“I can’t marry anyone.” A sob came from her lips. “I—there’s something…I mean to say…there’s an affliction I have.”
“Affliction?” Spence couldn’t imagine what she was talking about. Since meeting her, he’d not seen any indication of a physical or mental limitation.
“Yes. An affliction. I would make any man a terrible wife.”
Kelso mulled over that piece of information. Elizabeth was calm under fire. Stubborn. A bit reckless. Perhaps the handling of firearms might put off some gentlemen, but Spence found such a thing to be oddly arousing.
“So, you see, that’s why I wished to become a nun. Even the thought of dancing is enough to terrify me out of my wits. Mixing in society…all those people…well, I wouldn’t do well in such a setting.” She bit her lip. “I never wished to return to London. I hate London. Don’t you see?”
Spence did see. Anything which reminded her of Archie Runyon and Jeanette Reynolds made Elizabeth anxious. Those reminders would include gentlemen. Society. Dancing. Balls. London. No wonder she’d wanted to stay somewhere quiet and calm. He’d noticed the slight trembling of her fingers if he got too close. Archie Runyon hadn’t physically harmed Elizabeth, but he’d damaged her all the same.
“You are quite right about London. I’m not overly fond of the city myself, but it’s home,” he said lightly, mindful of the tears streaming down her cheeks.
“I wasn’t really very good at being a nun.” She sniffed. “I prayed I would feel the calling, but I never did. I’m a terrible cook. I can’t sing. I can’t tend to the sick. My skills are limited to bandaging.” She waved a finger at his torso.
Spence thought it best not to remind her that she hadn’t wrapped his ribs very well either. His beautiful little nun. A sudden longing, a need to protect Elizabeth, caught him by surprise, mainly because he’d only felt such a thing one other time in his life. Toward a puppy, of all things.
Damn it.
“You seem to be acquainted with pistols. Not a nun-like skill, to be sure, but still a useful one.”
“That isn’t a word, Lord Kelso.” She wiped her eyes with the blanket. “McMannish taught me. He used to be my brother’s valet and he lived nearby, on the Duke of Dunbar’s estate.”
Spence shifted at the mention of his cousin. Elizabeth had been at St. Albans living amongst a forgotten cluster of nuns at the edge of the duke’s estate. Spence had visited St. Albans several times when he was a lad. His life had been entwined with hers for years. He almost informed her of their connection but decided to wait, not wishing to interrupt her.
“After my sister…shot Archie, I begged McMannish to teach me how to handle a pistol. In case Mother came for me. Fat lot of good it did me.” She swiped at a remaining tear with defiance. “My mother is ambitious. Determined. If she means to give me to Langford, she won’t stop until she does. I will never be safe.”
“I will ensure that you are.” And he meant it. Spence would never allow Elizabeth to be sacrificed to her mother’s machinations.
Elizabeth crumpled into a tiny heap. “You can’t possibly guarantee such a thing.” She took a big gulp of air. “And even if I am safe from Mother, I will still have to…navigate society. I’m not capable of such a thing.” Her voice trailed off into a hiccup.
He moved to the seat, unsurprised to see Elizabeth jump in surprise, though she didn’t crawl back to the corner of the seat to avoid him.
She is learning to control her anxiety.
Gently he took her hand, marveling at how small and delicate her fingers were against his palm. She didn’t pull away from him.
“I will ensure your safety,” he said.
Spence took in her tear-stained face, humbled by the trust shining in those blue eyes.
She’s damaged, but not broken. Like me.
Her fingers tightened over his.
Elizabeth would marry Langford over his dead body.
12
The rest of their journey to the inn Porter had mentioned was in silence. After a few moments of comfort, Elizabeth had purposefully pulled her fingers from his and retreated. She now sat huddling in the corner of the leather seat, her face resolute as she watched the passing scenery.
Porter took a sharp turn down a narrow country lane. After driving through a dense patch of woods, they broke into a clearing surrounding a small inn. Only one other coach sat in the courtyard. A groom strolled out from the stables, arm raised in greeting.
“Where are we?” Elizabeth asked. Her eyes were red from crying and her exhaustion was evident, but there was no sign of distress as she looked at him. Only trust.
His heart thumped hard and then settled back into rhythm. “An inn, but not one of the coaching inns on the road to London. We are off the beaten path, so there is little chance we’ll run into your mother or Gustave.”
Or anyone else who may be looking for me.
Elizabeth hadn’t asked Spence any questions about the stop at the Wilted Rose, for which he was grateful. “We are taking the roundabout way back to London which means skirting the border for a bit longer. This is a good place to rest.” They were all tired. Porter especially, as he’d driven through the remainder of the night and early morning. “We need fresh horses and something to eat.”
Porter opened the door of the coach and Spence hopped out and took Elizabeth’s hand, ridiculously happy when she didn’t pull away from him. “Less chance of running into unsavory characters.”
“You are a bit unsavory,” she said with a hint of the saucy attitude she’d displayed before.
Another ripple of warmth scattered across his chest. His fingers tightened around hers.
“True.” Spence winked at her before nodding to Porter. “We’ll be inside.” He surveyed the grounds as they approached the door of the inn, but all seemed quiet. Porter would be on alert for the arrival of any other vehicles.
The innkeeper jumped out at their approach with enthusiasm. He was short and stout, the sun reflecting off his balding head. He ushered them inside with a wide grin, showing several missing teeth, his eyes roaming over Elizabeth’s gray novice’s habit in curiosity. He looked to Spence in question but wisely said nothing.
“A room, please, for me and my younger sister.”
Elizabeth stiffened at his side and Spence didn’t think it was because of the terrible pun he’d made at her expense. He squeezed her hand, still held tight in his, in a silent request for her to remain silent. Spence didn’t want to argue, especially in front of the innkeeper. Spence wanted a bath, a meal and then sleep. He looked down at Elizabeth and purposefully wrinkled his nose. “A bath for my sister as well.”
The innkeeper scurried off to arrange the bath and prepare the room.
“You smell of horse with an undercurrent of gunpowder.”
Spence lifted a brow. “You don’t want the bath?” He struggled to keep his lips from twitching.
“Of course I want the bath. But we should not share a room,” she countered. There were dark shadows under her eyes and lines of strain around her lips. The thick braid atop her head shone with a thin layer of dust.
Poor little nun.
“Agreed. But I need to ensure your protection. I don’t want to be too far from you should something occur.” He dropped her hand. “We’ve been in a coach together for two days and nothing improper has happened.”
Unless you count the rather terrible but highly erotic bandaging of my ribs.
“You are right, of course,” she said, her relief at having the decision taken from her apparent. She hadn’t wanted to ask such a thing, he realized, because it was rather improper. “You’ve been most considerate of my care.”
Did she have to sound so seductive? “Go up and have your bath,” he said in a brusque tone. “I’ll have a tray sent up and then you should sleep.” It was only noon or so, but now that they’d exited the coach, Elizabeth’s fatigue was even more apparent. “I expect you’re starving.”
The hint of a grin tugged at her lips. “Ye
s. That is one area you’ve neglected.”
* * *
Hours after leaving Elizabeth, Spence made his way back to the inn, his hair still damp. He’d had a bath of sorts. The inn only had one copper tub, which Elizabeth was using, so Spence had made do with a nearby swimming hole the innkeeper had directed him to. The water had been freezing but it was good to be clean. The swim had also doused his ardor, at least for now.
Porter had joined him, and afterward Spence had enlisted the driver to rebind his ribs. He’d done a surprisingly good job, even offering to make a poultice.
Spence had declined. He didn’t care to have Porter hovering over him like an overzealous nursemaid.
His driver, Spence was coming to realize, possessed many talents. Once they returned to London, Spence would need to hire staff, including a driver he could trust. And Spence did think he could trust Porter. If the driver had been sent to murder Spence, he could have let one of the men from the Wilted Rose do so and save himself the trouble. Instead he’d saved Spence’s life. So, he had offered Porter employment, agreeing to a salary while the driver had demolished three bowls of beef stew.
Porter had to have been a soldier at some point. The marksmanship he displayed, along with the offer of the poultice and the expert bandaging of Spence’s ribs, pointed to military training. Usually the ministry arranged discreet but unskilled drivers under the assumption that it was best not to involve civilians. But Spence didn’t think Porter was in the ministry’s employ. There was only one other person who would have had access to Spence’s pickup location. He’d probably threatened Feathersmith at the ministry to get it.
“How long have you worked for the Duke of Dunbar?” He and Porter were enjoying their second scotch together.
Porter pinked to the tips of his ears and stopped sipping his drink. “I’m not sure I know what you mean, milord.”
“Come now, Porter. A man with your skills would be wasted as an ordinary driver, and the ministry isn’t known for hiring men who can hold a pistol. I know my cousin well. He likes to interfere.”
A deep flush stole up Porter’s neck to his forehead. “You weren’t supposed to know. His Grace,” Porter lowered his voice even though no one else was in the common room, “wished to make sure you arrived home safely.”
Which was a polite way of saying Nick was afraid Spence had a death wish. He should never have confided to his cousin about meeting the Belgian’s young son. Spence tossed back his drink and picked up a piece of bread Porter had overlooked. Spreading butter and jam across the top, he took a bite, allowing the strawberry to sit on his tongue. Nick was a nosy bastard. Porter likely hadn’t stood a chance. “You are forgiven your subterfuge, Porter. His Grace can be most persuasive. The devil often is, you know.”
If Porter was aware of the gossip which surrounded Nick’s reputation, he gave no indication. “Indeed, milord.”
Spence wondered how much he should say about Elizabeth. “The young lady is also being pursued.”
“By that giant footman with the bloody small head? Never seen such pretty hair on a man before.” Porter shook his head. “I had an inkling she was in our coach, though I wasn’t sure until the Wilted Rose. Saw her dart into the horses with that ogre following at her heels.” Porter’s eyes hardened like flint. “I wasn’t about to let him take her, so you know, milord.”
“Neither was I, Porter.” Spence’s opinion of the driver increased another notch.
“Milord, if you’ve no more need of me —”
“Shove off, Porter.” Spence waved the exhausted driver away. The poor man had been in his seat atop the coach with no rest. “I assume you’ve found a place to sleep?”
“The stables, milord.”
Spence looked at the small common room. “Surely you would rather sleep before the fire. Unless you anticipate being disturbed later? The inn doesn’t look terribly busy.” In truth, Spence was wondering how the place stayed in business with only two rooms to let and four tables in the common room.
Porter shook his head. “Doubtful. Old Scopes, he’s the innkeeper, only stays open to keep himself busy. But even so, the stables are where I’d prefer to stay. Nice and quiet. I want to be close to the horses in case of trouble. Not that I expect any. You have to look for this place, not stumble upon it.” He patted his stomach, rose and bowed to Spence before making his way out the door.
Once Porter left, the common room became silent except for the crackling of the fire in the hearth. If Porter was correct, the inn would remain near silent. There wasn’t even a barmaid. Scopes had served the food and liquor himself before waddling away.
Spence looked at the ceiling, knowing Elizabeth to be right above him. He’d spent the better part of the afternoon away from her, assuming she would appreciate the chance to reflect. Or pray. Surely, she’d learned something while living among nuns. He poured himself another finger of the scotch, allowing the terrible emptiness to fill him now that he was alone. He understood Elizabeth’s guilt because he lived with his own.
‘Did you know my father?’
Christ. Would he hear those words the rest of his life?
Spence looked up at the ceiling again. Perhaps his need to protect Elizabeth was born of some desire to atone for his past deeds. His own penance for the Belgian and his family. Spence didn’t form attachments, and refused to believe this tenuous need to take care of Elizabeth was anything more than a symptom of his guilt. Why he continued to obsess over the Belgian’s son was anyone’s guess.
Spence stood, a bit unsteadily, and made his way to the base of the stairs. He’d put off going up long enough. The sun was beginning to set, and his stomach was pleasantly full. The inn was quiet. Several glasses of scotch and the food had made him sleepy.
Grabbing the neck of the bottle, Spence made his way cautiously up the stairs. He passed an older woman, the innkeeper’s wife, bustling about, but no one else. The copper tub stood in the hall, dashing his hopes of accidentally coming upon Elizabeth in her bath.
Bloody unfortunate. Should have timed this better.
He reminded himself seduction would not count toward any amends as he opened the door.
A fire warmed the small, cozy room. The remains of a tea tray sat next to a large chair placed before the fire. Not so much as a crumb remained. A lumpy looking bed was the only other furniture in the room. His little nun was nowhere in sight.
A sigh came from the direction of the chair.
Spence halted, feeling the rush of desire course down the length of his body. There was no denying the attraction she held for him.
Elizabeth was swaddled in a tattered quilt up to her chin, sound asleep. A mass of ebony hair streamed over her shoulders and across the quilt. The late evening sun caressed the delicate contours of her face, bathing her in gold except for the dark brush of her lashes.
Christ. She was lovely. “Elizabeth.”
Spence was no stranger to beautiful women. He’d had many over the course of his disreputable lifetime. He’d liked most of them. Cared for a few in a casual way. But he’d never before offered any woman his protection. This aching awareness of Elizabeth was foreign to Spence. Though he hadn’t acted on his urges, Spence wanted her.
Elizabeth was young, though she carried herself with the bearing of a much older woman. There was no vapid, empty-headed twittering. No shy blushes behind a gloved hand despite her self-proclaimed affliction. She was a strange combination of intelligence, mulish determination and fragility. He could still see her elegant hands turn over the pistols, expertly loading each one. She’d been so bloody calm yet was panicked over attending a ball in London.
Desire throbbed in his veins making his skin prickle.
“Elizabeth,” he said again, this time more gently. Before he could stop himself, he brushed a finger through her hair. The dark tresses were as silky as he’d imagined. He wanted to thrust his fingers into the mass and feel the strands trickle across his chest.
Perhaps this was his penance
.
“Come, little nun. Time for bed.”
Elizabeth didn’t awaken. Her head lolled to the side followed by a quiet snore.
He wasn’t going to be able to resist the urge to touch her. Now that his ribs were wrapped properly Spence thought he could pick her up with little pain. He doubted she weighed more than his valise, which rested at the foot of the bed.
Sliding his hands beneath the quilt, Spence picked her up.
The top of Elizabeth’s head fell against his shoulder. She snuggled against his arm, sighing deeply as the tip of her nose brushed against his neck. The luscious mounds of her breasts bounced against his chest as he carried her.
It required an enormous amount of self-discipline to resist his baser instincts and place her on the bed without unwrapping the quilt. Especially when her hair spilled out against the coverlet, circling her head in a dark, seductive halo.
Spence longed to bury his face in the dark mass and wrap the curls around his wrist. He watched her sleep and clenched his fists to keep from touching her. Walking around to the empty side of the bed, he sat and took off his boots. He should sleep on the floor. A gentleman would.
Elizabeth turned in her sleep and one hand came out of the quilt and lay palm up on the bed in his direction, as if Elizabeth were beseeching him to stay with her.
Damn it.
As he stared at the delicate lines of her fingers Spence decided what should be done. He tried to convince himself his intentions were practical and honorable, benefiting Elizabeth far more than himself. A humanitarian effort of sorts. Atonement for past deeds. It had nothing to do with the streak of possessiveness that had suddenly seized him.
Spence gave a choked laugh. He couldn’t even convince himself he was that noble.
His solution would piss off everyone, but Elizabeth would be safe from Langford and any other bloody gentleman in England. And Spence would have his freedom.
He only need convince Elizabeth.
13
Still Wicked Page 8
