by Gaelen Foley
“God give me patience, woman. I would not!”
“Well, I would.”
“Yes, that is your problem exactly, Lizzie, but I regret to inform you, you infuriating creature, that the only person who looks down on you—is you! But maybe you deserve it. Because for all your virtue and all your brains, you really are a bit of a coward, aren’t you?”
“I beg your pardon?” she uttered.
“You’d rather waste your life hiding out here, living vicariously through these young girls, than dare risk taking a chance, seizing a dream of your own. But one day when you’re old and you’re still here, hiding, you’ll look back on this day with the bitterest regret—someday, twenty years hence, when you end up alone. Just you and your stubborn pride.”
Her face turned pale at his words; her blood ran cold, for his threat had struck a nerve, painting the very picture of her worst fears. She swallowed hard, balled her fists at her sides, and lifted her chin. “Do not assume that just because I refuse your mercenary offer that I might not accept another man’s. I’ve had proposals of marriage before. I’ll have them again.”
“And you’ll shoot them all down, won’t you? Of course you will. We both know it.” He studied her with his crystalline eyes agleam. “But why? Because you’re still waiting for your precious Alec to grow up? You could be waiting a very long time. But why deliberately choose a man in the first place that you can only love from afar? Maybe I’m not the only one pushing people away, Lizzie. Did you ever think of that?”
Her heart pounded fiercely in her chest. “Good-bye, Lord Strathmore.”
“Oh, I see. You can’t take the truth. You only like doling it out.”
“I said good-bye!”
“Don’t you mean arrivederci, my love?” he asked in a dangerous murmur.
“I mean good-bye.”
“This isn’t over,” he whispered, brushing past her as he obeyed her order to go.
She was trembling as she folded her arms tightly across her chest once more; she did not move from her spot until he was a safe distance away, stalking back to his carriage.
When she rejoined her students at length, Sorscha Harris tugged shyly at her sleeve. “Who was that gentleman, please, Miss Carlisle?”
“That was nobody,” she said through gritted teeth.
Dev, meanwhile, beckoned Ben after him, so angry that he couldn’t even speak. The girls bade Pasha crestfallen good-byes as Ben carried the cat away in his cage.
“I gather it didn’t go well?” his valet observed gingerly, falling into step beside him.
Dev stared coldly straight ahead. “Ben,” he ground out, “this is war.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
“This is a bad idea!” Ben whispered as he helped Dev carry the ladder across the moonlit commons when they returned to the school late that night.
“I don’t recall you offering a better suggestion,” he replied through gritted teeth.
“Woo her!”
“No, Ben. Forget it. I offered her my title, my name, half my fortune. She spat on it.”
“But—”
“Trust me, Ben—she brought it on herself.”
“But to kidnap her? She’ll hate you for this!”
“That, I am told, is a normal condition of marriage. At least then I’ll have my money.”
“This is not what your aunt intended.”
Dev scowled at him; then his gaze homed in on the third-story window above the mulberry tree, which he had determined by a bit of spying earlier this evening was the location of the young harpy’s room. He narrowed his eyes as he noticed a flickering glow in the window through the curtains. Their billowing movement told him the casement was open, an excellent development.
The rest of the school’s windows were dark.
“Light. She’s awake,” Ben whispered.
Busy little ant. Probably working on her thrice-damned translations. Dev knitted his eyebrows, standing square-jawed and determined in the moonlight.
“What if she hears us?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“If she screams, we’ll have to run.”
“She won’t be doing any screaming.” Casting him a piratelike glance, Dev held up the clean silk handkerchief he had brought along to use for a gag. “Come on. Over the fence. Don’t use the gate. It squeaks.” He rested his end of the ladder atop the waist-high fence that girded the school’s front garden, then braced one hand on the rail and sprang over it. He silently pulled the ladder over the fence while Ben followed him.
He lifted his finger to his lips, reminding Ben to be silent; then both men carried the ladder over to the building and gingerly rested it against the redbrick wall.
Perfect. It reached up to within three feet of her chamber window. As an added advantage, the mulberry tree would provide some cover if anyone should come along.
Dev ignored the fact that he could go to jail for what he was about to do, never mind the certain challenge from her precious Knight brothers. He was headed for debtors’ prison as it was, and besides, he was a full-blooded member of the wicked Horse and Chariot Club. Bride-stealing was par for the course.
Moreover, the stubborn wench left him no choice. When his bribes and strategems hadn’t worked, he had offered to marry her in earnest, the first such offer he’d made in his life; he did not take kindly to being turned down. He could grovel, of course, but there was only one problem: Devil Strathmore did not grovel. The wind soughed through the mulberry tree and riffled through his loose shirtsleeves and his hair.
With a resolute nod to Ben, he stepped up onto the ladder and began to climb. Full of confidence, he grasped the smooth wood rails, rising quickly, his footing on the rungs firm and sure. His pulse raced as he mounted higher toward his reluctant bride.
Reaching the top of the ladder, he peered carefully over the windowsill, trying to catch a glimpse of his quarry between the slow waving of the curtains. He saw a writing table, then waited intently for the curtains to blow again at the right angle.
It would be difficult to take her by surprise if she was working at her desk, he thought, but with any luck, the little oddball bluestocking would be so engrossed in her translations that she would not be aware of him until he was upon her.
Aha! he thought as he caught another glimpse of her desk. She was not at it. Creeping higher onto the ladder, he saw her humble cot. The curtains revealed a pretty elbow, a quick glimpse of a foot.
She’s in bed. Somehow this made his heart pound faster.
Watching for another minute or two, hearing nothing, he decided to advance. He reached in through the open window and pushed one of the curtains aside. When he looked in, his eyes widened. For a second, he was hit with such a jolt of lust at the sight of her that he nearly fell off the ladder.
The candle had burned down to a stub beside her bed; the dog-eared book that lay across her chest informed him that she had fallen asleep while reading. Gone was the overly modest gown, undone the tight chignon of earlier today.
She slept in silken splendor; the flickering candle illumined her pearly white skin and rich brown mane that spilled across her pillow. Her cheeks were a delicate shade of shell pink, her lashes the soft black of a sooty dove. She lay sprawled in luxurious ease, one arm carelessly strewn above her head, her long legs tangled up in her demure white chemise. She looked so very soft and inviting. Dev could not take his eyes off her. His desire raged into thunderous conquest.
This, ah, this was how he remembered her from their delicious night together. He needed more.
His eyes burning in the dim glow, he stepped firmly onto the top rung of the ladder and eased onto the windowsill. Sitting on it briefly, he swung one leg into the room, then the other. Planting both black boots on the wooden floor, he crept over to her bed in predatory silence, staring down at her all the while.
By God, he’d had women all over the globe, but this sleeping princess was a pure English rose. She was the loveliest, sweete
st thing he had ever seen. Fierce demand tautened his body; instinct pounded in his blood, possessiveness, craving.
Mine.
His heart hammered in his chest. The game had changed suddenly, drastically, as if some massive earthquake had just rearranged the ground beneath his feet. Because if she was his wife, he could have her whenever he bloody well pleased. The morning. The daytime. The middle of the night. He’d have it all. Not taking his hungry stare off her, he lowered himself to his knees beside her.
Touching his finger and thumb to his tongue, he reached over to the bedside table and pinched out the candle’s flame.
The dream stole softly through her sleeping brain, wrapping her in cloud wisps and stars. The west wind came to her softly, blowing warm breath on her cheek, swirling down beside her bed, as delicate as floating mist before taking the shape of a man.
She was too amazed to be afraid, especially when she knew somehow that he had sought her out, of all the women on the globe. He had blown in from halfway round the world, a tousled, dark god from some Classical painting; the scent of frankincense clung in his night-dark hair, the smell of distant spice islands far across the green-blue sea.
When she felt his gentle caress on her hair, stirring her, urging her to join him, she understood, though he did not speak aloud. You, Elizabeth. Only you. There was so much he wanted to show her. Yes, show me. She longed to fly away with him from this dull earth; she wanted to go up on high with him where she could hear the tinkling music of the stars.
All of this he understood, though the words were only in her mind. Then she felt the thrill of unbound freedom as the god of the west wind gathered her in his arms and gently scooped her up in his embrace. Though he was made only of air and dreams, his strength was solid; she had never felt more safe, protected. Cherished.
His warm breath nuzzled her ear with the utmost tenderness, but she knew that the mighty immortal could flatten cities with his wrath of wind and storm if he saw fit.
She could feel him lifting her gently off her bed and struggled to find her voice, needing to tell him he must have her back by dawn or Mrs. Hall would be cross. But when her heavy-lidded eyes fluttered open, the dream changed abruptly, baffling her. She stared in confusion.
“Devlin?”
He froze, sending her a guilty look askance.
A shocked cry left her lips, the spell of sleep breaking as she jolted fully awake in his arms. He reacted before she could fight him, dropping her straight back down onto her bed. She landed flat on her stomach.
She started to turn over to demand an explanation, but he stopped her, setting his knee firmly across her back, holding her down. When she opened her mouth to curse him, she tasted a silky cloth. She felt his nimble fingers tying it behind her head.
“I’m terribly sorry about this, chérie, but I regret to say you forced my hand,” he murmured as she choked on her furious indignation.
What the deuce is going on? The next thing she knew, he lifted her up and slung her over his shoulder.
“Don’t be alarmed, my little bride. We’ll be under way in a moment. Just do me the courtesy of holding very still.” He climbed out the window and onto a ladder.
She would have shrieked if not for the gag as she found herself staring down at the ground three stories below. Her heart pounding, she jolted instinctively, recoiling from the drop-off in terror.
“Hold still!” he hissed, clamping her harder against his shoulder. “There’s no point in any of this if I drop you!”
Oh, God! she thought, going motionless, her eyes flying open wide as she divined what he was about. He couldn’t do this!
The man was utterly mad! She clung to his neck with one hand and clutched a handful of his shirt with the other, for even being carried off by Devil Strathmore, though dire, was not as bad as breaking her neck from a headfirst dive off a ladder. She saw Ben standing below, looking distressed as he held the ladder steady.
The moon looked on in sly complicity as her abductor climbed down with bold confidence, lowering himself smoothly and silently, rung by rung. She willed herself not to kick him—indeed, she barely dared breathe for fear of upsetting his balance—but her eyes were narrowed in rage.
Oh, Devil Strathmore, you are done for when we reach the ground. She ducked her face away from the scraping twigs of the mulberry tree, planning her assault.
The moment that both of his shiny black Hessians sank firmly into the soft-packed turf, she launched her attack with a sharp knee in his stomach.
“Uff!” As he doubled over a little, taken off guard by the blow, she twisted and jumped down off his shoulder, landing unsteadily on her bare feet.
She quickly caught her balance and whirled around to go dashing back up the ladder, but he grabbed her by her waist and plucked her off it before she had climbed the third rung.
“Ben, get rid of the ladder!” he ordered in a whisper while Lizzie thrashed in his hold, cursing him through the silken gag.
Ben obeyed, pulling the ladder back and tilting it down to the horizontal, then carrying the awkward thing away.
“Stop it!” Dev hissed in her ear as he fought to stop her angry flailing. “You’re coming with me!”
With a single, muffled syllable, she demanded the obvious question.
“Why, Gretna Green, my love.”
Her eyes shot open wide.
“And we shall live happily ever after,” he added in a sarcastic growl.
She stared at him in shock, then fought him again, redoubling her efforts—but this time the brute was ready for her. Her best punch collided with a chest of flexed steel. She looked up slowly at his face, suddenly rethinking her attack. He arched his eyebrow sardonically.
Then he reached for her. Their battle exploded. The patient, the mild, most civilized Miss Carlisle fought like a wild woman, and the most infuriating thing of all was that he barely needed to exert himself, warding off her blows with a cunning laugh when she advanced, stopping her from escaping when she tried to retreat.
Everything she tried was futile. When she reached to untie the knotted gag, he caught her right hand and picked her up, tossing her over his shoulder with a devilish laugh. With her body draped across his neck, her hip and wrist pinioned in his viselike grip, he stalked off like some ogre shepherd who had caught a lamb for his Easter feast.
Gretna Green! she thought in helpless fury. There was nothing she could do but glare at Ben as he opened the garden gate for his master, taking pains not to let it squeak. Traitor!
Ben shrugged, looking guilty. Devil Strathmore strode through it. Ben hurried to get the ladder, which he had left leaning against the fence.
They must have looked like a very odd trio: two men, one ladder, and an abducted girls’-school governess in a night rail, hurriedly crossing the moonlit commons that sat in plain view of the school.
She saw that they had hidden Devlin’s shiny black coach a safe distance away in a stand of trees. His Fresian horses shifted patiently in their traces, the leader tied to a tree trunk.
This is impossible! she thought, more exasperated than afraid. She was far too sensible to be abducted by a dashing aristocrat. This was Jacinda’s sort of thing, not hers at all.
Devil Strathmore did not seem to grasp that fact as he strode over to his carriage, yanked open the door, and tumbled her into the chassis.
“Leave the ladder! Just drive!” he ordered Ben, his tempestuous profile silvered by moonlight as he shot a hurried glance at his servant.
Lizzie righted herself on the soft leather squabs. Barely a minute later, he stepped into the coach, pulling the door shut as the thing started moving. Ben drove the horses out from the cover of the trees and turned the coach down the lane. Devlin locked the carriage door, then pulled down the canvas shades. Her heart pounded; she flattened her back tensely against the seat. The shades blotted out the moonlight, and now she could not see him at all in the darkness, could only hear the rhythm of his breathing, feel him moving closer, sens
e his heat.
She reached her trembling hands behind her head to untie her gag, then nearly screamed into the breath-moistened silk when his fingers closed around her wrists.
“No, chérie. Not yet,” he whispered.
Her pulse beat like native war drums as he captured both her wrists and slowly moved them up slightly over her head. She protested as he slipped her hands through the leather hand loop above the carriage window and used it to bind her wrists together.
Her emotions churned in a flutter of fear, with an edge of terrible excitement. Her bindings were not painful; Devlin’s fingertips glided along the line of her bare arms, exquisitely gentle. She remembered the way he had held her down in bed, how wickedly she had enjoyed it. She vowed to herself that she’d die before she’d let him know he aroused her even now, angry as she was at him.
“I do regret that you make these measures necessary, my lady.” He emphasized the term. “But now that I have you suitably restrained, let me make a few things perfectly clear.” He closed the small space between them, moving up behind her.
She tried to jerk away, but he pressed gently on her belly and her thigh, stilling her, his hands resting with casual dominance atop the thin white muslin of her night rail.
“Shh. There’s no use fighting me. You know it’s meant to be.”
Her heart hammered with mingled fear and thrill, her eyes adjusting gradually to the deeper darkness inside the coach. The warmth of his breath tickled her earlobe.
“Yes, that’s better. You listen well, my lady,” he ordered in a whisper as his hand stroked her thigh, up and down, slowly. “There’s not going to be any bookshop in Russell Square. You’re going to marry me and be a proper viscountess whether you like it or not, and if your precious Knight brothers want my blood, let them try me. By then you’ll already be mine.” His sly touch glided up between her legs. He cupped his hand possessively over her mound. “After all—” His hand traveled higher, claiming every inch of her for his own, until it came to rest firmly on her stomach. “You won’t think of trying to back out of it when I’ve planted my babe in your belly.”
