Bared to the Viscount (The Rites of May Book 1)

by Lara Archer

  But Mary had already turned her back on him.

  And then she fled.

  * * *

  Mary’s heart thudded dully, and the breath caught in her lungs. She ran without feeling her legs beneath her, racing for home, but knowing home would give her no real shelter from the storm breaking inside her.

  Just moments before, she’d been riding a wave of utter happiness, believing her life was suddenly charmed, thinking everything was turning out a thousand times better than she ever could have imagined. She and John had lain together. She and John loved one another. She and John would live out their lives together in perfect joy.

  And then, when she’d been drawn up to the Green by all the jubilant shouting and cheering, she’d heard Lord Lawton’s words, and that sweet castle in the air had come crashing down.

  She’d been a fool, and John was marrying Annabel Lawton after all.

  Dear God, how had she been so stupid, so completely, utterly stupid? Of course her life wasn’t charmed. Of course she wasn’t heading for joy.

  She’d let herself believe a fairy story, and fairy stories had nothing to do with real life. In real life, handsome, wealthy, charming viscounts didn’t marry poor clergymen’s daughters, any more than they married governesses, or the dairy maids they bedded, or, for that matter, the opera dancers they wooed with jewels and flowers, then left at dawn to return to their proper wives.

  By giving herself to him in the woods, she’d just joined the ranks of those sorts of women—the sort to be casually wooed and swived and abandoned, and not to be seriously thought of again.

  She could scarcely believe it of John.

  He had always been her friend. Had always treated her respectfully.

  Perhaps he even believed he loved her. Sweet heaven, he’d certainly made her believe he did. All the words he said to her tonight—words so sweet to her at the time, she’d felt intoxicated by their beauty and passion.

  But as she scanned back through them in her mind now, she realized her besotted ears must have interpreted everything according to the wishes of her heart, not necessarily according to John’s intentions. Because hard as she scoured her memory, she could not recall a single word John had said about marrying her.

  Oh, Lord. Not a single one.

  And had he ever once said he wasn’t actually going to marry Annabel?

  No, he hadn’t.

  Mary had even asked him, point blank, if he intended to marry the Lawton girl, and he hadn’t told her no, he’d told her to put it out of her head.

  He’d merely said he couldn’t love Annabel. And, Lord knows, men of his class all too often married without the slightest love for their affianced spouse. All he’d said was that he was going to follow his heart, and not worry what the world thinks.

  He’d never meant that he was breaking off the presumed engagement. He’d merely been declaring that he wanted Mary too. Following his heart meant only that he meant to enjoy her body without benefit of marriage—regardless of the propriety of the situation, regardless of how wrong it was, regardless of how much their neighbors would all condemn them.

  He was only offering to make her his mistress.

  His mistress.

  Oh, dear Lord.

  And he’d done exactly that. Quite thoroughly. Outdoors on the forest floor.

  The great canopied bed of his forefathers would be reserved for his proper viscountess, while Mary could be taken on a layer of pine needles, with only the moon for a covering.

  And she’d spread her legs gladly, and moaned, and clutched at his hips—just as a mistress was meant to do. As a whore would do.

  Not a wife.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dawn broke foggy and cold, the sun a vague paleness in a gray sky.

  John only gradually become aware of the reason he was able to watch the sun rise—the same reason he was stiff as a board, and damp with dew, and getting poked all along one side of his face by the needles of a yew bush. He’d spent the night outside the vicarage, first pounding at the door and then the windows, long past the point when he realized the effort was futile, and finally settling in for a vigil on the stoop, thinking Mary had to come home eventually, or if she were hiding inside, come out and talk to him before the neighbors spotted him there.

  Now, even as he forced his aching limbs to stretch and bring him upright again, he knew it was no use to knock. The vicarage was as dark and silent as it had been the night before, with a tomblike stillness within. Mary must not have come home at all last night, or must have fled from home before he reached her door.

  Dear Lord. The sight of Mary’s back as she ran away last night from the Green, her shoulders so rigid, her hands clenched in fists, would never leave his brain.

  What must she have thought when she heard Lord Lawton’s announcement that he was betrothed to Annabel? What must she have believed of him? To make love with her as they had, so passionately, their souls joining as surely as their bodies had, and then to have his marriage to another woman announced before all the world.

  The thought sent a wash of shame and agony through him.

  Mary had clearly had difficulty enough believing him when he’d told her she was lovely, and desirable, and a far more worthy choice of mate than Annabel Lawton could ever hope to be. It had taken all his tenderness, all his kisses and caresses, all his promises to make her believe he loved her. And then Lord Lawton’s lie had confirmed all her worst fears.

  If only he could go back in time, he’d punch the man in the mouth to stop those lying words from coming out of it in the first place, honor and his father’s memory be damned.

  When Mary had run from the Green last night, John had tried to push his way off the shoulders of the burly farmers who carried him, but they seemed to think he was merely losing his balance, and held him faster still. And once he got himself disentangled and on his feet again, another knot of villagers swarmed him, clapping him on the back and shouting their congratulations. By the time he’d wrenched himself free of them as well, Mary Wilkins seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth.

  Heart sinking now, he searched the stable in the back of the house.

  Thank goodness, the Wilkins’s old nag was right there in her stall, tossing her mane at him when he approached. So she at least could not have been the means for Mary’s escape—not that the poor beast could have carried anyone very far, even on her best day.

  The horse stamped and whinnied, clearly hungry for breakfast, so he pumped some fresh water and filled her trough with a bucket of fresh oats. At least he could do that much for Mary’s sake.

  Had Mary left on foot, then? Gone to a friend’s home to hide from him? Perhaps locked herself up in some recess of the church off limits to laymen?

  He had to find her, wherever she was, and make her listen to him.

  He was just giving the horse a final pat on the head when stable door behind him creaked. He turned on his heel.

  Mary?

  But, no, it was little Billy Harrow from the village—one of the schoolboys Mary taught. The urchin stopped in sudden fear to see the viscount standing there. “Milord?” he said, eyes blinking.

  “Billy,” said John. “What are you doing here?”

  The boy looked as if he wanted to ask him the same thing. But he said, “I’ve come to see to the horse, sir. Miss Wilkins asked it.”

  “Miss Wilkins?” His heart thumped. “You’ve seen her? Where is she?”

  The boy blinked harder now, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “I’m—I’m not supposed t’say. Not to—to anybody, sir.”

  “Not to me, you mean? Specifically, you’re not supposed to tell me where she is?”

  The boy’s cheeks blazed. “She—she made me promise, sir.”

  “Of course, Billy, and you’re a good boy. But there’s something she doesn’t understand. Something I need to explain to her. I need to find her, and you need to tell me. You must know I would never do wrong by Miss Wilkins.”
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br />   The boy stood, mouth gaping, clearly torn between his fealty to the Parkhursts and his loyalty to his schoolmistress. “You—you can’t find her anyhow, sir. She’s gone off.”

  His breath caught. “Gone off where?”

  “I can’t say, sir.”

  He grabbed the boy’s shoulders. “You can say. You will say.”

  The boy’s eyes squeezed shut in panic. “She—she went off north, sir. With Sam Brickley. In Sam’s wagon.”

  “North?” Oh, no. The image of Sam Brickley coming from behind the schoolhouse, hitching up his trousers, spiked into John’s mind. “North as in Scotland? North to Gretna Green?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

  John dropped his hands from Billy’s shoulders, and the boy fled.

  Dear Lord, Mary was a practical woman, but would she really move so quickly to marry another man?

  But why wouldn’t she, if she believed he himself was marrying another woman?

  Especially if she worried their lovemaking in the woods might have gotten her with child.

  No doubt, Sam Brickley was a decent man. He was clearly attracted to Mary. And having lived in Birchford all his life, he must know full well what sort of extraordinary woman Mary truly was. If Mary asked him now to save her, to marry her, would Sam take her as his wife?

  He might.

  He might very well.

  And if they went through with it fast enough, it wouldn’t matter whether his own engagement to Annabel Lawton was real or not—Mary would be lost, forever.

  A wave of nausea swept through him. Sprinting out of the stable, he raced home, got his best horse, a fat purse of gold coins, and a parcel of bread and cheese from his housekeeper. He had no intention of stopping any sooner than he absolutely needed to.

  On the way out of town, he passed the Brickley farm—and indeed there was no sign of the man plowing that morning, as he otherwise would be sure to do. And no sign of the glossy cart horses that would usually be at pasture in the Brickley’s orchard.

  John’s stomach squeezed tight as a fist.

  He drove his horse to the limit, skirting York as he guessed Sam would, heading towards Wetherley to pick up the North Road. He stopped at the Hogshead Inn there, the most likely place for the pair to stop, and sent his exhausted mount off with the grooms.

  Hurrying into the main room, he elbowed his way to the innkeeper, who was behind the bar polishing glasses. He described Sam and Mary, asking if the man had seen them.

  “Oh, aye,” said the innkeeper, brightening. “Came in past midnight last night. Big cove, black hair. Appetite like a wolf.”

  John really didn’t want to hear about Sam Brickley’s appetites. “And was a young woman with him?”

  The innkeeper rolled his eyes now. “Aye. But she wouldn’t touch a bite, meat nor drink. Sat crying in the corner, she did. Talking to that clergyman fellow.”

  “Clergyman?”

  “Aye. What came in with another man and woman, in a fine coach, with a fat purse. They had the roast beef with mustard, they did, and plenty of—”

  “I’m sure they were well fed,” insisted John. “Please, just tell me if they’re still here.”

  “No, sir. Didn’t even take rooms. Ate by the fire and then left in the middle of the night. Took fresh horses. All five of them in the coach, bound for Scotland.”

  Damn. So Mary and Sam were definitely headed to Gretna Green.

  And Mary must have confessed all to her brother, if she was weeping while she spoke to him. And Thomas would have no grounds to disbelieve her story—that she had allowed herself, sinfully, shamefully, to be seduced by a man who would never marry her.

  No doubt, the vicar would have the same response to her situation as he did to that of Mrs. Trumbull and Mr. Bassett: ensuring a respectable marriage took place as quickly as possible.

  Fear gripped him, more deep and visceral than anything he’d ever felt on the battlefield.

  Why on earth had he made that offer to Mr. Bassett and Mrs. Trumbull, to give them his coach and a pouch of gold. The fleeing party would have had a hard time keeping ahead of him if he hadn’t equipped them so well.

  And the gold had probably allowed them to take the best horses the Hogshead Inn had to offer. If they travelled through the night, they could reach Gretna Green some time tomorrow.

  He had to catch them, but his own mount couldn’t go further today,

  Looking about at the crowd of men in the inn—several of them apparently peers or wealthy merchants—John withdrew his heavy purse and held it up to view. “Who amongst you has the finest, fastest, strongest horse?” he called out. “I’ll pay triple what the beast is worth if you’ll give him to me right now!”

  And so he went, inn by inn, switching horses every chance he got so he could ride hard, his purse growing lighter and lighter. But the party he pursued had many hours head start on him, and they weren’t stopping any more than he was.

  He could not afford to pause to rest. At Middleton Tyar, he turned to the west, then rode through the night to Carlisle, with the great hulking shadow of Barnard Castle looming on the horizon to guide him north.

  By the time he crossed the Scottish border, he was bleary from lack of sleep.

  For a tiny border town, Gretna Green managed to be as confusing as any metropolis, its residents loathe to cooperate with a desperate, glowering man who had the signs of “trying to stop a wedding” all over him. After all, such men were very bad for local business.

  He spent what seemed like hours going from building to building, until at long last, in the back room of a public house, he suddenly came upon a familiar pair at a corner table with their arms slung around each other—the sexton and the owner of the Fox & Crow, both looking quite merry and roaring drunk.

  “Oh, thank goodness!” he cried out. “Mrs. Trumbull! Mr. Bassett! I’ve been searching everywhere for—”

  “That’s Mrs. Bassett, now,” interrupted the sexton, his voice proud but noticeably slurred. “We’re here enjoying our marital bliss!”

  Mrs. Trumbull—Mrs. Bassett, rather—howled with laughter and collapsed sideways upon her new husband, kicking her feet into the air. The pair did indeed seem blissful, though whether due to love or to drink seemed debatable.

  “And many years of happiness to you both,” said John. “But can you tell me where—”

  “Oh, come now, lamb,” cried the new bride affably, apparently forgetting his title in her nuptial joy. “Have a drink with us!”

  “You’re payin’ for it, after all!” added the groom, and burst into a guffaw at his own witticism.

  “Indeed. And glad I am to do so,” said John soothingly. “But, please, if you could tell me, where can I find the Wilkinses. And—and Mr. Brickley.” His whole soul contracted as he braced himself for Mr. Bassett’s correction that it was now Mr. and Mrs. Brickley.

  But Mr. Bassett wasn’t the one who answered.

  “Oh, them,” said his bride. “They parted ways with us just after we crossed the border. Just as well they didn’t stay for the weddin’—that poor Miss Wilkins, she wept like a babe the whole way north, and I don’t think she’d have stopped even for our vows.”

  Miss Wilkins. Oh, thank heaven. John breathed again for the first time in quite a few seconds, and his head spun like a top. Mary wasn’t married. She wasn’t married.

  “Some gent done her wrong, if you ask me,” said Mr. Bassett, leaning forward sagely and planting his elbow in a platter of fried oysters. “Sam Brickley kept whispering with her, urgent-like, and I heard him ask her to marry him, to set things right for her, if you get my meaning. But he weren’t the bloke what did it in the first place, you could tell by the way she looked at him.”

  John’s heart jammed its way up into his throat. “And—and what did she say to him? To—to his proposal of marriage?”

  “Can’t have been yes,” said Mr. Bassett. “Sam hired a horse at Carlisle, and went home alone.”

  “Looking like raincl
ouds had opened over his head,” added his spouse.

  The relief that rolled through him made John clamp his hands to the edge of the table to keep from sinking to his knees.

  Mrs. Bassett’s eyes narrowed on him suddenly. “It weren’t you who done her wrong, Lord Parkhurst, were it?” Of course, she remembered his title now, and he clearly wasn’t a lamb anymore. “That girl is a right angel among us, and if you done her any harm, lord or no lord, you’ll meet with the wrong side of my boot!”

  Mr. Bassett sat up straighter, looking suddenly more sober. He reached into his pocket and drew out the purse of gold that was his wedding present and tossed it back toward John. “No disrespect, my lord. But I’ll take no gift from you if you did harm that girl. She’s a good one, and she cried like her heart was broke. If you used her, then cast her off for that frippity little Lawton girl, it weren’t well done, it weren’t well done at all.” He paused, seemed to realize how boldly he’d spoken, then gave his forelock a tug and added, “Beggin’ your pardon, my lord.” His gaze, though, remained hostile.

  John gaped at the two of them, shame and outrage doing war inside him. “Blast it all! It was me who made her cry,” he admitted, “but only because she misunderstood my intentions. Because Lord Lawton told a lie, that I was marrying his daughter. Which I’m not going to do. I mean to marry Miss Wilkins, believe me, if only I can catch her before she does something foolish.”

  Both the Bassetts became instantly more friendly again at those words.

  “Well, that’s all right, then,” exclaimed said Mrs. Bassett, smiling upon him beatifically once more. “Marry her. Make our girl a proper lady!”

  Mr. Bassett nodded vigorously. “If you’re to catch her, you’ll have to head back down to Penrith. That’s where they were going, back south to see another clergyman friend of the vicar’s. Mr. Chat-something was his name. Chattington, maybe. Chatterley. They’ve gone in your carriage, at any rate, since we weren’t in need of it no longer.”