Flawless

by Carrie Lofty

  “I saw her at the train station,” Viv said softly. “That woman and her boys.”

  Reluctantly, Miles followed the line of her gaze and found the woman, large with child, seated next to a wagon wheel. Deep lines of exhaustion marred otherwise pleasant, rounded features. A blond bearded man of indeterminate age stood next to her in the wagon’s shadow and handed her a tin cup. Two young lads with their mother’s dark hair chased a lizard through the scrub and thistle, the object of both parents’ unflinching attention.

  A thousand questions came to mind regarding their circumstances. Yet Miles’s responsibility was to aid in managing a diamond brokerage, and his desire was to subject Viv to an unhealthy degree of sexual intimidation—neither of which included caring why a family would undertake such a hazardous journey. He snuffed out his curiosity like pinching the flame off a wick.

  The last pair of replacement horses was brought out by two burly stock tenders, men who could’ve been striding along the warp of an unfinished schooner in a Liverpool dry dock, knocking lumber and metal into a seafaring vessel. They appeared every inch British laborers, a disorienting contrast to the alien landscape that surrounded them. Only here, in seeing those men, did Miles begin to understand the extent of what it meant to claim the world for Victoria.

  Claiming. Just as he wanted to possess his wife.

  “I found myself surprised by the appeal of this place,” he said, voice low.

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say it has . . . appeal.”

  “Grandeur? Majesty? Pick a word, Viv.”

  “Perhaps I would, if I didn’t believe it prelude to a jest of some kind.”

  “No jest.” Never a man to be denied anything he set his mind to having, he caught her chin. “I just want to know what you think of our new home.”

  “It’s menacing.”

  He grinned and touched a lock of hair nestled around the lobe of her ear. “No, my dear, you’re thinking of me.”

  A startled gasp puffed her sweet breath against his skin. With the conditions so harrowing, he hadn’t shaved in three days—three days when she hadn’t even acknowledged his presence.

  She would now. And he would damn well enjoy her while she still belonged to him.

  Tension that constricted his ribs, building across days and months and an entire year, flooded into his kiss. Heady, succulent pleasure swept through his brain before settling in his blood. Fire lit him from the inside out. She pushed flat palms against his chest, but he was not done taking. Soft lips molded beneath the pressure of his mouth, then to the press of his tongue. She tasted saltier than he remembered, not so sugar sweet and untouchable. This was a woman who would fight him, and on that high desert plateau with the hot wind on his face, he craved her vigor.

  She gave it to him, almost reluctantly. Slender fingers slipped from his chest to his biceps and squeezed. Miles seized that invitation and pulled her flush against his aching body. The elegant arch of her back was meant to be held—to be caressed while lying naked across the finest, softest sheets. He crisscrossed his arms up along her spine. The rigid whalebone of her corset kept him from the bountiful female flesh he desired, just as surely as her manners hid the vibrant woman who kissed with such passion.

  He wanted rid of all of it. Strip her bare of every defense. Make her regret that she’d ever thought to leave.

  “Miles?”

  The breathy quality of her voice quickened his pulse. His rigid cock throbbed with wanting. He desired only to grab a handful of her backside and grind their hips, to make her feel the power of his desire, but her blasted bustle covered her curves like a wire cage. Instead he slipped his tongue along hers, relishing the sharp sensation of her teeth as he dove deeper. Mysterious and hot and sinful, she let him in.

  A jolt of victory added strength to his arousal. Viv’s tentative surrender made him feel as if he’d already won the battle, barging past her forged defenses. All for just one kiss—one kiss more than he’d seduced out of his wife in a year.

  But then another hard shove.

  She edged from his hold, when he’d thought himself capable of holding on to her until evening fell, until her inhibitions gave way beneath cool night shadows.

  “Miles!”

  More desperate this time, a note of hysteria chilled his aggression. Viv’s face had turned ashen, hazel eyes flaring wide. Had his kiss fostered such a look of horror? He liked that idea no more than he liked caring what she thought.

  “What is it?”

  Although her reddened lips glistened with the slick aftermath of their kiss, her expression did not lose its dismay. She lifted a gloved hand and pointed to the north. “There.”

  A blast of prescient fear hit him like a furnace door yanked open. The purple stain across the northern sky that he’d assumed to be a cloud formation was, in fact, the dust kicked up by a dozen men on horseback. They rode at full gallop toward the way station. Splinters of sunlight flashed off drawn weapons.

  “Run, Viv. Now!”

  He grabbed her hand and tugged her down the shallow bluff. Her boots, hat, bustle, and corset—none was meant for a hasty retreat, but she kept pace stride for stride.

  “Men on horseback!” Miles shouted over the wind and blood in his ears. “Due north!”

  Guards atop the six coaches stood and peered toward the horizon. Understanding flashed across each face with the speed of dry brush catching fire. Armed with a shotgun, the man at the front of the procession began issuing orders. “All passengers, back in the coaches! Now! Men, take positions. Pickford, tell me who the hell those riders are!”

  A short ragged-looking youth with ginger hair scurried up a ladder and onto the roof of the way station. He lifted binoculars, but Miles didn’t waste time waiting for the boy’s conclusion.

  “Mr. Nolan,” he called. “Your assistance, if you please.”

  Adam appeared in an instant. He sighted the loaded chamber of his revolver. “Here, sir.”

  Viv was breathless, and she still held fast to Miles’s hand. “Where’s Chloe?”

  “Inside the second coach,” Adam said, pointing.

  “Find Mr. Kato and come right back.” Gratified by Adam’s lack of hesitation, Miles hurried his wife to the awaiting vehicle.

  He elbowed three well-groomed men of means out of the way to push her to the head of the queue. Grumbles were his reward but offered no deterrent. She turned to face him from the coach’s top step. The perfect array of hat and hair had been jostled to the point of ruin—nearly as disheveled as he had desired while they kissed. But that moment had shattered.

  “Miles, what are you going to do?”

  “Later I’ll tease you about your uncharacteristic concern for my well-being. Now, stay inside.” With the other gentlemen safely aboard, he slammed the door. Adam and Mr. Kato stood waiting. “Come with me.”

  Beside the lead coach, the guard with the shotgun was instructing a trio of similarly armed men. Miles recognized them as the brawny stock tenders. “Pickford says they’re renegade Boers. Mismatched uniforms and weapons from the Transvaal’s army. Raiders. Fifteen of them.”

  “How many men do you have to defend these coaches?” Miles asked.

  Cool blue eyes narrowed as he took in Miles’s appearance. “Who are you?”

  “Miles, Viscount Bancroft. You?”

  Suspicion slid off the man’s face, replaced by awe. “Wilkes, my lord. Hanford Wilkes. I’m head of security.”

  “Former military?”

  “The 15th Hussars, my lord.”

  “A cavalryman without a horse. Excellent. Now answer me, Mr. Wilkes. How many men do we have at our disposal?”

  “Nine, if we count young Pickford.”

  “I said men, not children. And I loathe those odds. Do you have weapons enough to arm my men here?”

  “Weapons aren’t the trouble, my lord.” Wilkes pointed to the way station. “We’re always fully armed. Probably another dozen rifles in there. It’s manpower we lack.”

>   Miles nodded, easing his nerves with every crack of his knuckles. But when his thumb touched his gold wedding band, his trepidation redoubled. He wanted to protect Viv, but how the bloody hell was he going to manage that?

  By doing whatever it took.

  “I’ll find enough fingers to pull triggers,” he said tightly. “You determine the best position for the coaches and the guards. Mr. Nolan, Mr. Kato—with me.”

  Four

  Viv gouged her nails into the velvet upholstery as the stage lurched. Chloe gasped and clutched tighter to Viv’s arm. “They’re moving the wagons into a defensive formation,” said one of the four other passengers. He was in his early fifties and wore a bowler hat, a fine twill suit, and a smirk. “These raiders try everything to keep prosperity and progress from coming to this land.”

  “Your pardon, sir,” Viv said, “but at the moment, they are keeping us from progressing. That should be our sole concern.”

  “A mere delay.” He waved his hand and set about stuffing tobacco into a carved ivory pipe. “Besides, should the worst happen and we never make our destination, Her Majesty will have no recourse but to wipe out the entire population—Boer or bushman, whoever they are.”

  Viv’s mind was still twirling. One minute she’d stood with Miles atop a bluff that overlooked what felt like the entire Earth. Kissing him. Holding him again. Wanting his bare skin pressed against hers. The next minute she huddled with her maid in a well-appointed coach, its shades drawn and its male occupants unbelievably resigned despite a cloying atmosphere of sweat, dust, and fear.

  “Such retribution is your comfort?” she asked the man in the bowler.

  He didn’t reply, not when the coach jerked to a stop and feet pounded on the roof. Chloe buried her face against Viv’s upper arm and muttered a breathless, indistinct prayer.

  “It’s the guards with the shotguns,” Viv said close to her maid’s ear. “Raiders would be shouting or firing.”

  “Quite right. I’m Charles Haverstock, by the way.” He removed his bowler and smoothed a sallow hand across a bald head shiny with sweat. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss . . . ?”

  “Viscountess Bancroft,” she said coolly, adding the slightest emphasis to her title.

  His eyes, made narrow by heavy wrinkles and drooping upper lids, opened painfully wide. “My lady,” he stammered. “Forgive me, I—”

  “I doubt this is the appropriate time, Mr. Haverstock.”

  A gnawing sense of claustrophobia made her want to rip out her hair and run screaming from the prison of that stagecoach. The elegant high lace neckline of her gown choked off what little hot air she managed to inhale. Needing relief—and her curiosity like a tick gnawing in her brain—she eased aside the window screen.

  “They’ll see you!” Chloe hissed.

  “Nonsense.” Viv managed a sense of detached composure. She had endured every day in London with just such fortitude. “They’ll be watching the men with guns, not the passengers cowering in here.”

  Shouts continued as the guards moved into place around the circled coaches. Nine men carried a variety of armaments, their expressions honed of determination. But where was Miles? And what under heaven could her wastrel husband do against armed horsemen? The surprising, protective sense of panic skittering across her nerves left her dizzy.

  If he died today . . .

  She shook her head, dislodging her hat. She unpinned it and handed it to Chloe, who promptly began to worry the beadwork off the flared brim.

  Time melted around them, slowing and lengthening until Viv heard every whorl of wind, saw every restless shuffle of men’s boots, heard every thump of oncoming hooves against packed ground.

  Fierce cries broke her trance. Shots exploded. A dozen raiders vaulted over the bluff, down toward the wagons. Smoke from gunfire and the quick kick of dust smoothed distinct bodies into a gauzy mass of movement, shadow, and muted color.

  From out of the cacophony came a low, loud command. “Hold steady! Wait for Wilkes’s signal!”

  Miles?

  Viv peered through the disorder and found him kneeling behind a wagon wheel, sighting with a leveled rifle. Adam, Mr. Kato, and even the blond tradesman occupied various points of cover. Each was armed. Their deadly expressions matched those of the hired guards.

  “Ready?” came a distant command. “Fire!”

  The raiders’ gunfire had been sporadic, but the barrage from the coaches’ defense came as a unified blast. Masculine screams answered, as did the squealing pain of downed horses.

  “Ready again! Fire!”

  Another barrage followed. Chloe shrieked, clamped her arms around her ears and doubled over, sobbing. But Viv could hardly comfort her maid, not when she watched her husband fire and reload. Hunting trips with his noble kinsmen had provided him with certain skills, but this was calm, collected violence done to protect innocent people. With her palm flat against her breastbone, she pressed to keep her frantic heart from bursting.

  “Fire!”

  At first Viv thought the shout was yet another command, one to bolster that unified defense. But cries strengthened. Then came the stench of smoke—not cigars or gunpowder, but burning cloth and leather.

  The coach is on fire.

  She choked on words that wouldn’t come. Even swallowing wouldn’t help, her throat feeling blistered and tight. She gave up on speech. With a fierce tug, she yanked Chloe upright and shoved the mauled hat out of her lap. The copper handle wouldn’t budge. Viv rattled the door and even conjured a few long-buried French curses.

  Haverstock pushed Chloe out of the way to get to Viv. “Let me.”

  But he hadn’t touched the hot copper before the lock finally gave way and swung outward. Miles stood ready to receive her.

  “And here I thought these accommodations were first class.” He hauled her down with one arm firmly encircling her waist. Whip held with his other hand, he’d slung a rifle over his shoulder. “Miserable is what they are. I fully intend to lodge a complaint.”

  They turned as one—as a raider charged their position. The world at the edge of Viv’s vision grayed, but she clearly saw the attacking man’s virulent expression. Teeth bared. Eyes narrowed. Pistol raised.

  She was going to die.

  Miles snapped his arm to the side. The whip snaked through the air with a crack as loud as the nearby gunshots. Again and again he flicked the coiled leather. The attacker’s horse reared back on its hind legs, throwing off the man’s aim. A bullet shot from his pistol but flew high overhead.

  Before Viv could protest, Miles pulled her to where a group of women and children huddled behind a boulder. “No, wait! Chloe!”

  A frown knotted his brow, then he nodded. “Promise you’ll stay here.”

  “I promise.”

  Of course he would grin. Even at a time like that, as if she’d consented to sharing the next waltz. But this Miles was a feral cousin to the man she’d married. He gave her waist one last squeeze before rejoining the fight at a full run.

  Viv remained by that boulder but kept him in sight—as if watching him would keep him safe. Another onslaught of raiders barred his way back to the carriage. With whip and pistol and hoarse shouts, he blended seamlessly with the trained guards. The head of security directed his men, while Miles organized the ragtag band of volunteers. He knelt beside Adam, shoulder to shoulder, and aimed a rifle. They fired in unison.

  What about Chloe?

  The burn of smoke and bitterest guilt throbbed in her lungs. If anything happened to her maid, how could she forgive herself?

  Rarely had she felt confidence in Miles. Maybe not ever. At that moment, however—unable to do anything else—she put her faith in her husband.

  Please, Miles. Save her too.

  As if hearing that silent plea, Miles handed his rifle to Adam. Bent low, he skittered through the fighting and returned to the carriage. Frenzied flames ate through canvas and leather and wood. Opaque smoke billowed heavenward. A raider without a horse charge
d behind him.

  “Miles!”

  But her warning went unheeded. The raider launched onto Miles’s back. A wickedly curved knife flashed in the sunlight. Viv’s heart lurched. She sank into the dirt, all strength gone from her trembling thighs.

  Menacingly huge but wearing a placid expression, Mr. Kato grabbed the raider with the ease of a mother lifting a newborn. He handled the man with no such care, flinging him against the carriage where he landed in a dusty heap.

  Miles was safe. For now.

  He reached the carriage door just as Chloe tumbled out. She hit the dirt on all fours, covered in soot and ash. Sparks and debris from the coach rained down and ignited Chloe’s dress. Miles simply swatted the flames, then rolled her onto her back. Mr. Kato stood nearby with a wide stance, his fists at the ready. Adam and the blond tradesman joined him as Miles gathered Chloe in his arms. The trio covered his retreat toward the safety of the boulder.

  Viv couldn’t breathe as they crossed the field of battle, just willing them to be safe. Her tongue tasted sour, like unripe plums. But her gaze alit on a sight that exchanged fear for vitalizing anger. Haverstock, that fawning toad, cowered beneath the luggage wagon. Had he really been so spineless as to abandon the coach before a woman? Was that what constituted civilization in Cape Colony?

  Not for every man, because Miles arrived at last. Breathing hard, eyes wild, he handed Chloe into Viv’s awestruck keeping.

  “Stay low,” he said simply. “I’ll come back for you both.” The raider must have made use of that curved knife, because blood trickled from a gash on Miles’ss collarbone.

  She smoothed hair back from her maid’s black-streaked face, but Viv couldn’t look away from her husband’s injury. “You’re hurt.”

  “When I’m done pretending to be a soldier, you can pretend to be my nurse.” He turned back toward his peculiar little army. “Capital work, men. Now we end this!”

  Viv stretched, arching her back as far as her corset and stiff muscles would permit. She smelled of smoke, sweat, and the primal perfume of a hard, hot wind. Two other women sat with her in the lengthening shadows behind the way station. Each tended to patients injured in the skirmish. Coated in dust and soot and muted expressions of shock, the women appeared unnaturally identical. Viv assumed she would look little different.