Rogue in My Arms: The Runaway Brides

by Celeste Bradley

  She tilted her head and gazed at him. “How odd. Your answer had nothing to do with . . . well, never mind. I wish you could have stopped him, as well. Did he die in battle?”

  Colin looked at the coals. “He might as well have. He’s been a ghost of himself ever since.” He let out a breath. Then he raised his gaze to hers. “What is your wish?”

  She let her eyes drop to where Evan lay sprawled boyishly in his bed on the floor. Colin followed her gaze. One skinny ankle, attached to an astonishingly large foot, stuck out of the blankets.

  “I wish I could have stopped my parents from going boating that day,” she said softly. “It was lovely out and they’d been invited by friends, but a squall came in the afternoon. The boat never returned to the docks at Brighton.”

  Colin nodded. “It seems like it should have been obvious that something bad was going to happen. It seems as if we ought to have known that it wasn’t just a quick jaunt to Spain to quash Napoleon.”

  “And we ought to have foreseen that there would be a storm on a beautiful day.”

  He approached her slowly. She stayed where she was, not shying away. She simply waited as he came close enough to gaze into her eyes. Her chin came up as he reached her and she gazed back at him.

  “I’m sorry you lost your parents,” he whispered. “You haven’t had it easy, you and Evan.”

  She raised her hand slightly. “I’m sorry your friend suffered. I hope he comes back to you someday.”

  He realized just then that she’d been speaking like a lady for several minutes. He opened his mouth to comment upon it, but the look in her eyes swept the thought from his mind.

  I comprehend, her gaze said.

  The room seemed to disappear as he gazed into those silvery eyes. Their breath mingled. He could feel the warmth coming from her body. The faintest hint of mint teased his senses.

  She understands. She would never reject me for devoting my time to a friend.

  Her hand rose a little higher, almost resting on his lapel. She’d never been the one to touch. He’d been the one to reach for her, the one to kiss first, the one to watch her when she didn’t realize.

  Touch me.

  Her fingertips traced the outline of the bruise on his jaw. Then, so lightly, so tentatively that he could scarcely feel them, they slipped to the corner of his mouth and began to trace his lips. Her gray eyes fixed on his mouth with such an expression of longing that he had to close his eyes against it.

  He would not touch her. He would not. It would be dishonorable. It would be disastrous.

  It would be heaven. It would be devastating.

  Because if he touched her again, he knew, with every throb of his speeding pulse, that he would never, ever stop.

  Although he was resolved, he’d apparently used up every ounce of will simply to keep his own hands off her. He found himself absolutely unable to move away from her curious hands.

  So he stood and let himself be touched. He closed his eyes against that beautiful gray gaze that saw through his every act, that revealed him to himself, that could laugh and speak and remonstrate with him without a word need be spoken.

  Another cool hand joined the first, framing his jaw lightly, smoothing his brow, teasing at his hairline, testing the roughness of his unshaven cheeks. Growing braver, slim fingers ventured into his hair, ruffling it slowly and sensuously, making his entire body tingle with pleasure.

  They moved down, those hands, down his neck, into the open throat of his shirt. Her touch had warmed now, but it was no match for the heat emanating from his fevered skin. She stroked the neck of his shirt apart, spreading her fingers outward over his collarbones. He wished he dared strip it off so that she might have her way with his chest and shoulders.

  Don’t move. Don’t even breathe.

  Her hands slid out from under his shirt and stroked across his shoulders, measuring, testing, digging in slightly to feel his body. Then they swept slowly back together to rest upon his chest, directly over his thudding heart.

  Pru’s hands seemed to almost shimmer in the dimness, so possessed of tingling power were they. He stood there, offering himself to her touch, sanctioning her to explore him, giving her license to do as she wished.

  If I could do anything with him—to him—what would that be?

  She knew at once. Before she could even entertain an objection, she’d stepped closer to him.

  So close, yet she moved closer still. She moved her body into his taller one and, closing her eyes, pressed her ear to his chest and closed her eyes.

  His heart pounded like a racing horse.

  For her.

  Pru couldn’t bear it. Here he was, everything she’d ever thought admirable in a man, yet what would such a man think of her lies?

  He would understand.

  Would he? How could she be absolutely sure? From where she stood between worlds, she’d seen the worst of both. It was becoming very hard to believe anymore.

  She’d lived a rough and grimy existence, alone and unprotected. Though she’d defended her virtue with vehemence and a pair of pinking shears on more than one occasion, she still bore the taint of a wild, unsupervised life. Who would believe that she’d tried to remain a lady through it all?

  Lady? When your skirts were rucked up behind the wagon, that was you remaining a lady?

  Yet it became harder and harder to pretend she was less than she was. As she grew to know Mr. Lambert more, there was more inside her she wished to share with him, to say to him—things a common little seamstress would never say.

  So she said nothing, only remained there, pressed to him, listening, willing herself to banish her distrust and believe—believe—in that pounding heart.

  He stirred then for the first time, but it was only to enfold her in his arms, loosely, without demand. The moment stretched on and Pru imagined she could feel herself expanding in that protected circle of his hold. She could feel her soul reaching out, like wisps of candle smoke trailing from her, from him, wisps of need and longing and hope twining about them both, knotting them together, threads of soul and heart and mind . . . together.

  Silent. In the dark. Bound as one.

  Colin didn’t tighten his hold, didn’t bring her hard against him, didn’t shatter the delicate harmony of having her in his arms. He only breathed her in, savoring the warmth of her, the wild, spring scent of her, her breath, her hair. Her.

  He felt the pull of invisible threads tying them together and he mourned their breaking. Temptation teased.

  Have her. Keep her. Wed her and teach her and show her the world and let her teach you. Let her show you the world anew through her eyes. Let her show you yourself.

  Love her.

  And ruin Melody’s life.

  Pain jolted through him. Guilt and loss whirled in his gut. I’ve gone too far already. I cannot help but hurt her now. I must stop, before the damage grows deeper.

  He cleared his throat and stepped back. Then, because all he wanted in the world was to step closer and take her into his arms, he stepped back again.

  She opened her eyes, blinking, gazing at him as if from somewhere far away.

  “Miss Filby, I know that you don’t approve of my search for Miss Marchant. You should know that I have my reasons. Chantal is—”

  Melody shifted in her sleep, rolling over with a tiny mew of restlessness. Pru glanced at the child, but Melody found Gordy Ann with eyes still closed and stuck a corner of dingy fabric into her mouth and became still once more.

  Mr. Lambert stopped and rubbed a hand over his face. “Well, perhaps now is not the time or the place.”

  Pru nodded sadly. The moment of empathy had passed. She was just a servant girl, not privy to his secrets, not a woman of his world.

  Tell him.

  Perhaps. Perhaps I will.

  Tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 22

  The next morning Pru awoke early and dressed before the other occupants of the room rose. She set out Melody’s clothing, then
gently shook Evan’s shoulder.

  “Hector will be wanting his breakfast,” she whispered. “Why don’t you get up and help that groom?”

  Evan rubbed his eyes and rose slowly but willingly. “That’s Seth,” he whispered back. “He’s a bad ’un. I’ll see to Hector meself.”

  Pru very carefully didn’t look at the sleeping Mr. Lambert. Well, other than a quick glance to make sure they hadn’t woken him. All right, she lingered a bit, but it was only because he looked rather appealing with his light hair falling over his forehead like that and she’d never realized that he had a sprinkling of boyish freckles across his nose. It made her feel a bit better about her own.

  At any rate, they were downstairs to help Rugg and Olive long before the others. When Pru saw that Lord Ardmore still lay stretched out on the floor of the taproom, she contemplated the justice of that and decided that it was just the place for him.

  “I couldn’t carry him up,” Rugg offered as he hefted a bench to his vast shoulder. “Me back, ye know.”

  “Oh, no. Of course not.” She turned to Olive. “What can I do?”

  Olive set her to picking up the worst of the shards while Evan toted out the bits of shattered benches after he’d returned from visiting Hector in the stable.

  They all worked in companionable silence until they saw Lord Ardmore stir.

  “Argh . . .” He raised his head, blinking. “What happened?”

  Olive swept on next to him, unconcerned. “I think ye had a bit much of my fine ale, milord.”

  Lord Ardmore sat up shakily, holding his head. “And you simply left me on the floor, woman?”

  Olive continued to work around him, not trying terribly hard to avoid sending the sweepings his way. “Oh, did ye wish a room, milord? Ye didn’t say.”

  Lord Ardmore had little option but to curse expertly and attempt to rise. He made it to his hands and knees and stayed there, breathing heavily.

  Melody came nimbly down the stairs just then, a little skip in her step. She began to sing a sailor’s song about “seeking buried treasure south of the navel isle.”

  Pru bit the smile from her lips and hurried to hush the song. Olive smiled appreciatively at the piping little soprano but Lord Ardmore groaned and clutched his head. “Somebody shut her up.”

  Pru stopped in her tracks and let Melody sing on. Furthermore, the battered lord received a faceful of dust from Olive’s broom for his comment.

  “Pardon me, milord, but ye might want to get off me floor. I’ll be moppin’ next. Unless ye intend to help scrub, that is.”

  Pru saw the man’s face redden with fury, but how could he shout without adding to his own headache? She shared a vengeful grimace with a grinning Evan, who began to clomp about the room in his oversized boots, making a most satisfying racket.

  Rugg entered with a bang of his swinging door and began to drag the few functional benches back into place. With each screeching scrape, Lord Ardmore paled further. It was a veritable orchestra of sound. Pru contemplated finding a few pots and banging them in time. She satisfied herself with making sure her broken crockery cracked together as much as possible.

  Mr. Lambert came down the stairs carrying his bag. Pru smiled shyly at him but he turned away, grimacing at the noise. “Good Lord, it’s a cacophony!”

  Rugg and Olive grinned sheepishly and Evan laughed out loud. Only Melody kept on with her shrill little voice, singing sweetly of “longing for that home port.”

  Mr. Lambert’s eyes widened. He turned to Pru. “Did you teach her that song?”

  She shook her head, laughing. “I thought you did.”

  “Well, it has to stop!” He started forward, well furnished with fatherly disapproval, when Lord Ardmore found his growl again.

  “Shut that little urchin up!”

  Mr. Lambert’s lips twisted. He scooped Melody up into his arms. “You have a lovely voice, pet. Can you sing me another song? Perhaps the one about the pony?”

  Melody nodded enthusiastically. Mr. Lambert set her on her little booted feet and she began to skip in a circle and sing gustily. “If I had a little pony I would take him for a ride . . .”

  Lord Ardmore clutched his head.

  “I would visit all the neighbors, ride around the countryside . . .”

  Colin approached Baldwin and knelt at his side. “I want to know what happened to Chantal.”

  “Bugger off!”

  “If I had a little pony, if my little dream came true . . .”

  Ardmore grimaced in agony. “Shut her up!”

  “Tell me what happened. Where is Chantal?”

  “If I had a little pony, I’d dream you a pony, too . . .”

  “Oh, damn,” Ardmore groaned miserably. “Shut her up and I’ll tell you everything.”

  Colin considered the man for a long moment. “Melody,” he called without turning his head. “I can’t hear your pretty voice.”

  The song began again, louder. “If I had a little pony I would take him for a ride . . .”

  Colin saw Miss Filby flinch at the volume. Rugg and Olive openly grinned.

  “Oh, God. Stop her,” Ardmore whimpered. “Please?”

  “That’s better,” Colin said briskly. “Melody, go outside with Evan, will you? Miss Olive needs some wildflowers to brighten the place up.”

  “Aye, that I do, little one,” Olive said seriously. “I’d take it as a right kindness.”

  Melody happily skipped out, hand in hand with a resigned Evan. Colin helped Ardmore none too gently into a chair. “Now talk,” he ordered Baldwin, “or we’ll all break into song! And you bloody well don’t want to hear me sing!”

  Baldwin brushed a hand over his face. “Chantal was all right at first. She didn’t really want to marry me, despite what we let Bertie think. She simply wanted to get as far away from Brighton as she could. I told her I’d take her up north.” He subsided, rubbing his temples. “God, the pounding . . .”

  Colin gave the chair a shove with his booted foot. “Go on.”

  Baldwin winced and snarled. “She isn’t a very amusing traveling companion, turns out. If she wasn’t complaining about the jostling from my speed then she was whining about how slowly we traveled. I told her that I was going to stop for an ale while she made up her bloody mind.”

  He stopped to press his fingertips to his eyeballs. “Ale?” It was hardly more than a whisper of longing, but Olive was always ready with her pitcher. A chipped tankard was plunked onto the table and filled with an efficient splash. Baldwin reached for it with shaking hands, but Colin swept it out of reach.

  “So you stopped for an ale?”

  Baldwin gulped, eyeing the imprisoned fragrant brown brew with reddened gaze. “I got down and tossed my bag to that man-ape in the yard . . .”

  “That’d be Seth,” Olive offered. “He is full hairy. Always has been, since he were a boy.”

  Baldwin continued, fixated as he was on the shimmering dream of sweet ale sliding down his throat. “. . . and as soon as I started to walk around the curricle, she’d pulled up the reins into her own hands and snapped them, hard. Nearly bloody ran me down, me and the ape.”

  Colin slid the tankard a little closer. Baldwin licked his lips. “She took off like the hounds of hell were after her, leaving me standing in the yard like a fool. I came inside and ordered an ale while I considered my options.”

  “You didn’t try to go after her?”

  He shrugged. “It was Bertie’s gig. Bertie’s horse, too, now that I think about it.” He grinned, a nasty, vengeful expression. “Poor Bertie lost his woman, his curricle, and his horse. I found the best ale in three counties. Not a bad day, all in all.”

  “Thank ye, milord,” Olive said promptly. “We do try.”

  Colin snapped his fingers in front of Baldwin’s bleary eyes. “What made her take off like that?”

  “Couldn’t say, but by the look on her face, she was nigh scared to death. Stupid cow.”

  Colin rubbed a hand over his face. �
�Did it occur to you, you great, irredeemable ass, that she might have had a good reason to be frightened? Did you ever think to ask her why she wanted to get away from Brighton? Do you even care that she is out there now, a woman alone, unprotected?”

  Baldwin met his furious gaze with flat, uncaring eyes. “Not in the least. She is Chantal Marchant, stage actress. In my book, that’s only about two guineas up from a common street whore. Why the hell should I give a toss? Now give me the bloody ale!”

  Colin slid the tankard across the table with such force that half the liquid spilled before it reached Baldwin’s hand. Then he stalked away from the man, sickened by his callousness.

  He ignored Pru’s gently reaching hand when he passed her. Instead he headed for the innkeeper. “Mr. Rugg, a word if you please.”

  Outside in the yard, Evan kept one eye on the door to the inn even as he set Melody free to scamper in the weedy drive. Not that Pru would ever leave him but he trusted old Lambert about as far as he could throw him.

  So Evan was the only one to notice that Seth, the sour-faced brute who kept the stables for the Ruggs, lingered outside the inn door, listening. Evan wished he knew what the man heard, for it wasn’t long before the fellow strode off to the stables, nearly at a run. Since Evan hadn’t yet seen the bloke move faster than a resentful sloth, that was surprising in itself.

  The fact that Seth emerged on horseback a few minutes later seemed entirely suspicious. Could it be he was just off on some errand for the Ruggs?

  No. By the wary glance he cast over his shoulder as he rode the horse from the yard, Seth was trying to get away without notice.

  Evan hurried Melody off to the side of the lane. “Look at these blue ones, Miss Mellie.” He made sure they were both bent over, facing away from the inn, when Seth turned into the lane and began to gallop off.

  Evan stood and watched him go. Best not to say anything to anyone. What the old gorilla was up to wasn’t his business. He’d learned his lesson well on the streets. If you mind your own, you’re a lot less likely to lose it.