred to him that his young wife was the wife of his heart.

  Rage tore through him when he thought of that man hurting her. Adam would kill him with no compunction. The idea of Emma being murdered made Adam feel as if his own heart had abruptly stopped beating.

  Adam wished like the devil he knew how much time had lapsed between her abduction and the moment he set off on his horse. It had to be nearly twenty minutes. He drew a deep breath. Twenty minutes' head start which he had to make up. It might take a few hours to do so, but his horse had to be considerably quicker than one driven by a man hindered by carrying a woman. Even if she was small.

  * * *

  All Adam cared about was getting his wife safe and warm. He knew he could count on William to do whatever it took to subdue Emma's abductor.

  If they caught up with them. He had no assurances she was even on this road. What if the man had taken her to a house . . . for vile purposes? Adam's blood ran cold at the thought.

  Turning his thoughts in a more hopeful direction, he believed if they were on this road Emma and her abductor couldn't possibly be traveling as fast as he and his brothers. So why in the devil hadn't they gained on them by now?

  He was getting discouraged, but when he saw a lone horse on the distant horizon, his pulse spiked. He rode faster. He soon knew with
sickening certainty he'd found his wife.

  When they got close enough for him to see the way she was slung over the horse, he thought she was dead. It was as if every organ in his body instantly shut down. Overwhelming grief numbed him.

  Then he saw her head twist around as if she were trying to glimpse at their followers. Thank God.

  He was bombarded with murderous thoughts at how inhumanly she had been treated. Her arms and legs were bare—in this bitter cold. As he drew nearer he saw that her slim hands were tied behind her back. If the fiend had bound her hands, why in the hell did he not allow her sit the horse? She could hardly have gotten away.

  And why in the hell hadn't the cur had enough compassion to at least offer her a blanket?

  Adam longed to turn the tables on the vicious man. Would he like to be stripped almost bare and forced to ride through a frigid night with the blood rushing to his head?

  That they were able to catch up with the vile man brought joy on several levels—first and most critical, Emma was alive. And the man must not have defiled her innocence.

  When they got close enough, William yelled out for the man to stop.

  Without even turning back to look at them, the abductor merely dug his heels into his poor beast's flanks. He had no intentions of either stopping or of giving her up.

  William was not deterred. Once more he yelled for the man to stop. This time he added, "If you don't stop, you'll be killed."

  Adam was startled. As complete as his own hatred was toward this man who had so abused his wife, he did not want him killed. They needed him. Adam was almost certain Ashburnham had ordered Emma's abduction, and they needed proof of that man's depravity.

  William was likely trying to scare the man. Adam must defer to William in this situation. William had vast experience dealing with unscrupulous men. Ashburnham was the only unscrupulous man Adam had ever met face to face.

  William's actions were so quick, Adam had no time to react. William's hand slid to the sheath in his boot and in one fluid move hurled a silvery knife toward the man's shoulder.

  Adam exhaled. William only meant to disable the man—not kill him.

  The man cursed. William's plan must have worked because the man started to release Emma.