“Let me go.”
“Not yet.” He shifted, making certain anyone watching from the house would see only his back. “You’re the cruel one, Isabel. You shouldn’t have said it.”
She wrenched her arm free. “I didn’t mean to,” she retorted. “You keep setting me off balance.”
Well, this was becoming more interesting. “You ‘didn’t mean to’?” he repeated. “Telling me your deepest feelings was an accident?”
“Yes. Should I apologize for not dissembling?”
Sullivan leaned in, inhaling the scent of her hair. “No. I will apologize for not being what you deserve.” Phipps trotted up, Paris and the groom’s mount in tow. “Now let’s get you on this horse, shall we?”
“I’m not finished arguing with you.”
“We can fight on the way to the park, then. Not standing here.”
He felt her sigh. The urge to close his arms around her was so strong that he’d shifted before he could stop himself. Hoping Phipps hadn’t noticed, he moved his grip to her waist and lifted. With a small gasp that sent arousal shooting through him, she slid onto the sidesaddle.
Keeping one hand on her and one on the reins in case either lady or mare panicked, he held his breath. Zephyr was no matronly fifteen-year-old companion mare, and she would know she bore a new and nervous rider.
Isabel’s face was white. She wasn’t angry with him at the moment, but given the circumstances he would almost prefer that she was. “You look very fetching up there,” he whispered.
Color touched her cheeks, and she broke her stare at Zephyr’s ears to glance down at him. “Don’t compliment me if it’s just words,” she ordered.
Shifting his grip to the lead line, he moved around and swung up onto Paris. “I’ve meant everything I’ve ever said to you,” he returned. And some things he would never say aloud.
Chapter 21
Isabel’s entire family happened either by accident or by incredible coincidence to be home for the momentous occasion. She put aside the fact that this meant they were watching her, and instead waved two fingers—the most she dared—at them where they stood gathered on the front portico to watch her ride Zephyr down the front drive and out into the street.
“Brava, Tibby!” her father called, real pride in his voice.
“We’ll return shortly,” she ventured, concentrating to give just the correct amount of pull to the reins. With a twitch of her ears Zephyr angled smoothly to the right.
Tall and straight in the saddle just two feet to her left, Sullivan smiled. “Well done,” he murmured.
“Thank you.” She risked loosening the reins with her left hand to pat Zephyr on the neck. “Good girl.”
Riding Zephyr felt immensely different than riding Molly. The gray moved like a coiled cat, ready to spring into a trot or a gallop at any moment. But she didn’t; she stayed at the placid walk Isabel had called for. “It feels as though she would do anything I asked,” she said aloud.
“She would. It will take time for the two of you to learn from one another, though,” Sullivan cautioned in the warm, relaxed voice he always used around horses. “If she does something you don’t expect, keep in mind that it’s not on purpose. Just be patient and reassuring, and bring her back to where you’re both comfortable. A walk first, then a trot.”
“And don’t fall off,” she added with a nervous chuckle.
“Falling off happens,” he returned matter-of-factly. “Don’t be frightened of it. Just be ready. You’ll probably tend to go over backwards. Grab the pommel to try to keep your balance. If you can’t, then try to curl up. Don’t land flat on your back if you can avoid it, because that’ll knock the wind out of you.”
“I am not reassured.”
He shrugged. “If it happens, it happens. But it won’t today.”
She risked a glance at his smiling, handsome face. The face she wanted always looking back at her. “How am I ever to relax when every moment I must be ready for disaster?”
“It’ll get easier. Like learning to walk. You’ve mastered that and don’t give it much thought, do you?”
“I’ve been walking since the age of one. Eighteen years of practice.”
Sullivan chuckled. “Yes, but it took a year or two for you to get very good at it. And you’re not a newborn now.”
“I feel awkward as one.”
“You look very competent. And exquisitely lovely.”
“I told you to stop that.” She scowled at him. “I gave you a very nice compliment. The nicest one I can possible give, I think. If you can’t or won’t return it, then stop saying anything else.”
“It does pale in comparison, doesn’t it?” he noted after a moment. “But it hurts less.”
“For you.”
Sullivan looked away. “Very well,” he said finally, looking back at her. His ice-green eyes held secrets she couldn’t put a name to—but she knew they belonged to her. All of them. “I love you,” he went on in the low, intimate voice that made her tremble. “I want to see you, to talk to you, to hold you, every moment of every day. You make me want to be things that I can’t possibly be.”
His voice broke, but she kept her silence. She had no idea what she could ever say. A tear touched her cheek, and she hurriedly brushed it away before anyone at the entrance to Hyde Park where they rode could see it.
He cleared his throat. “You make me wish to be someone else. A man who could do those things in the light of day without fear of ruining you and destroying me. I’ve never wished that before, Isabel.” His gaze held hers. “Do you feel less pain now?”
She shook her head, another tear following the first down her cheek and then into oblivion on the back of her glove. “No.”
“Neither do I.”
“Sullivan Waring!”
The deep, strident voice made her jump. Zephyr sidestepped, tossing her head, her ears flattening. Oh, God. Isabel pulled up on the reins. The mare backed, snorting.
“Whoa, girl,” Sullivan said easily, not moving otherwise except for a subtle shift of his booted foot that kept Paris even with them. “Tibby, talk to her. Watch her ears.”
“Whoa, girl,” she repeated, not daring to let go of the pommel or the reins to pat the mare. “Good girl. That’s it. I’m sorry I startled you.”
Zephyr’s ears lifted, twisting to listen to the stream of soft words she continued to babble. The mare stopped fidgeting and lowered her head to nibble at the grass beneath her feet.
“Well done, my lady,” Sullivan murmured.
When she finally looked away from Zephyr’s ears, she realized that Sullivan had his hands in the air, his own gaze on the nearest of the half dozen mounted men encircling them. The men with pistols aimed at his chest.
“What is the meaning of this?” she asked, using every ounce of will she possessed to sound offended and not terrified that someone was about to shoot Sullivan.
The closest of the men, dressed as all of them were in a blue greatcoat with a scarlet waistcoat beneath, sent her a glance. “This is official Bow Street business, miss. Stay cl—”
“Lady Isabel Chalsey,” Sullivan interrupted. “You will speak to her with the respect she is due.”
The man’s jaw twitched, and he inclined his head. “Apologies, my lady. We’re here under orders. Please stand clear.” He returned his attention to Sullivan. “Mr. Sullivan Waring, by order of the chief magistrate, you are under arrest for theft.”
“This is ridiculous!” Isabel stated. Talking was difficult with her heart in her throat, but these men looked ready to shoot. How had they found him? How could they simply ride up and arrest him right when he’d said that he loved her? She took a breath to steady herself. “Mr. Waring has been training my horse. I have no idea what—”
“Apologies, my lady, but we have good information that Waring is behind the Mayfair thefts over the past few weeks. He’s to come with us immediately.”
“No,” Sullivan stated.
The pistols lifted agai
n. One of the men dismounted, a pair of iron manacles in his hand. “Dismount before we force you to it,” the ranking Runner said.
“Lady Isabel is my responsibility,” Sullivan said in the same even voice he’d been using. “I will not abandon her here.”
“You’ve got a groom there,” one of the others said, gesturing at Phipps.
Isabel had forgotten the head groom was even present. He sat on his horse a short way behind them, his face gray. She imagined hers looked much the same. They’d found Sullivan, and they knew—they knew—what he’d done. That he was the Mayfair Marauder. Who had told them? “Who provided you with this ridiculous information?” she asked aloud.
“We’re not at liberty to say.”
“I’ll say.” Oliver Sullivan, Lord Tilden, rode up behind the mounted Runners. “I’ve been forced to do my civic duty, Isabel. My apologies on the timing of it. I’ll see you home.”
“You will do no such thing!” she retorted, returning her gaze to the lead officer. “Mr. Waring is in my employ. I require him to return me to my home. You may follow us there if you wish.” It wasn’t much, but it might give them a little time to think of something.
“Mr. Waring is to come with us immediately,” the leader repeated.
“I don’t understand. Lord Tilden has no proof to support his accusations. In fact, the only reason he—”
“Phipps,” Sullivan interrupted. “Take the lead line. And don’t you move more than three feet from Lady Isabel all the way home or I will hear about it and hunt you down. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Mr. Waring.”
“Sulliv—”
“Everyone is watching, Tibby,” he said in a low voice, slowly dismounting as the pistols followed his every move. “Supporting me will only hurt you. Stay quiet, keep your chin up, and go home.”
She clamped her mouth shut. Finally she looked beyond their small circle to see what looked like half of Hyde Park’s visitors gathered around them, everyone muttering and sending as many looks at her as they did at Sullivan. She hadn’t even noticed them, and now that she had, she didn’t care. “Proof, sir. What is your proof?”
“Don’t you worry about that, my lady. On Lord Tilden’s statement we have men going to Mr. Waring’s home to look for the stolen items. You were burgled yourself, weren’t you?”
Oliver moved in. “There’s no need for that, Mr. Seifley. Let’s get you home, Isabel.”
“Stay away from me. As if I would want anything to do with you after what you said to me.”
Sullivan grasped her foot, making her jump and putting the Runners on edge all over again. “For God’s sake, go home, Tibby. Please,” he murmured, pretending to adjust the reins for her. “I never wanted this to hurt you. Stay away from me. Better yet, kick me first, and then go.”
“I will not,” she murmured back. Then she straightened. “Very well, gentlemen. Phipps, take me home at once.”
The groom crept in to take the lead line from Sullivan, then turned Zephyr away from the group. Isabel kept watch over her shoulder, making certain no one shot Sullivan. When the manacles closed around his wrists he sent her a last look and then turned his back.
Isabel felt sick to her stomach. She swallowed hard, fighting the urge to retch in the middle of the park. How could they simply ride up and arrest him? Once they had their proof, the only thing left would be to learn what his punishment was to be. Oh, God, what if they decided to hang him? No, no, no.
“My lady,” Phipps said from beside her, “we need to return to Chalsey House.”
She blinked. The Runners were on their way to Sullivan’s cottage. They didn’t yet have any proof other than Oliver’s accusations. “No,” she said aloud.
“No? But—”
“I will go home,” she stated much more confidently than she felt. “You will go to Lord Bramwell Johns’s home and tell him exactly what just transpired. Do you know how to find his residence?”
“Yes, my lady. But Mr. Waring said I should see you home. He said that expressly.”
“Phipps, you are in my family’s employ. Not his. Now go!”
With obvious reluctance he detached the lead line from Zephyr’s bridle and swung back up on his own horse. “Please be cautious, my lady. You will be alone on the streets.”
She was more worried that she’d be riding without assistance. “I am not going to ask you again, Phipps.”
He gave a curt nod, kicked his mount in the ribs, and galloped away. Isabel took a deep breath. She was not ready for this. Worse, though, would be to simply go home without trying to do something to aid Sullivan.
“Walk on, Zephyr,” she said, and flicked the reins as Sullivan had shown her. The mare started off as easily as if they were still in the stable yard with ready assistance right beside her.
A large chestnut gelding trotted up beside her and slowed to match Zephyr’s pace. “Isabel, don’t be stubborn,” Oliver said. “Let me see you home.”
“No, thank you,” she returned sharply, ready to try a trot except that she didn’t want him to see her awkwardness with it. He would find a way to blame her uneasiness on Sullivan, and he’d done enough of that.
“Mr. Waring is a thief,” he continued. “It was my duty to see him arrested.”
“Ballocks,” she snapped, finally turning her head to glare at him. “You had him arrested for no other reason than the fact that you are a small-minded, jealous, pitiable man.”
His elegant brow lowered. “‘Jealous’?” he repeated. “I most certainly have never been jealous of a…a horse breeder. He works for a living, for Lucifer’s sake.”
“That is precisely the point I will make to anyone who will listen,” Isabel retorted, wishing she knew how to hold on during a gallop. She wanted to fly home, to get help. “I will tell everyone that you, born with every privilege imaginable, stooped to making accusations against your half-brother simply because you couldn’t stand the thought of him being happy.”
“And you are the reason for this happiness you think he’s found, I presume?” His tone lowered, and she stifled a shiver. “That should create some interesting gossip.”
“Oh, don’t you trouble yourself, my lord. By the time I begin telling everyone about your small, black soul, I’ll have a much better tale to hand. About where those paintings came from in the first place, perhaps.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wait and see.” Tired of both the conversation and the snail’s pace, she flicked the reins again. “Trot, Zephyr. And you, my lord, will leave me alone. If I ever set eyes on you again, it will be too soon.”
As Zephyr sped her pace, Isabel had to grasp the pommel. She balanced herself again, and let go. If Sullivan received credit for nothing else, he was a very fine riding instructor. And he’d trained a fine horse.
And she needed to save him.
It seemed as though it took her forever to reach Chalsey House. As she rode up the drive and past the house to the stable yard, she didn’t even take the time for a moment of self-congratulation. It could wait. “Delvin! You, Smith! Harness our fastest pair to the coach at once!”
Apparently they were surprised enough both by her appearance and by her shouting that they ran to do as they were bid. That, though, left her alone to climb down from the horse. She’d never had to do that on her own; Sullivan had always lifted her down.
“Tibby?” Douglas strode into the stable yard from the house. “What the devil are you doing? And where’s Waring?”
“Oh, thank goodness. Douglas, help me down!” she commanded.
He lifted his arms, and she half fell onto him as she dismounted.
“Good God, Tibby, you’ve broken my arm.”
“I have not. And I need your help.”
“With what?”
“Sullivan’s been arrested. Bow Street’s sending men to look for the stolen property he’s accused of taking. I sent Phipps to go tell Lord Bramwell Johns, but who knows whether he’s home or not. So you and I must go a
nd remove all of the stolen paintings before anyone else can use them against him.”
Her younger brother blinked. “Are you mad?” he finally squeaked. “Do you have any idea what could happen to us if we’re caught helping a known thief?”
“I don’t care. Now say you’ll assist me, or I’ll find someone who will.”
“Damnation,” he muttered, glancing back toward the house. “They are going to ship me off somewhere for this, you know. And you, too. And don’t say you don’t care, because I know y—”
“I love Sullivan,” she interrupted, frustrated tears welling in her eyes again. “And I’ll help him, with or without you.”
“By God,” her brother stammered, staring at her. “By God.”
“I know, I know. It’s impossible. But at the moment there’s something I can do to help him, and so I will. Will you assist me?”
Still slack-jawed, he nodded. “I’ll help. But if Mother and Father sell me to the Americas as an indentured servant, I’m going to be very annoyed with you.”
“They’ll sell me, as well, so you can be as annoyed with me as you wish.”
Together they hurried over to the coach. She’d selected it because it had the most room inside for hiding stolen items. As Douglas waved aside Eugene the driver, though, and climbed up to the high perch himself, she had to wonder if she’d thought even this much through.
“Why are you—”
“Get in, Tibby. I won’t have any of the servants arrested for assisting us in assisting him.”
He had a very good point. She clambered into the coach and closed the door. “Go!” she yelled. If she couldn’t save Sullivan Waring, at least they would both go down fighting.
He could have gotten away. The Bow Street Runners wouldn’t have expected a captive wearing shackles to run, and he would pit Paris against any of the broken-down nags they rode in a quick second. A few weeks ago, he might have attempted it—lost what reputation he had, lost his cottage and his stable—to stay out of gaol.
After all, an attempted arrest would have done as much damage to Dunston and his illusion of perfection as having his bastard son hanged. Nearly as much, anyway. It didn’t look at all well for a son—even an illegitimate, unacknowledged son—to be arrested for burglary and theft.
After the Kiss Page 24
