Stolen Away: A Regency Novella

by Shannon Donnelly

  “Even if that love should prove to be in vain?”

  “Oh, there is always a lesson to be learned, a gift waiting to be discovered even in the most heart-wrenching of loves—and so how could that prove worthless? No, the sadness, I believe, is only to find oneself incapable of love. That would be an empty life. But we are wasting time, my l—Connor.”

  Her smile widened as she said his name and the urge swept over him to simply pick her up carry her out to his coach and take her away with him. A ridiculous idea, really. The Marquess of Arncliffe could never do such a thing. Not when he had promised himself to another. And not when hAudrey’s feelings were engaged elsewhere. But he found himself entranced by her words, by her low, throaty voice, by the hint of passion in her tone. Entranced and wondering why had he spent so much more time with her dazzling cousin rather than with this quietly attractive lady?

  * * *

  Life had to get better after this, Chloe decided, glancing about her as moonlight filtered into the barn.

  Not so much a barn, she decided. More a ruin. And not even a romantic ruin of an abbey or a castle. Just some stone walls, the faint smell of cow, musty straw, and a thatched roof that showed glimpses of stars and rising moon. She sighed—but Fitzjoy was not near to hear her. Or was he?

  After her tears had spent themselves, he had helped her to her feet, tossed her into the gig. He climbed up beside her and said not a word more. She had thought a few times about saying something, only each time she glanced at his face, his expression made her think that perhaps she really ought to keep quiet. He did not look a man who could be pushed any further.

  Mouth tight, eyes dark, he had kept the gig to country lanes, skirting past villages and avoiding the main roads. Dust had made Chloe sneeze, but she said nothing. She had sat with her hands folded, sniffling occasionally and giving deep sighs, but he had never asked about these.

  At some point, she must have fallen asleep, for she woke to find it dark and to find herself being carried in Fitzjoy’s arms. She had stirred, but he had laid her onto something softer than hard ground. A faint musty odor drifted to her, but she only wrinkled her nose and snuggled into soft fabric, drifting off again.

  Hunger had woken her. She sat up to find herself on a bed of straw, her cloak laid over it to keep the shafts from poking her. Moonlight streamed into the barn—or what had looked like a barn to her, what with the gelding dozing in a corner of the structure and wide doors open to show the gig in the yard of what looked a ruined farmhouse.

  There had been no sign of Fitzjoy.

  She shivered now and thought about pulling her cloak around her, but what would she sit on then? Besides, summer warmed the air around her. Night birds of some sort sang, and she could hear animals rustling in the surrounding woods.

  She could leave now, she supposed, but where would she go? She had no idea of their location. She ought to have paid more heed to their direction. But even if she knew more, she did not care to wander about the countryside at night.

  Her stomach growled and she put a hand over it.

  A soft voice drifted to her, startling her. “Is it a lion you keep tucked inside you?”

  She relaxed, relieved to have company—even his company—and to hear the pleasant lightness back in his voice. However, she forced a frown. She really could not display her happiness at having him return. But then she caught the scent of roast chicken.

  “Food! Oh, you wonderful man! I vow I would eat a lion if you had brought me one.”

  With a flash of white teeth he sat down beside her. Shadows obscured his face. However, he must have seen her pale hands for he took one and placed a cloth in it. She fumbled with the bundle, finding half a roast chicken tied inside.

  She glanced up at the dark shadow next to her. “Do you not have a plate? And I shall need a fork and knife, please. And something to drink—I would prefer wine rather than lemonade.”

  For a moment, he did not answer. Then he gave a low chuckle. “So would I, dear one. But what you have is what’s in your hands. And if you’re too much a lady to eat with your fingers, I’ll be glad enough to finish it for you.”

  She glared at him, but realized he could not see her doing so. And the bird really did smell delicious. “I suppose if you can do no better than this, I shall have to make do!” She bit into the chicken. Warm juices dribbled down her chin. She wiped them with her fingers and settled into eating.

  “Do no better?” he said after a moment, his tone aggrieved. “That’s not much gratitude.”

  Swallowing a mouthful of chicken, she said, scorn in her voice, “Yes, I suppose I ought to be grateful you rescued me from a marriage to the Marquess of Arncliffe. How awful that would have been to be obliged to be a great lady!”

  He gave a laugh. “And that’s to wound me, is it now? The thought of you married to a stuffy lord—as if you’d ever be happy with that.”

  “He is not stuffy. He is...dignified.”

  “A veritable boring paragon of virtue. And what would you be wanting with that? Him and his lot are things of the past, or they will be soon enough. Their kind thinks a man’s birth or the cut of his coat means something more than what’s in his head or what he can do with his hands! They don’t even see the revolutions changing the world around ‘em, and not just the political ones, mind. There’s fortunes to be made with new industries and new inventions. It’s the men of the City—the bankers, the merchants, the ones putting in manufactories and backing clever inventions—”

  “Such as that steam carriage in London which exploded a few years ago?”

  “That one failed. And perhaps the next will as well. But some clever fellow, he’ll get it right—if he hasn’t already. And that’s the fellow I’ll back with my money.”

  “You mean my money.”

  His grin flashed. “Yes, your money. But think on it—what would you rather be? A marchioness, married to a dull fellow, weighed down by a chain of traditions, suffocated by a world that tells you what you can and cannot do? Or one of the new leaders—the real ones, who has the freedom to make your own rules. With a husband who’s making you so rich that even those old biddies will come round to smiling at you and inviting you to all their affairs?”

  Chloe stared at him. She wished she could see his face better. Did he really think a title meant so little? The passion in his voice seemed deeply felt, and it stirred an answering excitement. How much fun to be a setter of fashion—to be someone who remade the world? Oh, it would be risky. Failure would mean ruin and ostracism. But had he not already dragged her outside society’s boundaries?

  She frowned.

  Of course, all this was bound to sound alluring, what with moonlight streaming into the barn and that soft accent of his making his words sound smooth as the finest silk.

  Bundling up the chicken bones in the cloth, she wiped her fingers as best she could on it and pushed it back at him. “You sound quite mad, you know!”

  His grin flashed again, and moonlight threw dim light on his profile. Her heart tightened as his words flowed over her. “Ah, but it’s a fine madness that stirs the blood—like that of a long, hot kiss that sears you through to your soul.”

  Face burning and mind empty, she turned away and wished she had some clever, sharp answer for him. Audrey would have had something to say. She had nothing. And the thought of her cousin made her think of her aunt. Tears stung her eyes again. Why had she not listened to them? Why had she not been a dutiful girl?

  She lay herself down on her cloak again, but she doubted she would find any rest.

  * * *

  Audrey decided she would have to tell him the truth. That’s all there was to it. She ought not to have lied, really. She winced at the stories she had told him. Well, perhaps, somehow, she could gloss over the fact that Chloe had gone willingly with Fitzjoy to something as vulgar as a masquerade. Perhaps Arncliffe would be angry with her, not with Chloe for seeking out Fitzjoy’s attentions.

  Taking a breath, Audre
y twisted in her seat to face Arncliffe.

  He had had a team of six horses set to his traveling chaise, and the closed coach—after a day already spend in his open phaeton—seemed luxury. Soft velvet cushions covered the seat and seat backs. Matching burgundy velvet drapes could be pulled over the glass windows. Roses had been set into the crystal holders beside the door, giving a faint perfume to the coach, and the lanterns outside the doors offered a pleasant warm glow.

  They had stopped every ten miles to change horses. “We will make the best time with frequent changes,” Arncliffe had explained. At two of the stops, he had confirmed sightings of a dark-haired Irishman who matched Fitzjoy’s description. However, for the past three stops, they had not had word of such a person.

  Now Audrey studied Arncliffe and wondered how best to disclose the truth.

  He sat with his legs stretched out before him in the spacious coach. He had tossed his hat onto the seat that faced backwards, and had sat, arms crossed, in companionable silence. Oddly, she had felt no urge to babble in the intimacy of the coach. He also seemed to feel no need as well to make conversation. But they must talk now—for they would need to start asking after not just Fitzjoy but an Irishman who might be traveling with a young lady.

  Taking a breath, Audrey let it out slowly. She hurried into the truth before she could think better. “I...my lord, I have a confession to make. I...I have not been completely honest. I am not following Mr. Fitzjoy because I care for him, but because he has abducted Chloe and I was afraid to confess this to you.”

  Staring at him, she waited for his answer.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  For a moment Audrey only heard the beat of galloping hooves on the hard, dry summer road and the creak of the carriage springs. The softest of snores reached her. The carriage rounded a bend and the lantern light from outside the coach fell briefly across Arncliffe’s face.

  Eyes closed, face relaxed, he stirred as the light drifted across his features, casting the rugged masculine contours into rough peaks and valleys, making him more startlingly handsome than ever. He did not waken. The road straightened, and the dim gloom of the carriage hid his features from her again. Still, she continued to stare at him. Did she not know already every line of him—the straight nose, that sharp edge of his jaw, the curve of his cheek? Her mouth twisted. Here she was disclosing her sins to a sleeping gentleman. She turned away to stare outside the window on her side of the coach, at countryside made into ink etches by the silver moonlight.

  She looked back at Arncliffe—at Connor.

  He must be exhausted to fall asleep in this fashion. After all, while she had rested at his house, he had been busy arranging matters. He stirred again as the moonlight slanted into the coach. She glanced at it, her mouth pulled down. Rising and steadying herself against the sway of the coach by bracing one hand against the back seat, she reached across him to pull closed the curtain. The coach gave a lurch and she fell back into her seat, landing next to him so close that her breasts brushed his arm now.

  He stirred and she thought he might wake, but he only shifted, turning so that his head fell onto her shoulder and his hand fell onto her waist.

  Muscles tensed, she held herself still. What now? Wake him? Push him away?

  His breathing deepened back into steady, rhythmic pulls.

  Experimenting, she pulled one arm from his hold. She tried to sift his weight. He mumbling something, and he did shift, but only to snuggle closer, so that his face now rested low on her shoulder and just above the swell of her breast. With a contented sigh, he seemed to slip into deeper sleep.

  Desperate, heart thudding, she wet her lips and glanced about her. But no one was here to see her predicament. No one would know.

  Lifting one hand, she bit down on the tips of her glove and drew it off. She brushed her fingertips across his forehead. He did not move. Growing bold, she brushed her lips across the spot where her fingers had touched. He tasted warm and sweet. She pulled in a breath, intoxicated with him.

  Longing swept through her, sharp, fierce, bright as the summer sun. Now that she had him in her arms—solid and real, and no longer a recollected story from Chloe—she knew that she had lied to everyone, herself included.

  She never really had intended him for Chloe. No, she had used her cousin shamefully. She had lived through her cousin, counting each success of her cousin’s as her own. She had chosen Chloe’s gowns, and selected the events for Chloe to attend. She had guided Chloe into her engagement to Arncliffe, and had convinced herself that it was because it was such a perfect match. She had told Chloe what to say. She had even written Chloe’s notes to Arncliffe.

  And she had told herself it would be enough to see him happy with Chloe. To see him settled with such a beautiful woman—a woman he loved. She had thought she could live as the indulgent second cousin to their children.

  But the longing ache inside mocked such intentions with the truth—she loved him. And it was not enough to give him to Chloe and watch him marry her cousin. But it would have to be so. He had given his word. And he was a gentleman.

  Shifting herself, she settled her arms about him, making him and herself more comfortable. She laid her cheek against the softness of his hair.

  The carriage rocked as the horses galloped into the night. For another night, she would keep lying. She would imagine herself to be as pretty as Chloe, to be as rich, and to be eloping with the man she loved, a gentleman accustomed to beauty and to having the best of the world.

  Come the morrow, she would stop the deceit, and Arncliffe might well be happy to turn his back on the entire Colbert family. But she would be greedy tonight and keep him in her arms.

  * * *

  Fitzjoy woke with a stiff neck, shivering cold, and to find his heiress gone. Jumping up, he glanced around the barn, seeing only the gelding, placid in its stall, and a black velvet cloak on the ground. He took it up and her scent swirled around him—lavender and rose. With a muffled curse, he strode to the door. Now what would he do? And what did she think herself doing, jaunting around on her own where any sort of devilment might befall her?

  He scowled at that. Perhaps she thought the worst had already happened—but he had not touched her. No, he’d wait for a proper ring on her finger first and all the legalities tied up for them in Guernsey, where a man might marry with as few ties as could be had in Scotland.

  However, there was danger afoot in this world. Half-pay English soldiers back from the war wandered the land with little to do other than make mischief, and they’d not be so kind to such a beauty.

  Muttering curses he wondered why he had ever thought Chloe’s lack of male relatives an advantage. Now he knew it for the disaster it was—she had never learned to mind anyone. Least of all a man. Well, time she learned.

  Striding to the gelding, he threw on the beast’s bridle and led the horse from the barn. With his luck, the nag would probably not be broken to saddle and would throw him, but the hunt for his heiress would be faster on horseback.

  He led the horse from the barn and stopped at the sight before him.

  She sat cross-legged in a patch of wild daisies, her skirt billowing around her, her shoes—pretty, dainty things fashioned with low heels after those of last century—next to her. Even in her rumpled brocade overskirt, her curls tumbled lose, she looked fresh as the dawn itself.

  His irritation sharpened. What was she doing giving him such a start? Frowning, he dropped the reins, leaving the gelding to graze and strode to her. “And what do you think you might be doing here all on your own?”

  She glanced up, her expression calm. His heart seemed to stop for an instant. Mother Mary, but she was a beauty, with that spun-gold hair and that heart-shaped face and those wide, wide blue eyes. She looked like the dawn, right enough, all pink and golden and soft blues.

  “I am resigning myself,” she said.

  “Resigning now, is it?”

  “To marriage with you. We have spent the night together—however
chaste.”

  His frown deepened. “It’s not rape I’m after.”

  “No, you made it quite clear you want my fortune, not my person. Therefore, I shall marry you, for my reputation is in ruins if I do not. You may have my money and I shall go to a nunnery.”

  He couldn’t stop the grin. “A nunnery? You’d be trying to take the veil as Christ’s bride, would you? You’d not be an hour in any cloister before you caused so much trouble they’d want you packed and gone from their hallowed halls.”

  Her chin came up. For a moment, the blue eyes sparkled. She turned to pick a daisy. “I do not expect to become a nun, merely to seek refuge from an unkind world.”

  He almost laughed at such melodrama, but the tremor in her voice checked his mockery and he stopped grinning. Throwing himself in the grass beside her, he plucked the daisy from her fingers. “Just how has this world ever been unkind to you? You’re an heiress—the most courted lady in London. That’s not sounding too unkind to my ears.”

  She glanced at him, hot scorn in her eyes. “What would you know of it?”

  Shrugging, he twirled the daisy. “What would I not know—I’m an Irishman in England.”

  Tilting her head, she studied him, and blurted out, “The other girls hated me in school—they always said such horrid things about me. And then my parents died...” She looked away, and added, her voice soft, “They called me an orphan, as if that was something awful. And when I went to live with my aunt and cousin—well, I tried to make them like me. I did. But I could tell they did so only from duty.”

  “And don’t you know why?”

  She shook her head.

  “Dear one, have you never looked in a mirror before? Any other woman would have to be a saint to look at you and not be jealous—and then it’s themselves they don’t like, first for not being so blindingly beautiful, and then you for making them feel catty about it. Men lust for you, and women hate you for it, and it won’t ever leave you much company, save for those who’ll stay by you long enough to see there’s a person under that face of yours.”