by Anita Mills
“Come, mademoiselle—do not play the innocent with me.”
“You are mistaken, sir,” she retorted coldly. “I am not that sort of female.”
“You wish to be coy, perhaps?” he asked with a softness that sent chills down her spine. “Very well, mademoiselle—DeVere accepts the challenge.” His hand snaked out to grasp her chin and force it upward. “You are passably pretty, after all, and it’s a long way to Paris.”
The smell of stale garlic and soured wine on his breath nauseated her, but she could not turn away. Her stomach felt like lead as his face blurred her vision with its closeness. The oddly detached thought that he had bad teeth crossed her mind a fraction of a second before she felt the crushing force of his lips on hers. She clenched her teeth against the outrage of his probing tongue and twisted her head in his grasp. His free hand slid up her back to press against her spine painfully. Her fingers crept to her chip-straw hat, found the decorative pin, and withdrew it. His teeth gnashed against hers for possession of her mouth. She struggled for a moment and then plunged the hatpin into his thigh with all the force she could muster.
He drew back, howling in pain. Infuriated now, he slapped her so hard across the face that her head snapped backward and her hat came untied. “You like these little amusements, English?” he panted as he gripped her shoulders painfully and shook her. “DeVere sets the rules here, I think.”
“Take your hands off me else I shall scream,” she threatened with a calm she did not feel.
“Scream, mademoiselle.” He shrugged. “My men are used to it.”
“I’ll have you arrested for this.”
He fixed her with those nasty deep-set eyes. “Who’s to know?” he asked with that chillingly soft voice of his before he lunged to pin her back against the corner of the coach seat with his body. “Do not come the innocent with me—I have heard about English women.”
“I assure you that … mmmmumph—”
Her protest was cut short as he took possession of her mouth, gagging her with his tongue. The chip-straw hat fell to the carriage floor. The grim reality of his intent mobilized every defense Caroline had. She clawed at his face with her fingernails, bucked and struggled beneath his weight, and felt along the seat for the hatpin. For answer, he imprisoned her arms at her sides and began trailing wet, slobbery kisses down her neck. She twisted and turned, flailing helplessly against the arm that held her. When he returned his attention to her mouth, she sank her teeth into the soft fullness of his lower lip and bit as hard as she could. He screamed and slapped her again. She grabbed a pullstrap and tried to swing across the seat away from him. His hand caught at her pelisse, ripping it literally off her back.
“You beast!” she seethed indignantly. “Look what you have done. You’ve—” Angry, impotent tears flooded her eyes. “ ’Tis my only—”
He flung the ruined coat onto the floor and lunged again to force her against the squabs. Bent on conquest rather than seduction, he explored her body roughly with his hands, squeezing her breasts painfully through the material of her dress. She kicked and flailed to no avail against his greater strength. When he found the buttons that lined her bodice a hindrance to his eager fingers, he caught at the neckline and pulled viciously until the fabric of both zona and dress tore away, exposing her white breasts. As he bent his mouth to bite, she clutched a handful of his hair and yanked him away. Abruptly the carriage jerked to a stop, sending Caroline and her tormentor to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs.
Before she could right herself, Caroline saw the carriage door wrenched open and looked up into Patrick Danvers’ hazel eyes. His gaze traveled over her bare breasts and then turned wrathfully to the now cowering DeVere.
“Get out!”
“Monsieur—”
“Thank God you are arrived,” Caroline breathed in relief as she tried to cover herself. “He … he …” She choked at Westover’s expression.
“I am aware of what he attempted,” Patrick cut in harshly. “DeVere, defend yourself!”
“Monsieur—” The Frenchman read danger in the other man’s eyes.
“Out!”
“You find me unarmed!”
“You are as armed as Miss Ashley!” Patrick shot back.
DeVere shrank back against the floor. “Mais non!”
“Aye,” Patrick growled as he reached to pull him up by the lapels of his coat. With a mixture of horror and fascination, Caroline stared as the Frenchman rose before her eyes and then disappeared through the open door. Patrick flung him to the ground below and stood over him with clenched fists.
“Pitié, s’il vous plait! Pitié!” DeVere shielded his face against Patrick’s grim stare.
“I’ll show you what you would have shown her.”
“Non!”
“Exactly.”
“I will not fight!” DeVere shouted defiantly.
“No?” Patrick strode purposefully to his hired coach and took down the carriage whip. DeVere, sensing his intent, scrambled for the safety of his own coach. The whip cracked, catching him as his foot gained the step, and he screamed as he fell. “Unless you wish to be whipped to ribbons, you’ll choose your weapon.” The leather whirred through the air to snap loudly again as it cut into DeVere’s shirt. “Surely you carry a sword or a pistol, Monsieur DeVere.”
“Take her—she’s nothing to me,” the Frenchman begged. “For God’s sake—”
The whip cut like a knife again, turning words into a high-pitched scream of terror that trailed off into a pitiful whimper. DeVere rolled up into a huddled ball in the dirt. Patrick raised his arm and sent the lash cracking again and again until the back of the Frenchman’s shirt was laced with red.
“Stop it!” Caroline clutched her torn pelisse against her chest and jumped down. “Stop it—you’ll kill him!” Coming up behind Patrick, she caught at his right arm.
He looked down, first at her and then back to where DeVere lay babbling incoherently in the road. Shaking his arm free of her grasp, he walked to turn the Frenchman over with his booted toe. “By rights, I ought to kill you for what you would do to a defenseless female,” he growled.
“Defenseless? Defenseless?” DeVere screeched indignantly. “Monsieur, she is a tigress!”
Ignoring him, Patrick’s eyes met Caroline’s. “You are unhurt? If the bloody cur’s harmed you, I’ll kill him.”
DeVere cried out in alarm, but Caroline shook her head. “No, my lord, I am all right, but I cannot thank you sufficiently for—”
“Patrick,” he cut in.
For some unfathomable reason—maybe it was the way he was looking at her or maybe it was the relief of being delivered—but for some reason, Caroline felt the urge to cry. “Patrick.” She nodded through a mist of tears as he enfolded her comfortingly in his arms and cradled her head against his chest.
DeVere, sensing that he would not be missed, took the opportunity to edge on his hands and knees to his carriage. Once there, he scrambled up the step and slammed the door. His bemused driver and coachmen continued to stare at the wild English lord until their master tapped impatiently on the roof of the passenger compartment. Reluctantly the driver raised his whip over the team. Once the carriage began to roll forward, DeVere stuck his head out the window and yelled at Patrick, “I wish you joy of her, my lord!”
Patrick’s eyes dropped to the torn pelisse Caroline held in front of her, and she colored as she followed his gaze downward. Without a word, he released her to unbutton his shirt. Shrugging out of it, he handed it to her.
Her eyes widened at the sight of his bared chest with its darkly curling hair, and then were averted. “I … I could not take your shirt, my … Patrick. ’Tis unseemly.”
“Unless you wish to provide Bertie with a rather fetching glimpse of the female person, Caroline, I think you had best take it. Come …” He reached for her hand and led her behind the rented coach. “There’s none to see you here. I’ll go on and roust Bert
ie while you cover yourself.”
She waited until the carriage obscured his vision and then dropped the pelisse. Surveying the damage to her dress, she came to the sad conclusion that it was hopelessly ruined and she now quite literally had nothing to wear. With a sigh, she drew on the white cotton shirt and buttoned it at the neck. It swallowed her up and the sleeves hung down over her hands, but his generosity was not lost on her. Feeling the warmth that still lingered from his body, she gathered the shirt closely about her and rolled the sleeves. He must surely feel as foolish as she if he meant to go back like that.
“I say, Pat—you ain’t serious!” Bertie’s plaintive whine floated back to her.
“I am. You’ll have to ride on the box.”
“But why? I ain’t—”
“Her dress is torn, and I doubt that my shirt will cover her enough.”
“But what’s that to say? I mean, I ain’t going to look—I swear.”
“Bertie—”
“Oh, all right! I wish we’d never heard of the chit! Females! Deuced nuisances, if you was to ask me!”
“I daresay she’s no more fond of the association than you are, but there’s no help for it.”
Caroline looked down at the shirt and was dismayed to find that the soft material did not completely hide her charms. There was a faint dark outline that hinted at what lay underneath. Her face flamed anew.
“Ready, my dear?” Patrick stepped back around the rear of the coach. “If ’tis any consolation, Caroline,” he told her sympathetically, “you are better covered than I. Besides, once we get back, Madame Crespin has located another gown for you.”
“But I …” She had started to say that she could not accept clothing from him, but given the condition of her only dress, she realized she would have to swallow her pride and take what he provided.
His eyes met hers. “Exactly so.”
He handed her up into the coach and then swung up beside her. Leaning down to reach under the seat, he drew out a rolled carriage rug, spread it out, and draped it around his shoulders. Settling back, he took in her disheveled hair and his cotton shirt. He managed a crooked smile that twisted one corner of his mouth and shook his head. “What a pretty pair we must be, Caroline. I wonder if Bertie’s limited powers can explain us out of this one.”
“I shudder to think of what he will tell.” Incredibly, she found herself answering his smile with one of her own. “My lord … Patrick …” She groped for words. “I … I cannot tell you how very glad I was to see you just now. If you had not come after me …” Her voice trailed off.
“You’d have been in the basket.” He nodded. “Suffice it to say, it was a rare fright you gave me, Caroline Ashley, and I hope you know it. When I returned to the inn and you weren’t there, I’d no notion of where you’d gone. If it hadn’t been for Crespin, you would have disappeared without a trace.”
“I know.”
“I hope you do not mean to make a habit of this, my dear, for I’ve no wish to spend the rest of my life chasing after you. I mean, I should prefer a more comfortable life, if you do not object.”
“My Lord—”
“Patrick,” he corrected.
“Very well,” she sighed. “Patrick, I wish you would cease this nonsense about being obliged … I mean … that is—” She looked up and was startled by the warmth of his expression.
“Caroline,” he interrupted wickedly, “I think ’tis you who are obliged now. You simply cannot take me back to that inn without my shirt and expect me to maintain a shred of reputation.”
“Stop it! You are a man, after all, and it is no such thing.”
“Must you always be so literal, my dear? Do you never wish to cut up a dust, to fall into a scrape? You know”—he leaned forward conspiratorially and lowered his voice—“I suspect you have more of a sense of adventure than you care to admit, Caro Ashley, else you’d never have chanced running away.”
“You sound much like Juliana.”
“Mayhap.”
“Well … ” Caroline appeared to consider. “I am not sure you are right, but then I’ve never had the opportunity to find out, I suppose. My father died when I was still at school, and circumstances made my choices for me.”
“And you regretted that.”
“I learned to accept it.”
“What would you do, my dear, if you suddenly found yourself possessed of a large fortune?” he changed the subject abruptly. “I mean, how would you spend it?”
“Well, I would not run up huge tradesmen’s bills, if that is what you are asking. If I had a fortune, I would hope that I would not be so self-centered that I did not wish to help other people at least a little. I mean, I cannot see using it all for social position, after all. I think that I would be concerned with education.” She looked up to see him watching her closely. “Well,” she defended, “before I became acquainted with you, ’twas books that gave me all the excitement in my life. I lived in my mind what I read, and I think it a pity that there are those who never have even that.”
“What? No routs, no balls?”
“I should like to go to some, I suppose,” she mused wistfully. “But I can tell you one thing: I should have more than one decent gown.” She stopped. “You are funning with me, of course.”
“No.” He looked out the window for a moment at the rolling countryside. “I am nearly twenty-seven, Caroline, and I am only now finding what I want.”
“Now ’tis my turn to pry. What is it that you want?”
“If I told you, you would not believe me. Besides, it would all depend on my ability to reestablish my character with the ton.”
“Oh.”
Conversation lagged as each turned to his own thoughts. The swaying motion of the carriage gradually took its toll until Caroline leaned her head back into the corner and cradled her cheek against her elbow. Her ordeal with DeVere still very fresh in her mind, she could not help contrasting the lecherous Frenchman’s behavior to that of the notorious Patrick Danvers. She shuddered to think of what would have happened had it not been for Westover. In that last twilight of consciousness, she remembered how very different it had felt when Patrick Danvers had kissed her.
The coach rolled and lurched along the rutted road, jostling her head against the wooden sides of the passenger compartment. Patrick watched Caroline slip deeper into sleep despite her uncomfortable position and then eased her over to rest against his shoulder.
10
Caroline dipped her pen in the ink she’d borrowed from Madame Crespin and poised it above the paper. She no longer held Patrick Danvers responsible for her plight, nor did she still consider him a totally ineligible connection. Quite the opposite, in fact, she admitted to herself as she began to write. But she simply could not marry him, particularly not since she suspected she was more than half in love with the red-haired, hazel-eyed viscount. She could not have been happy with the bloodless, purely business sort of marriage he’d first proposed in what now seemed a long-ago encounter in the Canfield parlor, but then neither could she accept his name and nothing more when it was offered merely to save her reputation. Her reputation—that was almost laughable. Aye, she’d always been above reproach, but to what end? A lonely, thankless position devoted to grooming other young women for brilliant matches. Stop it, she chided herself severely. She had to learn to accept her lot in life, else she would be miserable.
“My dear Westover,” she wrote, paused, and then scratched the words out to begin anew with, “Lord Westover,” only to scratch that out also. It was more difficult than she’d imagined to say farewell to the dashing Viscount Westover. “My dear Patrick,” she tried again, and stopped. Too informal, she decided with a heavy sigh. Drawing a line through that, she penned “Dear Patrick Danvers,” and studied that. Incredibly stupid, she guessed, but she had to start somewhere. Still dissatisfied, she crumpled the paper and took out another sheet.
This time, she forged ahead desp
ite misgivings about how she must sound to him. “Dear Westover,” she wrote finally, “I lack the words to express how very grateful I am for your assistance yesterday. I owe you a debt of gratitude that I will never have in my power to repay.” She read what she’d written carefully and thought it sounded rather foolish also, but she lacked the time to polish it as she would have liked. Instead, she plunged on with, “While I am cognizant of the honor you would do me, I must still regretfully decline your offer of marriage. There is not between us those mutual feelings that are necessary for a successful union, and it would be wrong to wed without that. While you might profess yourself content with a marriage of convenience, I believe there would come a time when you would regret it. There would always be the risk that you might later form a lasting passion for another. I know that I have cherished the foolish but romantical notion that someday I will find someone to love me. What folly it would be if we were not free to follow our hearts when that happens.”
Patrick Danvers’ image floated before her face, and she remembered how it felt to wake up safely cradled against his shoulder. Even though she was alone now, her face flamed at how she must have looked— disheveled in torn gown and covered insufficiently with his shirt. She’d been astounded by the feel of him, warm, alive, hard-muscled, and definitely masculine. She’d never been that close to a man before—except DeVere, and that was a far different matter. No, Patrick Danvers was nothing like she had thought him.
Regretfully she dipped her pen anew. “Therefore, I am decided,” she continued writing, “that my best course of action is to return to England and seek my old position at the academy where I taught before your aunt employed me. I am taking the fifty pounds you insisted on giving me for pin. money, and I am using it for my passage. Once I am situated again with Miss Richards, I will contrive to return your money and I will reimburse you for the dress you bought me. It is quite the loveliest gown I have ever owned, and I shall cherish it as a reminder of your friendship.” How very foolish you are, she chided herself again. There is no way that you will ever have the kind of money necessary to pay him back. She glanced down at the twilled green silk he’d bought for her wedding dress. It must have cost him the equivalent of a year of her wages, she supposed. Resolutely she turned back to the matter at hand and finished with, “While I doubt we shall ever meet again, I will never forget your kindnesses, my lord. I wish you the best of fortune in all your endeavors, and I remain Your Obedient …” She stopped to cross out the last word and put simply “Servant, Caroline Ashley.”
