She took a single step toward him. She froze when that enticing smile tilted his lips. Was she out of her mind? Going back to the door, she opened it. Hastily she shut it behind her before the teasings of her heart sent her rushing back to him.
The candles must have gutted themselves, for the only light was dim starglow flowing through the lone window. She was surprised. The innkeeper had appeared to be so competent and concerned about his guests. She groped through the unfamiliar shadows, hoping to find the bed before she bumped into it.
She hit a table. Setting her bonnet on it, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She loosened her bracelet. It clattered on the bare wood as she put it next to her bonnet.
Even the fire on the hearth was out. Odd. She had been certain the innkeeper had vowed to have the fires lit while they ate. She took a deep breath and gagged on the odor of wet ashes. Someone had doused the fire. Her steps faltered. What was all this about?
Hands reached out of the blackness to grasp Phoebe. She tried to scream, but a sweaty palm over her mouth stifled it. Her captor pulled her back against a sturdy male chest. Light from a lantern flared in her eyes. She was blinded and could not determine how many people were in the room. The light vanished again before she could do more than blink.
“Silence, woman. You will be sorry if someone heard you.” The fingers holding Phoebe dug into her painfully, and she groaned against the hand.
When the hand at her mouth loosened, she drew in her breath to scream, but a gag was tied around her head. Her hair was twisted into the knot. She heard a cruel laugh, then she was pushed backward onto a bed. In terror, she fought for her balance and stared at the dark figure leaning over her.
She swung her fist at him. Curses filled the room. She kicked him, and he groaned. She tried to escape, but he pushed her back on the hard mattress and rolled her up into the heavy quilt.
She was picked up and thrown carelessly over his shoulder. She moaned. Screaming was futile. She must save her strength to escape. She tried to gauge where they were going, but the quilt covered her face.
Panic lashed her. She kicked at him again and struck flesh. He grunted in pain, then pressed her legs against his chest. Her head grew light from hanging upside down over his shoulder. She could breathe only the heavy air seeping through the quilt. Her nose bounced against his back, and tears streamed down her cheeks.
The stairs he was descending could not be the ones at the entrance of the inn. Someone would have seen them. But would anyone notice a man carrying a quilt? She tried to wiggle, hoping to catch any eye that might be aimed in their direction. The gag muted her moan as she was bounced on his sharp shoulder bones.
Low voices and the whinny of a horse reached her ears. She was dropped onto a flat surface, which lurched into motion. When she started to roll out of the quilt, hands held her to the wagon bed.
Galen! The scream could be heard only in her head. She shuddered against the thick blanket. So many questions fled through her head. Someone must have seen her and recognized her. Had all the talk about Lady Midnight been only a ruse to keep them so upset that they would not notice someone from London sneaking into the inn?
Galen! He might be kept speaking with Mr. Dorrance for so long that he would never been able to trace her. And what if he could? He might be walking right into trouble that even he could not get them out of. Sweet heavens, if he followed, he might be hurt.
She fought against the quilt, but she could not loosen it. The man’s hand must be pressed over where the quilt should have come open. She ran her feet across the boards of the wagon, looking for a crevice between them. If she could slip her toe into one, she might be able to pull herself back out of this smothering cocoon. She stretched out her foot. It was slapped hard.
Abruptly the wagon stopped. Heavy hands gripped her. She silenced her moan as she was set over the wide shoulder again. She kicked both feet at her captor. He swore and clamped his arms around her knees, pinning them once more against his chest.
Phoebe was carried a short distance. The clump of boots against the earth became a hollow sound. They must have entered a building with a wooden floor. Suddenly she was dumped on the floor. Her gasp of pain was muted behind the gag. No one touched her, so she wondered if she had been left alone. She would not wait to discover. She must escape.
Pushing against the swaddling of the quilt, she unwrapped herself and reached up to remove the dirty handkerchief around her head. Angrily, she flung the soaked material away.
A board creaked not far from her. Looking up, she discovered a huge man leaning on a half wall and regarding her in silence. Her brows lowered as she stared back at the man. He was massive. From where she sat, it seemed his head must brush the rafters of the barn. His hair was as black as his glower. Thin lips turned up in a smile as his serpentine tongue slowly licked them. The leer on his florid face and the strength of his muscular body, which threatened the seams of his shirt, added to her fear.
Who was he? She had never seen him on the docks down along the Thames.
When he spoke, his voice was immense, too. “Jane Tate?”
Phoebe hesitated. Jane Tate? Who …? The name that Galen had given her to protect her. What did that name have to do with all of this?
“Answer me. Are you Jane Tate?”
If she said no, she might have to own to her real name. This could be a way for her pursuers to get her to betray herself, although why they would resort to this was something she could not imagine. But if she said yes, what might this man do to her? She must learn more about what this was all about.
“Why do you want to know that? Who are you?” She stood slowly, for her whole body ached. Pushing back her tangled hair, she demanded, “Why have you abducted me?”
The man straightened to his full height, well over six feet. His shirt was crisscrossed with grime matching the filthy blacksmithing tools scattered around the barn. Her eyes widened when she discovered she was standing in a stall.
“I can see why you twisted his head,” the man murmured as his gaze fondled her from head to foot.
Phoebe folded her arms in front of her, longing to block his eager gaze which seemed to cut through her gown. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
His tongue slithered along his lips. “No? You do not know how you persuaded Jimmy to turn away from his wife and family before leaving him so heartbroken that he hanged himself?”
“What?” She stared at him. Was he insane? No, he was furious, but it was a deeply seething fury that had nothing to do with madness. “I don’t know what you are speaking of.”
“You don’t, Jane Tate?”
“But I am not Jane Tate.” She could not dissemble any longer. Not when he wore that livid expression.
His eyes narrowed. “I heard what your new lover called you. Jane Tate.” He grasped her arm, jerking her closer. “And you did not deny it was your name when I asked you before. Why are you denying it now?”
“Because Jane Tate is not my name.”
“Your lies are worthless.” He laughed with the same cruelty he had displayed at the inn.
She pulled away from him. Desperately she looked for a way to escape. Although her eyes had adjusted to the dim interior of the smithy, she could not see the door.
“You caused my brother’s death,” he growled. “I think ’tis time you paid the debt you owe us.”
“I owe you nothing! I am not the woman you are seeking.” Hay pricked through her stockings as she backed away from him. When he seized her arms, she screamed, “Let me go!”
“No, Miss Tate. Tonight you will pay for my brother’s murder.”
“Murder?” She searched his contorted face. “But you said he hanged himself!”
He shook her so viciously she feared her brain would rattle loose. Through the rumble in her ears, she heard him snarl, “He was murdered! By you and your cold heart.”
She gasped with astonishment. He was deranged! She was alone in this smith
y with a madman. Somehow she had to make him realize that he had made a horrible mistake. Her voice trembled as she said, “Sir, you must let me explain. It is not as you think.”
His fingers twisted in her hair until she cried out. He tilted her head back and leered down at her. “It is exactly as I think. I want you to suffer as we have, pretty Jane. Pretty, pretty Jane. I must own that I had planned on killing you at the inn … until I saw you.” He smiled as he ran a broad hand along her waist. He tugged her against his bulky body. “You are so willing to share yourself with your new lover. Let me see what drove my brother from his family and to his death.”
“No!” she screamed before his mouth clamped over hers.
She tried to shove his hands away. Her cries of protest resounded deep in his throat as he reached to unclasp the row of buttons along the back of her dress. Her gown gaped. His mouth moved in a slimy caress along her neck as he slipped her sleeve down her arm. She screamed again.
She must stop him. Stop him from killing her and stop him from this! Too many depended on her. She could not let them suffer because her life ended by error in this filthy smithy.
He pushed her backward toward the pile of hay. She fell, and her dress tore. She moaned as she struck the floor. When she looked up to see his eyes bulging with the yearning for vengeance, she shrieked and tried to roll to her feet. He dropped to his knees and pinned her to the filthy floor. She tried to push him away, but he laughed as his mouth descended onto the skin visible above her dress’s drooping neckline. His knee pushed her legs apart, and she screamed in pure terror as he reached to unbutton his breeches. Closing her eyes, she tensed. There was no escape from this nightmare.
Suddenly the heavy weight over her vanished. She heard a deep voice say, “That is no way to treat a lady, my friend.”
She opened her eyes to see Galen shove the man away from her. The man ripped a knife from the wall behind him and swung it. Galen jumped back, nearly stumbling over her. She pushed herself to her feet and groaned when her dress threatened to fall off. Pulling it up, she cried out in horror as the man aimed the knife at Galen again. This time, Galen reeled back and dropped to one knee. The big man rushed toward him, the knife raised.
She ran to halt him. He brushed her back as if she had no more strength than a moth. She struck the floor again. Her head whirled with pain. Hearing a grunt, she forced her eyes to focus and saw Galen easily drop her abductor with a single well placed blow to the man’s face. The knife vanished in the darkness.
Phoebe stared in disbelief as Galen pulled a pocket pistol from beneath his coat. Where had he gotten that? She could not ask as he pointed it at the man.
“Get out of here,” Galen ordered, his voice brittle.
The man stood and lurched away, holding his hand over his bloody nose.
Galen knelt by where she huddled on the floor. “Phoebe, are you all right?” Gently, he smoothed her skirt back down her legs.
She nodded, but did not move.
“Then sit up. He is gone.”
“I can’t!” she whispered. Embarrassment created heat around her face. “My dress is completely undone. When I stood a moment ago, it nearly fell to the floor.”
“I noticed.”
“You did not! You were busy with that beast!”
“Not too busy to notice the pink ribbons in the top of your shift.” He laughed as he put the gun back under his coat. “If that is the only problem, Phoebe, I can remedy that. I shall hook you up. Turn around. I promise you I will be a perfect gentleman.”
She sat and stared at the wall as he competently redid the many small buttons. It was not easy to ignore his gentle touch or his breath, which was enticingly warm against her neck. “Thank you,” she murmured, not wanting to speak more loudly. Then she might not be able to stop from blurting that she wished there had been even more buttons, so his fascinating touch would not be coming to an end so quickly.
He held out his hand to aid her to her feet and asked, “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” It was a lie. Her knees wobbled, and her head swam alarmingly. As she started to step out of the stall, she stumbled. He caught her elbow and drew her closer to the undeniable strength of his firm body. She stiffened.
“Come now, Phoebe. Didn’t I just rescue you?” His voice was uneven. “Have some faith in me!”
She tried to move away, but her legs sagged beneath her. She leaned against the door of the stall. “I don’t know why I should trust you when you were the one who got me into all this.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you and your plan to give me an alias. The alias you chose was the name of the very woman who ruined that man’s brother’s life. Please release me.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.” His voice had become oddly breathless. Or was it just that her ears were so filled with the echo of her rapid heartbeat that she could not hear him well?
“At this moment, I care little what you think!” she retorted. She should not be thinking of how enticing his fingers were, but how furious she was at him for getting her into this predicament.
“You have made that very clear.”
“I was abducted,” she said as they walked out of the stall.
“True.”
“I could have been killed.”
“True.” His retort was terse.
“I could have been—I could have been—” She shivered and hid her face in her hands.
Taking her hands, he drew them down. His face was strained, but he struggled to smile. “I know you blame me, Phoebe, but I devised the plan only to protect you.”
“True.” She smiled, then laced her fingers through his. “Forgive me, Galen. I know you were trying to help. I appreciate you being so heroic tonight.”
He offered her a wry smile. “Playing the dashing hero tonight was not my intention. Let’s continue this conversation somewhere else.” He tilted toward her. “I am sorry that I put you in such danger.”
A tremor swept through her as his words rustled close to her ear. “Nothing has gone as it should since I last left my house. Every good intention has dissolved into disaster.”
“It would be a disaster if your pursuers had found you.”
“How did you find me?”
“Tate saw your friend come out of the inn and was suspicious when he noted that the rolled blanket on the man’s shoulder moved as if it were alive. He alerted me. We followed.”
Phoebe tightened her arms around Galen’s arm as he led her cautiously through the cluttered building. His foot hit something. At its metallic clang, he cursed. When she laughed at his original turn of phrase, he grinned but weakly.
They emerged into the night. A shadowy, amorphous object became, as they neared it, a carriage. His smile grew even more brittle as he opened the door. A thousand questions battered at her lips, but she said nothing as Galen took her fingers to hand her in.
“Tate,” he ordered, “take us to …” His voice became a groan. He shivered, then collapsed to the ground, his fingers pressed to his side.
She knelt beside him. When he moaned, she put her hand over his hand. She gasped when she saw blood on her fingers. Carefully she peeled his hand away. His waistcoat was blotched near his left side. The man’s knife must have struck him. Why hadn’t he told her?
“Tate!” she called.
The lad ran from the front of the carriage to where Galen was lying. He swore, not bothering to curb his tongue. She did not chide him.
“Shall I put him in the carriage, my lady?”
“Yes.” She faltered, then asked, “Can you?”
Tate nodded. When he lifted Galen from the ground, flinging Galen’s arm over his shoulder, Phoebe put one hand against Tate’s back and the other on Galen’s to steady both of them. She bit her lip to say nothing as Tate fought for each step to the carriage. Somehow, the lad hefted Galen inside.
“Thank you,” Phoebe said. “Thank goodness you are stronger than you appear.”
; “A coachee needs to make sure his passengers get home, no matter what condition they are in,” he said with a proud smile. It wavered as he stared at Galen. “Will he be all right?”
“Yes,” she replied, wishing she had the confidence that was in her voice.
“Where do you wish us to go?”
“To Thistlewood Cottage.”
“Can Lord Townsend travel that far?”
“I hope so.” Her voice broke. “I hope so, because he must.”
Eight
Could it be possible? Galen wondered if he had again climbed out of the nursery window on the uppermost floor of Townsend Hall and slid down the huge tree, unable to halt himself. Then he had jarred every rib and left his skin raw. He had been a hero among his friends when he returned to school to show off his injuries, and he had never let any of them know how much he hurt.
As much as he did now.
He touched his side and winced. Through his covers, thick bandages were wrapped around him, the heaviest part directly over the convergence of the pain that ached through every breath.
“Take care,” came a soft voice.
Phoebe’s voice!
Was she hurt, too? No, that made no sense. She would not be so close if she was injured. Or would she be? He could not form a single rational thought.
Just pain.
A cool cloth dabbed at his brow, and Galen relaxed back into the soft mattress. Straining, he turned his head to see a slender arm right in front of his eyes. He followed the arm to even more pleasurable curves. It took more effort than he would have guessed to raise his gaze past them to a determined chin and exquisite lips. He groaned and closed his eyes before his gaze could meet hers.
“Take care,” Phoebe whispered again, and he was startled to hear what sounded like amusement in her voice.
“I am glad you find something humorous in all of this.”
“What?” Her astonishment sounded sincere. She continued to brush the damp cloth against his forehead as she said, “I can assure you, Galen, that I do not derive any diversion from anything that happened last night.”
His Lady Midnight Page 8
