Rogue in My Arms: The Runaway Brides

by Celeste Bradley

  Anything except going back.

  CHAPTER 2

  When Colin at last drove the chaise into Brighton, he was exhausted and frustrated. Nevertheless, he nearly turned around and drove back to London at the sight of the sticky seaside crowds with their ludicrous swimming costumes and their whining, sunburned children.

  “May in Brighton. What was I thinking?”

  He’d been thinking that he would see the exquisite Chantal again, that’s what. Just the thought of her, so lovely, so sweet-tempered, so delicate, so very, very amorous when he had at last managed to worm his way past her modest and righteous morals—

  He gave the distracted and weary Hector an easy touch of the whip. Chantal awaits!

  Except, as it turned out, she did not.

  At the Brighton Theater Colin blinked around him at the empty, shabby velvet seats and the peeling gilt of the stage border—not quite as magical during the day, was it?—then turned back to the stout fellow who claimed to be the theater manager. Melody stood between them, one arm wrapped around Colin’s shin, gazing about her in awe.

  Gordy Ann, dangling limply from one sticky fist, seemed somewhat less impressed.

  “She isn’t coming back?” Colin asked. “Are you sure?”

  The man scowled. “Why do people keep saying that? She ain’t comin’ back, I don’t want her back, and she ain’t welcome in any other theater in the city!” He threw up his hands in an Italianate manner and strode away muttering resentfully.

  Colin’s knees felt wobbly as he slowly lowered himself to sit on the edge of the deserted stage. At least the theater was dim and cool, a welcome respite from the dusty road. Melody promptly deposited herself in his lap and rested her head on his waistcoat. Colin curled one hand around her tummy and dropped a kiss upon her curls.

  “Uncle Colin, I’m tired. I wanna go back to Brown’s. I wanna see Maddie and Uncle Aidan and my room and the garden and . . .” She went to sleep quickly, as she always did. Melody only had two styles: “go” and “unconscious.”

  Colin rather wanted to crawl somewhere and sleep himself. All this for nothing? The hours and hours on the road, the continuous stops to attend to Melody’s infant bladder, the hundreds of exhaustively detailed decapitations?

  For a moment he fervently wished he were scarcely three years old so he could fling himself down upon the stage and kick and scream in frustration.

  “No! I won’t go and you can’t bloody make me!”

  Colin looked up at the furious voice, automatically covering Melody’s ears from any further profanity. His action was not so much to protect her innocence as to limit her by now extensive vocabulary. There had already been a few embarrassing moments on their journey so far.

  From around the back of the stage came a small figure, stomping angrily in boots too large, swinging fists that were none too clean, and scowling with a face that apparently had only a passing acquaintance with soap. The person saw Colin watching and glared back belligerently.

  “What you starin’ at, you posh bastard?”

  Colin blinked at the miniature vulgarian in dismay. The creature couldn’t be more than twelve years of age, and a poorly grown twelve years at that. However, his large gray eyes showed the shadows of too many hardships and too few childish pleasures.

  Colin shook off his fascination. When had he begun to pay so much attention to children?

  “I’m looking for Chantal Marchant,” he told the boy. Why did I share that? Really, to someone who didn’t understand the past that Colin and Chantal shared, for him to come looking for her with the road dust still on his clothing . . . well, it might come across as just a tad—

  “Pathetic, that’s what!” The boy spat. Then he turned to face the direction he’d just come from. “There’s another fancy blighter pantin’ after Herself!” he yelled.

  Colin turned to gaze at the shadows behind the half-drawn curtain. He saw a dark figure bend gracefully, deposit something on the floor of the stage, and then stretch her arms above her head like a dancer. Against the backlight, he could see that she was slightly built but there was no hiding the fact that her bosom was lush and full. What a lovely figure!

  She lowered her arms and planted her hands on her hips. The pose only served to show off the narrow dimensions of her waist.

  Really spectacular. Colin leaned sideways for a better view. Chantal?

  A low, velvety voice came from that luscious shadow. “Leave the fancy blighter be, Evan. It ain’t his fault he’s an idiot.”

  Colin was so distracted by the sensual richness of that voice that it took a long moment for him to realize that he’d been slighted. In addition, the speech patterns were of an uneducated woman of no social stature, i.e., “not for him.” He blinked wistfully at that momentary fantasy as it seeped away.

  Still he couldn’t help await her entrance into the light. If her face matched that body and that voice—! Well, he simply might have to reassess his standards a bit.

  She stepped into the dusty daylight streaming in through the great double doors that stood open to the sea air. Colin felt a hit of disappointment. She wasn’t precisely unattractive . . . more like a bit plain. She had small, pointed features that did not fit his usual idea of beauty—though her large gray eyes were rather attractive.

  They matched the boy’s eyes, in fact. Her son?

  She gazed back at him for a long moment with one eyebrow raised. He suddenly had the uncomfortable sensation that she somehow knew precisely what he’d been thinking about her.

  Then she tossed a bundle to the boy. “Evan, we got no choice. Go ask the coach driver if he’ll let us sit on top for a shilling.”

  Evan smirked. “We ain’t got a shilling.”

  She turned back to gaze speculatively at Colin. “We will.”

  Evan, defeated at last, stomped his way from the theater, but not without a last resentful look at Colin.

  The woman approached him and stood there, looking down at Melody in his lap. “You’re lucky there,” she said, indicating Melody with her chin. “That age is easy.”

  The very thought of it getting harder made Colin’s spine weaken just a bit. “Really?”

  The woman gathered her full skirts and sat down next to him, letting her worn boots dangle next to his costly calfskin ones. “Oh, sure ’tis. Now she thinks you hung the moon. You’re her champion. When she gets a bit taller, she’ll suss out that you don’t know what the hell you’re doin’ and she’ll never respect you again.”

  Colin gazed down at the top of Melody’s head in alarm. “But what if I do know what I’m doing?”

  “Won’t matter. You’ll never convince her of it.” She shrugged. It did interesting things to the supple burden within her bodice. Not that he was interested in her—but he breathed, didn’t he?

  She swung her feet idly for a moment. “So . . .” Her tone was conversational. “You’re lookin’ for Chantal.”

  She was a bit too familiar for Colin’s taste. “Don’t you mean ‘Miss Marchant’?”

  Her fingers tightened on the edge of the stage but her response was respectful. “Sorry, guv’nor. I just thought you’d be wantin’ to know where Miss Marchant took off to.”

  Ah. The gambit, at last. Well, he had shillings to spare if she had information. “What’ll it cost me?”

  She slid him a sideways glance. “Five bob.”

  He snorted. “Nice try.”

  “Three, then.”

  “Shillings or pounds?”

  Her lips twisted in reluctant respect. “Shillings, then.”

  Colin shrugged. It was only money and she looked as though she needed it. “You have a bargain. Where is she?”

  “Not till you fork over.”

  He reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew three shillings. He laid them out in his palm and showed them to her. “You can see I have them. I can see you have something to tell me. So tell me.”

  Her eyebrows rose and she scoffed. “What, an’ let you walk awa
y leavin’ me empty-handed?”

  “Fine. I get three questions, then. I pay as you answer.”

  She examined his face closely, then shrugged resentfully. “Right. May as well start cheatin’ me then.”

  Colin nodded, amused. She was a peculiar little thing. “Why should I pay you for information? What makes you privy to Chantal’s business?”

  “Prudence Filby, seamstress and dresser to Miss Chantal Marchant, at your service.” She smiled and dipped her head elegantly. Damn, she was graceful. Too bad she was so plain. And common. And had the boy . . . well, he was here for Chantal, anyway.

  He dropped one shilling into her outstretched palm. “See, I am a gentleman. I pay my debts.” She snorted at that. He went on. “Second question . . .” An image of the boy crossed his mind. He looked so much like his mother, it was hard to see the paternal contribution. “Who is Evan’s father?”

  Wait, that wasn’t what he’d meant to ask!

  She paled slightly and drew back. “Why’d you want to know?”

  He cleared his throat and forced himself not to redden. “I’m asking the questions here. Who fathered your son?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “He’s dead.”

  “You’re a widow, then?” Why couldn’t he let this go? Perhaps it was Melody and how she’d been abandoned . . .

  She gazed down at her very clean, very elderly boots. “I ain’t never been wed.”

  An awkward silence stretched. “Right. None of my business.”

  She gave him a sideways glance, her lips twisting. “He’s me younger brother, guv.”

  She was laughing at him. “Ah . . . my apologies.” He dropped the shilling into her hand, feeling like a heel. That’s what he got for prying.

  “Third question . . . where is Chantal now?”

  She shrugged. “Can’t tell you that. She wouldn’t tell anyone, would she, all the money she owes about town?”

  Chantal had debts. Surprising, considering how she’d always been showered with luxury by every man she’d so much as smiled at.

  Yet . . .

  The money stopped coming.

  Melody’s nurse had turned her over to Brown’s Club for Distinguished Gentlemen because she was no longer being paid. Debt, especially the must-flee-town sort of debt, would explain much about Melody’s situation.

  Even the timing of it all aligned.

  Miss Filby was still talking. “. . . but I know who she run off with.”

  “She ran away with some . . . man?” Colin felt a jolt of jealousy. “Who?”

  “Lord Bertram Ardmore. Him with the pink weskits.”

  “Lord Bertie?” Melody shifted in his lap so he dropped his tone to an outraged whisper. “That sniveling pup?”

  She shrugged and held out her hand. “Chantal said they looked beau’iful together.”

  No longer interested in correcting her familiar manner, Colin seethed as he dropped the last shilling in her hand. “ ‘Purty Bertie.’ My God.”

  The clever miss climbed lightly to her feet and grinned down at him. “Don’t take it so hard, guv’nor. I happen to know Chantal ain’t really Lord Bertie’s sort. Too womanly, if you take my meaning.”

  “I know.” He closed his eyes and shuddered. “That’s what makes it so mortifying!”

  Miss Prudence Filby stiffened and her gaze turned cold. “Right. Off you go, then. You’d best hurry. She’s set her sights on weddin’ him straightaway.”

  Wedding? Chantal was actually considering marrying that . . .

  Then the full implication struck Colin like a brick. If Chantal was Melody’s mother—and he was becoming more convinced by the moment that she was!—then this was disastrous!

  What if Chantal married another? The best possibility would be that she would allow him to keep Melody, to raise her as his acknowledged bastard. It would forever curtail Melody’s future, that simple fact of illegitimacy. Even if he raised her in the grandest manner, Society would always be essentially closed to her.

  The worst possibility, the one that took his breath away with the pain of it, was that Chantal would take Melody away to live with her and her new husband. Melody would grow up calling another man her father, and for the sake of her social standing Colin would have to let her go.

  Forever.

  His hold on Melody tightened and she protested limply, her nap disturbed by his tension.

  If Chantal planned to wed another, then time was of the essence! Yet how could he continue to travel with Melody?

  Well, he would not leave her behind, no matter what. Would not and could not!

  Miss Filby turned away to pick up her other bundle. “I’ve a coach to catch, guv’nor. There’s no work for me in Brighton. Evan and me are going to London.”

  He blinked, remembering what she’d told her brother. “You’re going to ride all the way to London on top of a mail coach? In the changeable spring weather? You’ll die!”

  Gazing at the poor, small woman before him—a woman experienced with children, a woman who could help him find Chantal—

  Colin had a wonderful, marvelous, outstanding idea!

  “Melody and I have to keep traveling in order to find Chantal, but we’ll end up in London. Why don’t you and your brother come with us?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Pru froze as Mr. Lambert gazed at her expectantly.

  “I don’t know how much child nurses are paid,” he admitted. “How about that five pounds you mentioned earlier? Will that do?”

  Five pounds. She couldn’t believe it. I’m going mad. I know I’m going mad because I’m going to accept this strange man’s offer.

  She clenched her jaw shut against the words of agreement that threatened to leave her lips. She wrapped her fingers about the shillings in her pocket. Three shillings. If she were careful, it meant a ride to London and a week of plain food and safe shelter while she looked for work.

  Work that she possibly would not get.

  And even if she did, who could say if her employer would be any better than Chantal? Then the money would be gone.

  Five pounds.

  Riches. Bread and meat. A safe, quiet place to live with a real bed. Heat. Not for a day, not for a week, but for months. If she didn’t eat any meat herself, she might be able to stretch it into a year or more.

  Five pounds to keep an eye on one little child. Heavens, she’d been doing that for nothing.

  She gazed up at the handsome man before her. Who was Mr. Lambert? Men like him didn’t hire nurses. They had people who had people who did that. Men like him . . . well, she couldn’t honestly say, for she didn’t think she’d ever encountered a man quite like him before.

  Wide shoulders that blocked the light from the open doors. Towering height. Green eyes that danced with humor, then flashed with something deeper, something darker. Even his hands, curled protectively around the tiny little girl, were broad and manly, tanned with neatly trimmed nails.

  Very clean hands. That alone was something new in these environs. The tenderness in the way his fingertips came down to touch the little girl’s curls, as if to reassure himself that she was still there, made her swallow hard and look away.

  From somewhere inside her came the thought . . . He makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  And that wasn’t all. The tips of her breasts tingled at the way the corners of those green eyes crinkled when he almost smiled.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. Men like him couldn’t help having an effect on women. He likely didn’t even know he was doing it. Sandy blond hair and crinkling green eyes were simply the weapons he’d been born with.

  It was only too bad she’d had to come to battle without her armor.

  Take off my armor. Please.

  Now she was just being a ninnyhammer. He couldn’t be trusted. She’d learned long ago that no one could be trusted. She and Evan were on their own, as always.

  Furthermore, he was hiring a servant. He probably didn’t even think of her as a person, muc
h less a woman. She certainly shouldn’t be thinking of him as a man!

  She ought not to accept the job when he affected her this way. Then again, what did it matter if wages came from a handsome man? She was to be nurse, not mistress.

  Ah, best be sure about that. “What would me duties be, exactly?”

  He blinked. “Er . . . well, you would take care of Melody, and keep her out of mischief and . . .”

  She narrowed her eyes. “And?”

  He looked worried. “Can you climb trees?”

  A laugh broke from her lips. It certainly didn’t sound as if he were after a tumble, unless he fancied himself a carnival act. “Aye, I’m a fair climber, but Evan’s better.”

  He brightened. “That’s capital!” He gazed down at the pretty baby sleeping in his arms. “Melody is quite ambitious . . . er . . . vertically.”

  A wisp of dark curl swept over the round pink cheek. The little one didn’t look much like Mr. Lambert. Of course, neither she nor Evan looked a bit like their father. They were their mother all over again.

  “If I may ask, sir, where is her mother?” What was a man like Mr. Lambert doing toting a child across the country while he searched for Chantal Marchant?

  He didn’t frown but the smile slipped. “Does it matter?”

  Right. None of her business. She cared nothing for idiot men and their idiot obsession with Chantal. Pru lifted her chin defiantly. She would tend his child and take his money with a smile, though it was five times too much. She quelled her conscience. Evidently he could spare it and Evan needed so much more than she’d been able to give him.

  Five pounds and transport to London, albeit roundabout. Not to mention the possibility of finding Chantal and twisting her arm until she paid what she owed. Pru smiled grimly. That alone would make it worthwhile.

  She stuck out her hand. “Then I think we’re havin’ a deal, sir.”

  Colin answered her grip automatically, though he was not in the habit of shaking hands with women. When her warm palm met his, he blinked in surprise as a jolt when through him. Her callused grip was firm but her hand was small in his larger one. The surprise came from the fact that he couldn’t seem to let her go. For a long moment, they stayed like that, hand in hand, green gaze locked to gray.