‘You are a monster beyond imagination, Mr Kempster!’
‘Spread your legs, darlin’ and I’ll show you a monster.’ He pushed her back hard against the wall, and his mouth closed over hers suffocating her with its hard demand, while his hands wrenched her dress from her shoulders.
She pushed and kicked, but Kempster just thrust his body hard against hers to still her legs and he held her arms in a cruel imprisonment. She tried to scream, but she could barely breathe with his lips effectively a gag against hers. She bit him, tasting blood before he started back.
He stared at her as if he could not believe what she had just done, dabbing his fingers gingerly to his lip. ‘You little bitch!’ He looked down at the glistening crimson smear that stained his fingers. ‘You’ve marked me!’ His eyes were dark with malice and anger.
She tried to run then, pushing past him, but he caught her back, his hand like a vice around her arm.
‘You’re going to pay for that, missy,’ and then quick as lightning, he lashed out with a smack of his hand across her face.
The force of the blow sent Rosalind reeling. She hit against the wall, and then stumbled, falling on to her knees.
He reached for her and Rosalind tried to scrabble away, but not fast enough. His hand grabbed at her hair, yanking her back. ‘Now, I am goin’ to have you, Miss Rosalind Meadowfield, and you’re goin’ to stand there and let me. And when the mail coach arrives you will climb upon it with me. Fight me, and I’ll do all of these things having rendered you sense less.’
‘You are the very devil,’ she whispered.
He smiled, and then pressed his mouth against hers with a savagery that could not be called a kiss, while his fingers clawed their way through the layers of her clothing to find the nakedness of her breasts.
She had not trusted Wolf, she thought. And now she would pay the price.
Chapter Eleven
‘Kempster, you little rat,’ a voice suddenly rang out in the alleyway, a voice that Rosalind recognized. Her heart leapt in hope.
There was the tall figure of Wolf standing as he had stood the night she had first seen him in his long brown leather coat and brown leather hat with its wide brim. And for a moment, she wondered whether he was really there, in this stinking alley with Kempster, or whether it was her wishful mind playing cruel tricks upon her. The silver gaze met hers momentarily before passing on to fix itself upon Kempster, and she knew from the shiver that rippled right through her body that he was no apparition.
‘It’s not what you think.’ Kempster released his grip on her. ‘I saw her making a run for it, and followed her here. I was bringing her back to you, Mr Wolversley, honest I was. But she was not making it easy. I had to restrain her somehow.’ He held his hands out towards Wolf, palms up.
Wolf said nothing, and yet the threat emanating from him was overwhelming without the need for a single word. His expression was utterly ruthless. There was a hard line to his jaw that hinted at barely sup pressed violence, and his eyes…Rosalind trembled just to look at them, for Wolf’s eyes held the promise of death. Kempster must have seen it too. She saw him pale and begin to back away.
He was like some victim trapped in the stare of his predator.
Wolf’s gaze flicked to the alley beyond Kempster’s shoulder before coming back to his victim once more, and Kempster could not help himself from turning his head to glance in the same direction.
The huge figure of Struan Campbell stood not so very far away behind him. ‘Good morning, Mr Kempster,’ the Scotsman said, and there was a dark dangerous intensity about his face that matched Wolf’s.
Rosalind began to edge away from Kempster, towards Wolf.
Wolf moved then, seizing hold of her, pulling her to safety behind him. And not once, as he did it, did his eyes leave the footman’s.
He heard Kempster mumble a curse. ‘You’ve got this all wrong,’ he said, backing away.
‘You’re the one that’s got it wrong, Kempster.’ Wolf’s voice was quiet and deadly.
He struck then, his fist hitting hard against Kempster’s face, sending him staggering back towards Campbell. From the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Meadowfield start.
Campbell pushed Kempster forward again to where Wolf stood waiting.
Kempster put his head down and ran at Wolf swinging his fists, but Wolf had fought men like Kempster before, in York and London, Walcheren and the Peninsula, and he knew what to do. He dodged back, ducking left then right, Kempster’s enraged blows missing him.
Let him waste his energy, lose his control, think he had a chance of winning, Wolf might get some answers then. He jabbed at Kempster’s left cheek, then at his right, dropping his guard just low enough to let a blow land. Kempster accepted the invitation, and Wolf felt the footman’s fist contact his mouth. The metallic taste of blood was warm against his tongue. He heard Miss Meadowfield gasp loudly and he gave a step and then another, allowing Kempster to come forward, to take the lead. He saw the smile that curved upon Kempster’s face, exposing teeth that were washed red with blood, and knew that he had him.
‘Evedon wouldn’t have paid you for her you know. You’re his servant. He thinks he owns you already.’
‘It’s not about Evedon.’ Kempster smiled. ‘She begged me to help her escape you.’
‘I did no such thing!’ The denial burst from Rosalind Meadowfield’s lips.
Wolf glanced across at where she stood. Her face was pale and there was a smear of blood in the corner of her lips. Her eyes met his, and he could see the indignation there.
He looked back at Kempster. ‘And I suppose you felt obliged to help her out of the goodness of you heart?’
‘That and the money she offered.’
Wolf’s eyes narrowed.
‘There was no money. He is lying.’ Miss Meadowfield stared from Wolf to Kempster and back again.
‘Lying am I?’ Kempster looked at her in a desultory manner. ‘Are you claiming that I abducted you? Do you deny that you came with me willingly?’
‘You said you would take me to catch the mail, that you would help me escape,’ she said, shaking her head.
Kempster smiled, knowing that her words confirmed his story. He turned to Wolf, brave now that he thought he had a chance of besting him. ‘I see the way you look at her, Wolf. You say that you hate her kind, but you want Miss Rosalind Meadowfield all the same.’
Wolf said nothing but his expression was dark as thunder.
‘Did you really think that she would choose a scar-faced bastard like you, over me?’ Kempster taunted.
Wolf forced himself not to rise to the bait; he breathed slow and even, until the rage was controlled.
‘She was paying me to get her away from you, Wolf,’ he said and laughed.
It was all Wolf could do not to land the blow right then and there. He held back.
‘Did she pay you to start the fire too?’ Wolf asked.
For once Kempster was lost for words, as if he had not expected Wolf to know what he had done.
‘Or did you forget to tell her that you started the fire as a distraction so that you both might make your getaway?’ Wolf felt something tighten in his gut in anticipation of Kempster’s answer.
Rosalind Meadowfield moved forward to stand by Wolf’s side. She was staring at Kempster with a look of horror on her face. ‘You started the fire?’
‘I did not know that the boy was in there, did I? I thought everyone had gone home.’
She shook her head in disbelief. ‘You could have killed that child, and the horses too.’
‘But I did not,’ said Kempster smugly. ‘Besides, what do you care about horses, or a beggar boy for that matter?’
There was a silence.
Wolf did not take his eyes off Kempster, but he could sense the sudden still ness in Miss Meadowfield by his side.
‘You are a fiend,’ she whispered, and Wolf could hear the break in her voice. ‘A damnable fiend.’
And then, against all
that Wolf was expecting, she launched herself at Kempster, hitting and slapping at him and crying as she did so.
Wolf stared, stunned for a second, before catching her round the waist and dragging her off.
‘No!’ The tears were spilling down her cheeks. ‘Leave me be, he deserves it!’ She struggled against him.
‘Aye, he does that,’ said Wolf against her ear. ‘But leave him to me.’ He pushed her towards Campbell. ‘See to Miss Meadowfield, Struan.’
‘Little bitch!’ Kempster snapped, dabbing a finger at the bite mark on his lip that was now bleeding again. ‘Look what she’s done to me. I’ll kill her.’
‘No, you will not,’ said Wolf grimly, and saw Kempster’s eyes look up to meet his. Wolf took off his hat and coat, and threw them to Campbell. He slipped off his waistcoat and rolled up his shirt sleeves.
‘You think you’re a man, Kempster, when you’re not even fit to be called a dog.’ He landed Kempster a single almighty punch into which all of his strength had been focused.
The younger man staggered back beneath the force to slump against the wall behind, before slithering down to land in a limp pile on the filth of the alley’s soil.
Miss Meadowfield walked slowly to stand by Wolf’s side and all the while she was staring at Kempster’s crumpled body. Just staring and staring.
She reached a hand blindly to clutch at Wolf’s arm. ‘Is he dead? Have we killed him?’ Her voice was flat, the volume barely above a whisper. He noticed her use of the word ‘we’, as if she took as much responsibility for Kempster’s state as Wolf himself.
‘He is very much alive, more is the pity.’
And she stood there motionless, her eyes still fixed on Kempster, and Wolf could feel the tremble in her fingers that clung to him. She had probably never witnessed a fight before, let alone been involved in one.
‘Miss Meadowfield.’
No response.
‘Miss Meadowfield,’ he said again.
She seemed to hear him then and, glancing round, saw that she was gripping for dear life to his arm. Her hand dropped away. ‘I am sorry,’ she said, and looked up at him.
Her face was dirty and tear-stained, her cheeks devoid of colour save for the blood that trickled from the corner of her mouth. There were dark shadows beneath her red-rimmed eyes. Her hair hung long and curling and wild around her shoulders, her dress was torn, and the stench of smoke still clung to her. Yet she met his gaze and he saw in it bewilderment and shock and pain. She was lost, set adrift from everything that she knew and had known, the security of her own small world shattered.
‘I know, lass,’ he said gently.
She said nothing, just stared at him with a need that was as raw and aching as his own and her face seemed to grow whiter by the minute.
He retrieved his coat and draped it around her, while he spoke his instructions quietly to Campbell, not wanting to frighten her. And when he took her hand in his and led her out of the alley, she went with him as trusting as a child.
Rosalind sat on the edge of the bed in a bedchamber of the Royal Oak Inn in Leeming Lane. She had scoured Kempster’s touch from her body, and changed into a fresh dress. Her hair was in some semblance of order, raked by her fingers and fastened tidily with a ribbon. Her lips had been scrubbed, her face was washed and the dust wiped from her boots, but Rosalind still felt unclean.
She sat there, unmoving. Despite the mildness of the day, her hands and feet were ice cold. Her mind was filled with the images of Wolf and Kempster fighting, of the terrible ferocity of the blows, of the sound of fist contacting flesh and the smell of the blood that splattered the walls of the alley and the soil beneath. She thought too of Kempster’s lies. The footman had lied to them all, to Evedon and Wolf and herself. He had stolen the jewels and framed Rosalind. He had been prepared to see her hang, and all for money from some stranger.
Kempster had lied to her from the start, and Rosalind had been too blind and too stupid to see it. She knew now that he had never intended to help her at all. He was ‘stealing’ her from Wolf, taking her back to Evedon. She had been a fool a hundred times over, trusting a villain’s lies instead of trusting Wolf.
Wolf. She thought of him appearing there in that alleyway—the man from whom she had run, the man she had told herself that she hated—standing there so tall and strong and resolute. And she had known then, in that single moment, that she was safe, that Wolf would save her from Kempster. She did not remember that he was a thief-taker or that Evedon had employed him to capture her. She just saw Wolf and his rugged severity and the silver blaze of danger in his eyes and the simmering fury that he focused upon the footman. Her relief had been such that she could have run to him and thrown herself into his arms were it not for Kempster.
She thought of the warm strength of Wolf’s grip as he had pulled her to him, thrusting her behind him, protecting her with his body. It was true that he was unlike any man she had ever met. His appearance, his manner, his voice—all of them were harsh, hard, threatening almost. But when these were stripped away, what was left beneath? A man who had walked miles by her side because he knew she was afraid of horses, a man who had bound the wounds on her feet, a man who had risked his life to rescue a child from a fire. He had not ceased in his effort to prevent the blaze’s spread. He had worked all night to douse the fire, while Rosalind had run…with Kempster. She closed her eyes at the thought, ashamed of her decision.
She had listened to logic, to sense and rationale; Wolf was her captor and she had run from him, but her heart knew the truth of him, she could no longer deny it. She had judged Wolf a villain and a rogue but it was herself and Kempster that owned those names, choosing to run when they should have stood firm to help and all because of Kempster’s lies and her own misjudgement.
And what of the lies that Kempster had told of her? She did not think that Wolf would be fool enough to believe them. Today, in that alleyway, she had run to him instinctively—wanting him, needing him. She did not understand it. She was reeling, confused, emotional, no longer knowing what was right and what was wrong, no longer knowing what to feel. She put her head in her hands, and did not know what to do.
Wolf and Campbell stood in the yard of the inn and watched Kempster ride away.
‘No bloody evidence,’ said Campbell. Sunshine washed the darkness of his hair mahogany.
‘The likes of beggar boys do not make credible enough wit nesses for magistrates.’ Wolf’s expression was bitter.
Campbell’s glance gestured towards the fold of bank notes that Wolf still held in his hand. ‘Thirty pounds is a lot of money for a footman to have in his purse.’
‘He says that it came from Miss Meadowfield, a bribe for his assistance. A considerable sum for a poor ladies’ companion to offer.’ Wolf’s voice dripped with cynicism.
‘You think that it’s the money from the emeralds, that she sold them before she left London?’
‘I do not know what to think any more, Struan.’
Campbell gave a grunt of agree ment. There was a small pause before he asked, ‘What of Miss Meadowfield?’
‘What of her?’ Wolf kept his gaze trained on the re treating figure of Kempster.
‘Is she hurt?’
‘Bruised and shaken. Nothing more as far as I could see.’
‘Then he hadnae…?’ Campbell looked at Wolf meaningfully.
Wolf shook his head. ‘He had not got that far.’
‘Bastard,’ cursed Campbell.
‘Aye, he’s that all right,’ agreed Wolf.
Down the road, the last trace of Kempster disappeared into the distance.
Campbell turned to Wolf. ‘What now?’
‘Now we continue on to London.’
‘But Miss Meadowfield…Is she recovered enough to travel? Maybe we should wait a few days before—’
But Wolf cut him off. ‘We need to finish this job, Struan. Get it over and done with, take the money and get clear of the whole damn mess.’
Campb
ell looked hard at Wolf. ‘You’re no’ really gonnae force that lassie on to a horse the day, after what Kempster did to her, are you?’
‘We’ll travel post-chaise. You seem to be forgetting that Miss Meadowfield is a felon in our custody. She ran off willingly with Kempster.’
‘And you’re forgetting that she went into a burning stable to save a wean. The boy would have burned had it no’ been for her.’ Campbell looked at him. ‘What is this about, Wolf?’
But Wolf did not want to reveal the sense of betrayal that he felt at Rosalind Meadowfield’s flight. He did not want Campbell to know that when it came to her he could no longer trust himself to think straight; more than that, he thought angrily, that he, who had spent his life hating the likes of Rosalind Meadowfield, had feelings for the woman.
‘Having second thoughts about bringing her in?’ asked Wolf in a quiet voice.
‘Sometimes you can be a hard nosed bastard, Wolf.’
‘Just Sometimes?’ queried Wolf, and raised his eyebrows.
Campbell shook his head in disbelief.
Wolf turned back into the inn, walking across the floor of the public room towards the stairs.
‘Wolf,’ Campbell’s voice sounded softly.
He stopped, glanced back.
Campbell’s gaze met his, and he could see the concern in it.
He gave a grim nod of acknowledgement, knowing that Campbell was asking him to be gentle with Rosalind Meadowfield. But what was simmering inside of him was not in the slightest bit gentle. It was an explosive mixture of hurt and anger and desire. She had played him, and he had been a fool to allow himself to listen to her, to begin to trust her. She did not want him, but only to escape the justice Evedon had waiting for her. All else was lies, manipulation—just as he should have known. The echo of his mother’s tortured words sounded from the past, words of darkness and in justice, words of warning…and his own whispered promise from so long ago: Vengeance upon the gentry; sweet vengeance for a life destroyed.
And then he climbed the stairs that would take him to the bedchamber in which he had left Miss Meadowfield, determined, despite all of Campbell’s words, that she would face the consequences of her actions in full.
Unlacing the Innocent Miss Page 14
