A Lady for Lord Randall

by Sarah Mallory

  ‘Oh, no, not again!’ She stepped away, but not quickly enough. She had put up her hand to tell him nay, but he merely grabbed it and pulled her close. In an instant he had thrown her over his shoulder again. She tried to kick, but he clamped one arm like a steel band around her thighs while the other pushed the voluminous folds of her cloak and skirts away from his face.

  ‘It will be better for you if you stop fighting me and hold on,’ he advised her as he threw one leg over the ship’s rail.

  He was right. There was nothing she could do now. Struggling would only result in them both being thrown into the water. She closed her eyes and clung to him, trying to ignore the dreadful swaying and lurching as Randall made the perilous descent. At last she was dumped unceremoniously into the longboat and the earl sat down beside her. She was too full of mortification and anger to speak to him, and huddled beneath her cloak as the oarsmen rowed them towards the sandy beach. Even then her ordeal was not over. They were grounded several feet from dry land and the earl dragged off his boots and handed them to Robbins before jumping over the side. The water reached past his knees and silently he turned to Mary. One glance at his implacable face told her there was no going back. She allowed him to lift her out of the boat. At least this time she was in his arms and not over his shoulder like a sack. It was impossible not to slip her hands around his neck and try as she might she could not avoid breathing in his scent, an elusive hint of spices mixed with sweat and brandy and the salty tang of the sea. He strode through the water, his step never faltering despite the rolling waves that broke against his legs. She glanced up at his strong profile, the long nose, determined set of his jaw, his eyes fixed firmly ahead of him. There was no denying his was a commanding figure. If one was interested in such things, which of course she was not.

  At last they were free of the water and he set her on her feet.

  ‘There you are, Miss Endacott. And your shoes are quite dry.’

  He still had his hands on her waist and was looking down at her, eyes glinting and a faint smile curving his sculpted lips. It sent her heartbeat skittering wildly, but did nothing for her temper. Did he think he could placate her with such pleasantries?

  As soon as her legs would bear her weight she pushed herself away from him and marched off towards the inn.

  * * *

  What on earth was wrong with the damned woman now? Randall watched her stalk away, cloak flapping in the breeze and her dainty feet leaving a trail of footprints in the sand. Would she have preferred that he leave her to her own devices, to ruin her skirts by wading through the water?

  ‘Here you are, Colonel.’ Robbins was holding out a towel. ‘I’ve a fresh pair of stockings for you in my pocket, too.’

  Randall glanced again at Mary’s retreating figure before sitting on a convenient barrel and taking the towel from his man. He would follow her to the inn once he had put on his boots. It would be better for everyone if their words—and he knew there would be words—were exchanged in private.

  The inn was an expensive establishment and Randall wondered how Gaston would receive the small, soberly dressed Englishwoman who stormed in through the door. He had caught up with her sufficiently to hear the short explanation she gave the landlord of her presence there. It was delivered in excellent French and had Gaston bowing until his nose touched his knees. They were shown into a private parlour, where the landlord pointed out the meats, bread and little cakes he had placed on the table for milord as soon as he had seen that milord’s vessel had arrived. He had also brought in his best wine for milord, and if there was anything else he required, or mademoiselle, they only had to tell him and it would be theirs.

  Randall eased their voluble host out of the room and closed the door. Then he stood with his back against it, watching Mary. She had discarded her cloak and now paced about the room, dragging her gloves through her hands with sharp, agitated movements. There was a becoming blush on her cheek and her green eyes positively glittered with wrath. When she realised he was watching her she stopped and threw the hapless gloves on to a chair.

  ‘How dare you treat me in that manner,’ she declared angrily. ‘Without so much as a by your leave—’

  ‘Ladders and skirts are not a good combination, Miss Endacott.’

  ‘I would prefer to make up my own mind about that. It was bad enough that you threw me over your shoulder to take me below deck last night, but to do the same thing here, with everyone watching—’

  ‘Have ever tried climbing down the side of a ship?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘I did not carry you down for my own benefit, believe me.’

  ‘I have never been so humiliated—’

  ‘You would have been a lot more humiliated if you had attempted to descend by the ladder,’ he retorted. ‘The breeze would have whipped your skirts up around your—’ He broke off, realising he could not use soldiers’ language in front of her. ‘Let us just say that the oarsmen would have enjoyed far more of you than was seemly. There was a hoist that you might have used, but in this wind the effect would have been the same. It would not have been just your garters on display, believe me.’

  He watched with satisfaction as the meaning of his words hit her. The hectic flush on her cheek deepened and her eyes widened in horror.

  ‘Just so,’ he said grimly. ‘The men would go wild if any doxy was to flash so much flesh at them, let alone a—’ He turned away, trying to hide his final words in a cough. ‘Beautiful woman.’

  Had his wits gone a-begging? This was no time to be paying her compliments, however backhanded. Yet the memory of her in his arms haunted him and brought the heat pounding to his groin. He could still remember the moment her arms stole around his neck, a gentle touch, as if she was afraid to hold him too tightly. And the smell of her, that fresh, womanly smell. No cheap perfumed water for this lady, just a subtle, lemony scent from her hair as she nestled her head beneath his chin.

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  She had turned away from him and her words were barely audible, but he heard the tremble in her voice. Something twisted inside of him at her distress. He wanted to go to her, to hold her and make the hurt go away. The thought disturbed him. He had never comforted anyone, even his sisters. As he wondered what to say Mary straightened her shoulders and turned back to face him.

  ‘Your methods were unconventional, my lord, but I should have had a great deal more reason to blush if I had tried to make the descent in my skirts. I beg your pardon for ripping up at you. I have been struggling so long for independence that I have forgotten how to be gracious.’

  He admired her courage in looking him in the eye and apologising.

  If you were lovers you would take her to bed now.

  Randall cleared his throat.

  ‘Let us say no more about it.’ He went to the side table and began to pour wine into two glasses. ‘We should take a little refreshment before we continue our journey.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Her tone was light, matter of fact. ‘I have had nothing to eat since last night.’

  ‘And did you sleep at all on board?’

  ‘Yes, very well, for the whole of the crossing.’ She came up to take a glass of wine, glancing up at him shyly. ‘I know you will want to be with your men as soon as you can. I shall not delay you.’

  The angry glow had left her eyes; they were now a soft green, the colour of an English hedgerow in spring. He realised he would not object if she delayed him, if he could sweep her up and carry her off to bed. He wanted to bury his head in her thick dark hair, or even between the thighs that his arm had been wrapped around when she had been thrown over his shoulder. Desire slammed through him, heating his blood, and he moved away from her, alarmed at his reaction. He had thought himself beyond the age of such imaginings. Women had no place in his life, beyond as a pleasurable distraction. He
went over to the window and gave his attention to the view.

  ‘You may not delay me, but the lack of transport might well do so. Those fools are trying to offload my carriages now and making a hash of it. I had best go out and see what they are about.’

  Draining his glass, he grabbed his hat and went out, relieved to have an excuse to leave Mary Endacott’s disturbing presence.

  * * *

  Mary watched him go, then sank down on a chair by the table. What she had read in Randall’s eyes when he looked at her had shaken her to the core and her legs felt decidedly weak. It had been like looking into the hot blue flames of a fire. She had seen in them the promise of untold delights; delights she was sure were beyond her experience. It was a look of burning desire. She had seen it before, when they had been alone in Harriett’s garden, but then he had believed her to be a—she swallowed convulsively—a woman of experience. Perhaps men’s eyes always gleamed in that way when they looked at a pretty woman? But she was not a pretty woman; she was sensible, respectable Miss Endacott, proprietress of an academy for young ladies.

  She sipped her wine. Lord Randall could not help what he felt, of course. After all, he was a man and she knew very well that men were prone to strong carnal lusts, but what shook her was her own reaction to his look. She had studied Mary Wollstonecraft’s teachings, read Mr Godwin’s thoughts upon the nature of love and it had all sounded so reasonable. A man and woman would become well acquainted and fall in love. They would enter into a union of mutual interests, built on trust and respect without the need for the blessings of any church. The only union she had thought of when she saw that hot look in Randall’s eyes was a physical one. She had wanted to reach out for him, to pull his head down and taste his lips again, feel his body pressed against hers. Even now the thought of it made her grow hot and her muscles contracted deep inside.

  Thank heavens he had gone out when he had, otherwise she was very much afraid she might have given in to her instincts and thrown herself at him.

  ‘You must control yourself, Mary Endacott. Lord Randall has already told you the sort of women he allows into his life and you are not going to become one of those. Think of all you have to lose.’

  Yes, think, she told herself sternly. Mr Godwin’s idealistic doctrines might work for some, if they had independent means, but she only had her school to support her, and if she lost her reputation no one would entrust their daughters to her care. Randall might take her as his mistress for a while, but what then? What would she do when he had tired of her? She would have to find another protector, and then another, until she was too old and ugly to attract any man for more than a brief coupling in a dark alley.

  She shuddered. That fate was too hideous to contemplate.

  Chapter Four

  By the time Lord Randall returned Mary was in control once more. She allowed him to hand her into the carriage and resolutely kept her eyes averted from him whenever his horse came alongside the window. She had developed an infatuation for the earl. She had seen it in some of her pupils, but never expected that she would be so foolish. It was based on nothing substantial—after all, what did she know of the man? They came from different worlds; their views were so dissimilar there could be no common ground. What she felt for him was pure lust and she would fight against it with every fibre of her being.

  She was relieved that Lord Randall appeared to be working equally hard at fighting the attraction. When they made a brief halt to change horses he was distantly polite and when they stopped for the night nothing could have exceeded his attention to her comfort, even arranging for a maid to wait upon her and sleep in her room. If Mary’s slumber was disturbed by dreams then she could hardly blame the earl for that.

  * * *

  ‘No, we shall go on very well,’ she murmured to herself as she rose from her bed the next morning. ‘By this evening I shall be back in the Rue Haute and I need never be troubled by Lord Randall again.’

  On this encouraging thought she made her way downstairs. The inn was a small one, but the earl’s largesse had persuaded the innkeeper to put aside a private parlour for them. When Mary entered she found the earl was already breaking his fast. For a moment she hesitated by the door. He had changed his civilian clothes for a dark blue uniform that hugged his lean, athletic figure. He looked even more severe and imposing than before. It also accentuated the blue of his eyes, she noted as she met his gaze. Her heart jumped to her throat and began to pound so heavily that she quickly looked away, trying to regain her composure.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Endacott.’

  Lord Randall rose and held her chair for her.

  ‘Thank you, my lord. You expect to be in Brussels today, I think?’

  ‘Yes.’ He poured a cup of coffee for her before returning to his seat. ‘I have told the baggage coach to go direct to the schoolhouse and drop off your trunk, but I want to stop off at Roosbos, where the Rogues, that is, my men are camped. There will be no need for you to get out of the carriage when we get there, in fact I must insist that you do not. If all is well there I shall then escort you to the Rue Haute.’

  ‘There is no need for you to trouble yourself, sir. I am sure your coachman will find his way without you.’

  ‘Undoubtedly, but I promised Harriett I would see you to your door and she would not forgive me if I did not do my duty.’

  Mary did not argue. They both had their duties to perform. He had his artillery troop and she had her school to run. Once he had delivered her to the Rue Haute their paths need never cross again.

  * * *

  When they emerged from the inn some time later the rain was falling steadily from a leaden sky.

  ‘Surely you do not mean to ride in this?’ exclaimed Mary, stepping back into the passage. ‘You will be soaked to the skin.’

  ‘I have a good hat and a greatcoat.’

  She sank her teeth into her lower lip and observed the downpour.

  ‘Tell me truthfully, if I was not here would you use your carriage?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Then you must do so, my lord.’ She met his eyes, but fleetingly, so as not to blush. She did not want him to think she was being anything but sensible. ‘I am sure we can endure each other’s company for a few hours.’ He understood her meaning, she was sure of it, and when he hesitated she added with a touch of humour, ‘Your sister would not forgive me if I was the cause of your catching a fatal chill.’

  The stern look fled and a muscle twitched at one corner of his mouth.

  ‘I am not so weak,’ he said, ‘but neither am I so stubborn that I cannot see the sense of keeping dry.’

  He gave instructions to his groom, handed Mary into the coach and jumped in behind her. He seemed to fill the coach and suddenly she wondered if her kind-hearted impulse had been so very sensible after all. He was so very big, so very male now that they were shut up together. Mary felt decidedly awkward as they rattled out of the inn yard and she sought for something to say to break the silence.

  ‘I know your troop is known as Randall’s Rogues, but are they so very bad, my lord?’

  ‘Worse. A ragtag collection of the most ungovernable men in the army. Thieves, and villains, the lot of them. My company is their last chance; the alternative is transportation or the noose for most of them.’

  ‘But you give them the opportunity to redeem themselves—that is very noble.’

  His mouth twisted. ‘There is nothing noble about it. They are all good artillerymen. As long as they obey me then they remain in my unit.’

  ‘And the officers?’ she asked him.

  ‘Much the same. Villains or by-blows.’

  Her brows went up. ‘Surely you do not condemn a man because he has the misfortune to be a bastard?’

  ‘Of course not, but circumstances can make or break a man. My soldiers are
desperate fellows, all of them. They need desperate men to lead them. Together we make a formidable force.’

  Mary sat back in her corner, watching him. She said quietly, ‘You are very proud of them, I think.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ His face softened a fraction before he recovered and added roughly, ‘There is no room for sentiment in war, Miss Endacott. The Rogues are what they are and I would strongly advise you to stay away from them.’

  Even their colonel?

  The question hovered on her tongue but she did not utter it. She already knew the answer to that. Especially their colonel.

  * * *

  As the day wore on the rain eased and by the time they reached the woods at Roosbos the sun was shining. The coach turned off the highway and made its way along a track that bore signs of recent heavy traffic. Soon they reached the fields where the earl’s artillery troop was camped. Mary gazed out at the chaotic jumble of tents, wagons and horses. In amongst them were the gun carriages, their heavy barrels gleaming in the sunlight. With a curt command to her to stay in the coach Lord Randall jumped out and strode across to the nearest camp fire. The men seated around it scrambled to their feet as he approached.

  After her experiences on the yacht she did not attempt to disobey him, although she did let down the window glass so that she could see and hear better. The earl’s commanding voice came clearly across to her.

  ‘Sergeant, where is Major Flint?’

  ‘Gone off to see Major Bartlett, sir. Shall I go fetch ’im?’

  ‘No need, Hawkins. I shall be back later, once I have found my lodgings in Brussels.’ He was interrupted by a sudden deep barking and a large shaggy dog came bounding towards him. Mary caught her breath, expecting the animal to launch itself at Randall in a ferocious attack.

  ‘Sit!’

  The command caused the animal to skid to a halt before the earl, where it remained, panting and looking up slavishly. Randall’s next words were quietly spoken, but Mary noticed how his men stepped back nervously.