Stolen Away: A Regency Novella

by Shannon Donnelly

  She glanced at his team. At least they looked to be fast, and she could use speedy transportation to an inn where she might hire her own carriage. When the time came, she would just have to think of some excuse as to why they must part company. And she would have to hope she caught up with Fitzjoy and Chloe well south of the Scottish border.

  * * *

  Fitzjoy hired a farmer’s gig. A tawdry, narrow-seated carriage, its varnish faded away in spots, with a single dull-coated bay gelding put between the shafts.

  Sniffing back her last storm of tears, Chloe stared at the ugly vehicle and the long-earned, placid gelding attached to it. “I am not riding in that!”

  “So it’s walking you’d rather?” he asked, his smile back in place. He had come back whistling, driving the gig. He had paid off the coachman and sent them away. Now he wanted to usher her into that awful gig as if it were a royal carriage.

  She folded her arms. “I cannot be seen in that tattered vehicle in London.”

  His eyes danced with devilment. “Oh, you’ll not be, dear one. I’ll swear to that.”

  “If that means you do not intent to take me to London, then I—oh, what are you doing? Put me down at once! I said—ohhhh! Why, you...you...you ruffian!”

  Chloe struggled to right her clothes after being lifted from her feet and tossed onto the gig’s hard seat as if she were baggage. Before she could do more than straighten her evening cloak and skirts, Fitzjoy vaulted into the carriage and sat down next to her. If he had not already dismissed the other carriage and its drivers, she would have screamed to them for help.

  Turning, she started to rise to climb out the other side of the gig, but something yanked her back. She twisted and found that he had tucked part of her cloak and masquerade dress under him. He sat on the velvet evening cloak and part of her white and gold brocade shepherdess gown. With a sharp tug, she pulled at the fabric. It stayed where it was under his black evening breeches.

  He leaned toward her and smiled. “Sit still and enjoy yourself. It’s not far you’d be going, walking in those pretty slippers of yours, after all.”

  Folding her arms, she turned away to give him her profile. “I hate you!”

  She heard him cluck to the gelding and the gig lurched forward. “Do you now? We’ll see if you’re saying the same tonight still.”

  She glanced at him, put her head back, pulled in a breath, shut her eyes and let out the longest, loudest scream she had.

  The gelding startled forward at the screech, Fitzjoy cursed, his arm tightened around her waist and he dragged her to him, crushing his mouth over hers, his lips hot and his tongue dazzlingly clever. She half lay against him, her scream stopped, her breath ragged, her head spinning.

  He pulled back, and she opened her eyes. She stared into those black eyes of his dark, liquid, endless depths. His breath, as rough as her own, brushed her face. With a grumbled curse, he pushed her back onto her seat. “Behave now, or I’ll give you something worth screaming over.”

  Frowning, she stared at him, her heart beating far faster than the gelding’s brisk trot, and trying to reorient herself. The world seemed to have turned itself inside-out during that kiss. Had he not felt the same?

  Her lips still burning, she lifted one eyebrow. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  With his voice a low growl, he told her, “I’ve dared everything for you...” A quick warmth spread through her. She drew in a sharp breath. Would he kiss her again? He spoilt everything by adding, “For you and your fortune!”

  With a frustrated snarl, she hit him.

  He only grinned, caught her wrist as she started to draw back her hand to hit him again. “Ah, now, that’s enough of that if it’s a soft bed and a hot meal you want tonight. Otherwise, it’s an empty barn for the both of us and you’ll be spending the night wrapped up as tight as could be.”

  Jerking away from him, she folded her arms and turned to stare at the countryside. Tears stung the back of her eyes, but she would not allow them to fall. She hated him. Hated.

  But why could she still feel that kiss tingling on her skin? And why did she want to provoke him into kissing her again?

  * * *

  Audrey chattered. Arncliffe had not expected it of her. He glanced at the woman seated next to him, his lips pressed tight, torn between a longing to beg her for silence, a simmering amusement, and the utter pleasure of letting that voice wash across him. Thankfully, she had a low-pitched voice, as rich as wild honey.

  But two hours of any voice could wear, particularly when it rattled on about the proliferation of daisies and cowslip in the pastures, and the dazzling white woodruff growing under the oaks. She had also offered inane speculation on how long the blazingly fair skies might hold, and noted the charm of Finchley Common—which seemed more common than charming to him. She also asked odd questions about carriages they passed, speculating on their destinations, their speed, and how frequently one might wish to change horses to make the best time on the road.

  He could almost suspect she wanted to give him a dislike of her company. But why? So that he might set her down?

  At the Tyburn Turnpike, and the Islington tollgate, she had also put some rather odd questions to the gatekeepers, even asking one fellow, “Why you must meet all sorts passing through—even perhaps an Irishman?”

  The fellow had scratched his head, offered as he supposed he might, but no Irishman of late that he could recall. After Arncliffe’s groom tossed the tollkeeper the shilling and six pence to pass, he lifted the gate and waved them through. Just beyond Barnet, and near to twenty miles now, the village of Hatfield, with its posting inns and cottages, came into view. Arncliffe almost sagged with relief.

  Instead, he interrupted Audrey’s ramblings. “Do you care to take refreshments while I have the team changed here in Hatfield?”

  She glanced at him, clutching her bonnet with one hand. The breeze from the road had flushed her cheeks an attractive pink. “Hatfield? Oh, but this is where I am to meet Mrs. Fitzjoy. I had not thought to arrive so soon. Do please stop—yes, there at...at the Swan please. Yes, that is where I am to meet Mrs. Fitzjoy.”

  He glanced at her, fighting a smile. Obedient to her request, he gave his attention to getting his team into the stable yard. “I thought your Mrs. Fitzjoy lived a good deal north? And that she was ill?”

  Her voice seemed the faintest touch clipped with irritation as she answered, “This does seem a good deal north when one is living in London. And she will have a carriage waiting for me.”

  Halting his tired team—the horse sweaty and ready for a rest—Arncliffe let the reins drop. Joe, his groom, had already swung down from his perch behind the seats to go to the heads of the leaders, and the stable lads from the inn came forward to help unbuckle the harness.

  Arncliffe turned to his passenger, wondering what story she would offer him next.

  Instead, she gripped his arm, her eyes suddenly dark and intent. “Thank you. Thank you so much. But we must part ways here. Really, we must.”

  With that, she turned and scrambled down from her seat, taking her portmanteau with her. She strode into the inn, her head up and her back straight.

  He stared after her, torn between the desire to help her and the dictates drilled into him from early years. A gentleman never intrudes, never puts himself into the business of others. A gentleman respects a lady’s honor above all else, and never questions her. He could almost hear the platitudes in his father’s droning voice.

  And he was damn tired of following them. Particularly when this stubborn, independent lady looked to be deeply troubled by some problem.

  He swung down from his seat, gave orders to his groom to see his grays rubbed down, and watered—he would arrange later for them to be fetched back to town—and to oversee the selection of a new team. That done, he made for the inn. Was there really someone here to meet Audrey? And if that tale unraveled, what story would she spin for him next? It surprised him just how much he looked forward to discoveri
ng the next steps in this dance.

  After the bright sunlight of summer, the low-ceilinged inn with its wood paneling seemed dark. He paused on the threshold to allow time for his eyes to adjust, anticipation tingling on his skin. The scent of tobacco and ale drifted to him from the tap room, along with the welcoming aroma of meat roasting in the kitchen. The faint, low hum of the grooms’ conversations carried to him from the yard, along with the jingle of harness, and the clop of hooves on cobblestones.

  Over the noise from outside, he heard Audrey’s distinctive contralto, its tones rich and no longer rambling but sharp with command. “What do you mean you have no carriage that the likes of me might hire?”

  Arncliffe smiled. Perhaps now he might get a truer story. He stifled his smile and stepped forward, making certain to make enough noise to announce his presence.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Even before she heard the click of boot heels on the wooden floorboards, Audrey sensed Arncliffe’s presence in a prickling of awareness that swept down the back of her neck. She turned, her irritation with the innkeeper settling onto Arncliffe as well. Why must a single female be regarded as helpless or dangerous? These two did nothing but delay her!

  She caught herself on that. In truth, Arncliffe had not delayed her—but having to invent more explanations for him certainly would. And she feared Fitzjoy and Chloe were already too far ahead.

  Arncliffe swept off his hat, and swept the situation from her control. “A private parlor, if you please,” he said to the innkeeper. “And something cool to drink—lemonade for the lady. I’ll have ale.”

  The innkeeper bowed, bowed again as he hurried to open a door into a small parlor with sparse furniture and white curtains at the windows. After seeing them into the room, he bowed again and hurried off, attentive to Arncliffe’s orders as he had not been to hers.

  Insufferable, really, that a single female who wished to hire a carriage should be treated as a pariah, while a prosperous gentleman with an air about him could command the world. With her temper simmering at such injustice, Audrey strode across the room and sat down in one of the four wooden, straight-backed chairs.

  “I thought we parted ways in the yard, my lord?” The words came out sharp, and that, too, irritated her. She ought to be grateful that he had brought her so far in only a few hours. But she wished him anywhere else just now.

  He glanced at her, and she could not mistake the faint amusement in his eyes, nor the concern. That unsettled her. She did not want him being concerned for her. No, she did not. Busying herself with dragging off her gloves and undoing the ribbons to her bonnet, she heard his boots on the floor and the creak of the chair next to her as he sat down.

  “Miss Colbert—Audrey, it is highly improper of me to pry, but I am going to. Why do you need to fly north in this manner? I do wish you would trust me.”

  Brushing at the curls on her forehead, she glanced at him. He had taken off his hat, and his hair looked rumpled, as if he had just dragged a hand through it. Dust lay on the shoulders of his coat, turning the blue pale, and she wondered if he could be as thirsty and out of sorts as she. He did not look so, but he had ordered them refreshments, after all.

  Her displeasure faded. This must be nearly as frustrating for him as it was with her. If only he...

  No, she would not wish for it. He loved Chloe. She had seen how he looked at his intended. She would not do anything to ruin that for him.

  So what could she tell him?

  Wetting her lips, Audrey tried to compose her thoughts.

  Arncliffe waited. The advantages of his training, he thought, mouth twisting. A lord often spent long hours waiting. At court for his king’s pleasure. At Parliament through dull speeches for vital votes. In endless reception lines at the social affairs that commanded his attendance. He had the schooling to wait for hours—and for Audrey he could wait even longer.

  He had glimpsed the hesitation in her eyes, and that brief flicker of wistful yearning, as if he had almost tempted her into sharing whatever burden lay on her. She looked down to smooth the soft kid of her gloves and he wondered if she would insist on pushing him away?

  What a devilishly headstrong female.

  But, of course, she must be the one who managed everything within her family—a rather heavy responsibility for such slender shoulders. Her father had died years ago, he knew. He had seen how little her mother could get about. And the past week had been a revelation about how little sense Chloe seemed to have, even though he kept telling himself it must be wedding jitters that had caused him to see Chloe in another light. She seemed so different from the woman he had fallen in...

  He stopped himself. His feelings did not matter now. Not when he had promised himself to Chloe. A gentleman’s word could not be broken, and so it did not matter if Chloe now seemed not at all what he had thought her. A good lesson—even if learned too late—in the lack of wisdom in a speedy courtship. But he had though himself finally to have been as lucky as his brother.

  Well, no use brooding about it. He had another lady to think of at the moment.

  “This is all such a disaster,” she muttered.

  She said nothing more and he wondered if he ought to press harder for answers, only guilt stung him for having already stepped so far over the bounds he had lived within all his life.

  At last she seemed to make up her mind about something, for her gaze lifted to meet his. “I am embarrassed to admit this, but, well, I am running away. I am trying to catch up to the man I love. His name is Fitzjoy and he is an Irishman, and my Great-uncle Ivor would not consider a match between us. So Mr. Fitzjoy took himself away, but I am determined to catch up to him so we might marry.”

  And what I will tell him when we do catch up with Fitzjoy and Chloe is something I will have to deal with, Audrey thought, holding her breath and waiting to see how Arncliffe would take this new tale.

  His frown deepened. He will never believe this, she thought, desperation welling. But he nodded and took her hand, his touch as gentle as if he held some priceless object. She let out her breath. Oh, no, he does believe this of me.

  “No wonder you asked about an Irishman at the tollgates. Well, he must be a decent fellow if you hold him in such regard. I shall do all I can to help you—I did not wait all those years for love to appear in my life only to scorn another for such fancies. Now, just where is your Mr. Fitzjoy bound for?”

  She stared at him and stammered, “Scotland—I think.”

  “You think?”

  “Well, I—that is, he did not tell me directly, other than to say he was leaving. And I—oh, bother, I have no idea what direction he went off in. I am only following a hunch.”

  Rising, Arncliffe paced away, one hand rubbing his chin. “Pardon me for a moment,” he said and let himself out of the room.

  Audrey leaned back in her chair and rubbed the spot between her eyebrows with two fingers. She had not known that inventing tales could be so taxing. Would she ever keep all of it straight? Her face burned. Oh, how could she tell such falsehoods? But she knew how. She glanced at the doorway. She could do it for Arncliffe—for his happiness. Straightening, she started to work out just what she might possibly do when they caught up to Fitzjoy. If they did.

  The maid—a white apron over her blue muslin dress—knocked and came in with a brass tray that held a pewter jar and mug, a glass, and a pottery pitcher. The lemonade and ale, Audrey assumed. She gave an absent thanks and kept worrying.

  By the time Arncliffe returned, she still had no plan—only a growing sense of desperation, as if she had wound herself so tightly in sheets during a dream that she could no longer move.

  Only that was silly.

  To prove it so, she sat up and poured the drinks—kept cold in an ice house before they had been brought in, she assumed, or in the cellar—as Arncliffe outlined what he had done.

  “If he is traveling by carriage, which he must for any great distance, he also must change horses. On the road north, he wil
l most likely have changed somewhere between Barnet and Stevenage. At Barnet, I’d guess, for thirty miles with the same team would be a miracle unless he set a slow pace and took the entire day. I’ve sent grooms from the inn to find some trace of his trail, so it won’t be long until we’re after him in earnest. For now, I suggest we have something to eat.”

  Audrey tried to smile at this. When the roast chicken and pigeon pie and the peas in cream and strawberries arrived she tried to do more than pick at the meal. Good as it smelled, her stomach tightened on every bite. She now dreaded coming across Fitzjoy and Chloe.

  To make it worse, Arncliffe asked about her romantic tale. She had to invent a first meeting, the instant attraction, the painful parting. Hoping to distract him from wanting more lies, she asked, “But you said you had waited for years for love. Is that true?”

  His cheeks reddened and he glanced away. He looked back and admitted, “It unmans me to own to such a sentiment, but perhaps I can regain some ground by telling you that I had an example to envy. My brother’s. Or at least the wife he found himself. The titles came to me, but I’ve told Arthur often enough that I would change places with him in a moment.” He grinned, and suddenly looked years younger. “Of course, he’s not such a fool that he would.”

  “But you also found your ladylove,” Audrey protested.

  “Have I?” He pushed away his empty plate. “I thought so, and then—well, you know your cousin far better than I. Is it that...is she perhaps shy in my presence?”

  “Chloe? Well, no. No, I do not believe so.”

  “Then why does she seem a different person from the one in her letters—from the one I fell in...”

  A knock on the door interrupted, leaving Audrey wide-eyed and her insides knotted tighter than ever. Arncliffe came back, his expression polite as ever, but she noted the disappointment in his eyes. “Not a trace of him, I’m afraid. At least not toward Barnet. Are you certain he came north? Does it not seem likely that he might have sailed for Ireland, and so gone south or west to a port town?”