Captain Corcoran's Hoyden Bride

by Annie Burrows

  But then a vision flashed into her mind of a deer, hotly pursued by a pack of slavering hounds, closely followed by the chilling awareness that dogs always ran their quarry to earth in the end. She could tell exactly how close the pack was getting already by the amount of noise they made crashing through the undergrowth.

  If she ran, they would hear her, and outrun her, and then …

  Think, Aimée, think! She had no chance of outrunning them. Not even if she was out in the open. But here in this dense woodland … well, she might run smack into a tree in this darkness. Or trip and fall flat on her face.

  But then … if she could barely see her way, then nor could they. Still half-crouching, she stretched her hands out in front of her and began to inch her way forwards, as quietly as she could, searching for the nearest tree. It would make an effective shield in this darkness. Her questing hands soon grazed against rough bark, and not a moment too soon. Her pursuers were closing fast. She straightened up to flatten herself against the massive trunk.

  And a slim branch struck her right in the face.

  She recoiled, her heel caught in a tree root and she went flying, landing upon her back so hard that all the wind was knocked out of her. The smell of damp earth and crushed bracken was like a hand pressing down on her chest, smothering her.

  She thrashed like a fish on a riverbank, desperately trying to gasp in air. At last, it went whooping back through her constricted throat, but with such force that she knew Captain Corcoran’s pack must have heard it. She could hear them all veering from their random search patterns and converging in her direction.

  And then it was no further use telling herself to keep calm. Wild panic had her leaping to her feet, but agonising pain, tearing from her ankle and up her leg, had her falling to the ground again with a shocked yelp.

  And it was all over.

  Shadowy figures encircled her, breaking ranks to allow Captain Corcoran himself to come striding through. He alone of the men had taken a few moments to provide himself with a lantern before setting out after her. He held it aloft now, the shadows it cast over his face making him look positively demonic.

  ‘What on earth possessed you, you damn fool woman?’ he yelled.

  He looked so angry that Aimée could not help emitting a frightened little whimper as she clutched at her ankle.

  ‘I told you I would wait for your answer until morning. Do I give you such a disgust that you must run out into the night?’

  He thrust the lantern into the hands of one of the men lurking behind him, and bent over her.

  She could not help cowering deeper into the bracken, the look on his face was so murderous.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ he muttered, ‘I may look like your worst nightmare, but wouldn’t you rather I carried you back to the house than one of my men?’

  She looked past him to the shifting shadows, imagining the hands of Nelson on her, or that one with the bow legs and splayed teeth, and shuddered. What choice did she have? She had hurt her ankle so badly, there was no escape now. With a faint moan, she nodded her assent.

  ‘Brace yourself, then,’ he sneered, crouching down and sweeping her up into his arms. Rain dripped from the ends of his long, shaggy hair on to her face, making her blink.

  ‘Just shut your eyes if you can’t bear the sight of me!’

  How could he mock her terror like this? Had he no pity? No, she whimpered, or he would not have lured her up here, hand-picked his accomplices … set the whole thing up so … meticulously!

  He set his jaw as he settled her into the cradle of his arms before striding back through the woods to the lane. Oh, God, he was so strong! The shoulder under her cheek was like a rock, the arms that held her against him bulging with muscle. She did not stand a chance!

  As he carried her back through the gateposts, it was all she could do to hold back the tears. How could she have been so stupid as to fall into his trap?

  The fear that had been her constant companion since she’d had to flee from her father had clearly addled her wits, as well as robbing her of her appetite and prodding her awake, night after night, with sickening visions of what the future held in store. It had escalated to such proportions that she could think of nothing but escape. Clinging on to the slim hope that if only she could get out of London, and away from her father, she would be safe, she had entirely overlooked the fact that men could be as wicked in the wilds of Yorkshire as they were in the gambling hells and back alleys of town.

  At least in London, she would have known places to hide!

  But now Captain Corcoran was carrying her into the house, and up the stairs, shouldering the door to her room open with barely suppressed fury. And for the first time in her life, Aimée felt real despair. In spite of all her cunning, she had ended up falling prey to the very type of man she had gone to such lengths to evade.

  It really was a case of out of the frying pan, into the fire, for he was bound to make her pay for trying to foil his plans.

  He flung her on to the bed and reared back, swiping the rain from his face with the palm of his hand. The way he had dropped her jolted her ankle, sending a fresh wave of pain shooting up her leg. She could not help wincing and gingerly trying to move it into a less painful position, though she did not dare take her eyes off his face as she awaited his next move.

  His mouth flattened into a grim line. He turned and strode to the door, leaned his head out, and roared, ‘Billy! Fetch some wet cloths to strap up this woman’s foot!’

  Then he turned and strode back to the bed, swiftly pulling off her sodden indoor shoes. Oh, how she now regretted not pausing to change them for sturdier boots!

  How she regretted so many of her choices.

  She swallowed nervously, then lifted her chin. She might be completely in his power, but she was a Vickery. No man would break her spirit!

  Her flash of defiance lasted just as long as it took him to reach up under her dress and untie one of her garters. She scuttled back up the bed so quickly her shoulders slammed into the headboard.

  ‘Stop looking at me as though I am about to rape you, damn your eyes!’ he snarled at her. ‘Do you think I would get any satisfaction from forcing a woman to endure my unwelcome attentions?’

  What? Breathing hard, she blinked up at him, pushing the straggling hanks of wet hair away from her face.

  And really looked at him.

  To her amazement, she realised he was not leering at her. There was not even the faintest trace of lust mingled with the scalding anger blazing from his one eye.

  He was not, she suddenly perceived, another Lord Sandiford, the man who, according to her informant, had started the bidding for her virginity. He would not have cared whether she was willing or not. On the contrary, Mr Carpenter had warned her that he would have enjoyed making her suffer as much as he possibly could.

  It felt like a reprieve. She was still in considerable danger, but having the threat of violence removed from the equation left her feeling weak with relief.

  As she slumped down into the pillows the Captain’s lips twisted into a sneer.

  ‘Though how on earth you could think that a skinny little half-drowned rat like you would be capable of rousing any man’s lust is beyond me.’

  He looked so full of contempt that her whole perspective suddenly changed. She was little more than skin and bone these days. Skin and bone, clad in a sodden, torn, stained dress, wild-eyed with panic, and her hair all over the place. Though earlier he had said he found her pretty, that had obviously been a piece of idle flattery, intended to win her over. Now that she had angered him, the truth was out.

  It set the seal on her humiliation when he said, ‘God only knows what Jago was thinking to bring you here. I told him to pick a woman who could at least look as though she belonged in society.’

  He bent down and yanked the wrinkled stocking over her rapidly swelling ankle, making her gasp with the pain.

  She thought she caught a look of remorse flicker across the Ca
ptain’s face, but it was swiftly replaced by a glare so fierce, she decided she must have imagined it. Particularly when he swore colourfully, and said, ‘It is your own fault! Now you won’t even be able to leave in the morning, like as not, which you could have done had you told me to my face that you did not want to marry me!’

  He turned away from her abruptly then, as Billy came in carrying a bowl of crushed ice, and a pile of what looked like somebody’s neckcloths. And so he missed her soundlessly gasping, ‘Marry you?’ The shock of hearing him speak of marriage was so great her voice had dried up completely.

  ‘Tell me what I need to do,’ he was saying to Billy, while she pressed one hand to her forehead.

  Aimée’s mind was reeling. When had he ever said one single word to her about marriage?

  Surely that proposition he had made to her, outlining his willingness to shower her with jewels and servants, had not been one of marriage? Why, it had sounded exactly like every single one of the many other dishonourable propositions she had received since her mother died.

  Could she really have just fled, in total panic, from the only proposal of marriage she had ever had?

  Or was ever likely to have.

  There had been only one occasion before, when she had thought she stood a chance of marrying, and thereby crossing the boundary that existed between her precarious existence and that of a decent, respectable woman.

  Young Mr Carpenter had professed himself wildly in love with her. He had written her odes, comparing her to ‘Beauty enmeshed by poverty’ in which her father figured as a bloated spider. He had declared he would be her champion, and took to following her father to some of the lowest haunts he frequented, in a vain attempt to put a brake on his downhill slide.

  Instead, he had returned with the tale so vile she’d had nightmares about it ever since. Lord Sandiford and Lord Matthison had only just begun the bidding when Mr Carpenter left the Restoration Club and ran to warn her she must flee.

  ‘Where will we go?’ she had naïvely asked him, assuming that the time had come to stop holding him at arm’s length and accept his protection, even though she did not love him.

  ‘Oh, but, ahh … d-don’t exactly have the blunt to set you up. Not right now,’ he had blustered.

  ‘Take me to your mother’s house then. Just until we are married—’

  ‘Married?’ he had squeaked, actually taking a step back and going pale.

  And she had seen that in spite of the number of times he had declared he would do anything for her, that anything did not encompass making the ultimate sacrifice of giving her his name.

  ‘N-not that I don’t adore you, sweet one, but … bring a man like your father into my family?’

  The scales had fallen from her eyes. When Mr Carpenter married, it would be to a fresh-faced, innocent débutante with a handsome dowry and a cast-iron pedigree, not the daughter of a pair of vagabonds whose escapades had scandalised half of Europe.

  He had fled from her lodgings, with the air of a man making a narrow escape, and she had finally seen that she would never have anyone to rely on but herself. Nobody would ever come riding to her rescue on a white charger. She was on her own.

  And so she had pocketed the down payment Lord Matthison had sent to ensure her compliance, God forgive her, and used it to go into hiding.

  That was when she had seen Captain Corcoran’s advertisement. It had seemed like the perfect solution. If she could persuade the man who interviewed her that she had what it took to be a governess, she could support herself, honestly, and in total anonymity. Or so she had thought.

  Billy brought the bowl and towels to the nightstand beside the bed. She closed her eyes while he gave the Captain detailed instructions about how to form a compress, and the best way to strap it on, shutting him out while she rapidly reviewed the only lengthy conversation she’d had with Captain Corcoran.

  Where, or when, had there ever been any hint that what the Captain was seeking was a wife? All he had said upon the topic of marriage was that his needs now were very different from the expectations he’d had as a callow youth. Naturally she had assumed he meant he saw no need to actually marry a woman he wanted to bed.

  Her eyes flew open in shock as the Captain applied the first, icy cold layer of bandages to her ankle. But then, this seemed to be a night for shocks. First of all in hearing him admit he had no wife or children, followed by what she had thought was an indecent proposition. And now finding out that he had been speaking of marriage. To her.

  She could still not quite believe it. She looked at him closely, not as a prospective employer, or a would-be ravisher, but for the first time as a suitor.

  And her heart turned over. His hair was dripping wet, and so was his coat. Yet he was selflessly tending to her injury before making himself comfortable. She had already discovered how strong he was, yet now his fingers were gentle as he deftly wrapped layer after layer of ice-cold cloth round her swollen joint.

  He was handsome, in spite of his scars, and strong and affluent.

  And capable of reining in his anger. It was a rare thing, in her experience, to see a man exercise any selfcontrol, let alone to such a degree. He had been furious with her. Completely furious. Yet even though he had shouted, and, yes, sworn at her, he had still managed to consider how she would have felt if he had delegated the task of carrying her back to the house to one of his men.

  ‘You’d better give ‘er some of this, too,’ Billy was saying, pulling a small brown vial from his pocket.

  ‘No …’ she whispered, shaking her head as Billy unstoppered what was clearly a bottle of laudanum.

  In a voice as cold as the iced water in which Billy had soaked the towels, Captain Corcoran said, ‘She clearly suspects that you are offering it only so that I can tear her clothes off and ravish her the moment she loses consciousness.’

  It was probably just as well she did not want to marry him. The woman affected him far more than he would like. It was not just that her beauty appealed to him, though God knows it did. Too much. Though he had railed at her, telling her she looked like a drowned rat, in truth she resembled nothing so much as a mermaid, with all that ripped grey silk streaming over her luscious little body. The image had started the moment he had seen her thrashing around in the undergrowth, as though she was unable to walk on land, with her hair flowing like so much deep-brown kelp down to her waist. And men, he reminded himself, got snared in such weed. It tangled round their legs and drowned them.

  Just as he was drowning in the reproach in those sea-green eyes of hers. The sight of her tears coursing down her cheeks had made him want to drop to his knees, and kiss that tiny, perfectly formed foot, and beg her forgiveness, even though he was utterly determined he would never let another woman bring him to his knees. When he married again, he would be the one in control.

  ‘No!’ she said again, this time pulling herself together and sitting up straight. There had been quite enough misunderstanding between them already. One after the other, from the very moment she had read that confounded advertisement! Maybe she could do nothing about the others, but this one, at least, she could nip in the bud.

  ‘The fact that I do not wish to take laudanum has nothing to do with you, sir. It is just that I prefer not to take it. It makes me feel so sick, and leaves me feeling so confused—’

  ‘You do not need to worry about keeping your wits about you,’ he bit out. ‘I have never taken a woman against her will, and I am not about to start upon one who has injured herself whilst under my care.’

  He straightened up to his not inconsiderable height, clasped his hands behind his back, and said, pacing over to the window, ‘Moreover, you need not worry that I shall importune you with repeated requests that you consider my proposal, since you find the idea so repugnant.’

  Billy, his head lowered, began to tidy up the scattered towels, bowl and the stockings the Captain had tossed to the floor.

  ‘In the morning,’ he continued, ‘Jago will
make whatever arrangements are necessary for your transportation back to the slums he plucked you out of.’

  ‘No, please,’ said Aimée, aghast to think of being sent straight back to London.

  ‘I find it hard,’ he said, not even breaking his stride, ‘to believe you would flee from the prospect of becoming a Countess, when you walked to my house in the pouring rain, thinking you were about to become a mere governess. Am I so repulsive to you? ‘

  Countess? Mr Jago had told her that he was a naval officer. Not that a man could not hold a title, as well as a post in the navy, but …

  He strode to the end of her bed, his large hands clenching on the footboard, and glared at her while Billy scuttled out of the door.

  ‘Not that it makes any difference now,’ he said in a tone of chilling finality.

  ‘Oh, but …’ she began, but he had turned away. His shoulders stiff with affront, he stalked from the room, shutting the door behind him with the exaggerated care of a man who would have got a great deal more satisfaction from slamming it hard.

  Aimée sank back into her pillows.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she moaned, curling up into a ball and covering her face with her hands.

  If only he had not used the very words Hincksey had employed when she had gone to him to request the services of one of his underlings, to forge her some convincing-looking character references!

  ‘Are you sure you want to go through with this?’ Hincksey had said, as he handed the documents to her. ‘It’s a miserable business, being a governess. You’d have a lot more fun sticking with me. And better conditions. You could have fancy clothes and jewels. Even set up your own house with servants, if you was clever about the way you worked your clients …’

  ‘Oh,’ she moaned, rolling on to her other side. No wonder she had jumped to the wrong conclusion, after the way her own father and that weasely Mr Carpenter had let her down.

  Especially after his admission that he had lured her to Yorkshire under false pretences!

  She rolled on to her back, thumping the counterpane at her sides. Yes, why had he gone to such lengths to get her to his house? Why had he placed an advertisement in a London newspaper that made it sound as though he wanted to employ a governess, when what he really wanted was a wife?