The Hopeless Hoyden

by Bennett, Margaret

  “Who's there?"

  Startled by the low, gruff voice, Emily froze. Was that Caldwell? Her eyes darted about wildly, but she saw no one. Instinct told her to react--and fast.

  Hide! It was the first thought that came to mind.

  She dove for the cover of a large, squat bush, then swallowed her cries. Sharp, prickly leaves and branches ripped her robe, snagged her hair and pricked her skin. Her heart pounded so hard she feared the man could hear it over the night noises. She listened as his cautious movements through the thick brush brought him closer to her hiding place.

  The looming, dark figure stopped only a few feet away from her. He seemed to be looking around, searching. Under his breath, he muttered an oath followed with, "I lost her."

  She could hardly believe her ears. "Gabriel?"

  Gabriel whipped around, trying to locate her. "Emily, where are you?"

  “Shhh, he'll hear you," she said, trying to scoot out from under the bush. “Ouch."

  “Who will hear me?"

  “Your murderer."

  “Must I keep reminding you that I am not yet dead, so ‘he’ can't be my murderer," he corrected her in a strangely strangled tone.

  “Oh, well...Ouch!"

  “Are you hurt?" He was on his knees in front of her, pushing aside branches.

  “No, but I can't get loose. My hair!" she cried plaintively.

  “You could have picked some place other than a holly bush to hide. Be still, now." His calloused hands cupped her face as his fingers worked through her tangled tresses, gently pulling strands free. Snapping twigs, he circled his arms protectively about her, eased her out, and helped her to stand.

  “Rats," she said, running her own hands over her snarled mess of curls.

  Gabriel laughed as he plucked at the twigs and leaves still in her hair. "'Tis a rat's nest, but a glorious one, at that. Whatever were you doing in there?"

  “I told you, following the man who is trying to kill you."

  “And I've told you not to utter such nonsense."

  Emily flashed a quick, mutinous look, but then shrugged her shoulders. “Then you ought not to ask what I am doing."

  “Emily, are you aware of what could happen if a stranger were to come upon you? Why, you're dressed in your night clothes." His voice had steadily risen.

  “Oh pooh." She batted his hands away from her hair while trying to gather her robe more closely around her and tightened its sash. “I lost him, anyway."

  “Who?"

  “You are not to ask, remember?" He wasn't the only one losing patience.

  Gabriel remained silent, engrossed in the pool of shimmering moonlight surrounding her. The simple lines of the silk wrapper concealed little of her slender form, and the white froth of her lacy night gown was--virginal. Egads, he thought, he'd better make haste and get her back to the house before anyone caught them together.

  "Come on, Emily." He grabbed her hand, setting off down the path.

  “Wait, Gab," she cried. “Not so fast. Ouch, ohh, ohh!"

  “Now what?" He looked around, suddenly wary of being caught, even, trapped. His brain was screaming—Run! Retreat! Cover your backside! Thoughts and feelings that were similar to those he'd experienced at Salamanca when the French had routed Wellington's army. What an ignoble experience....

  “My foot. I stepped on something."

  The haunting memory passed, and slowly his mind's eye refocused on the girl before him. Would he ever forget the horrors of war? Then, he looked down. "Don't you own a pair of slippers?"

  “There was no time to grab them."

  “Emily--" But he knew he was wasting his breath and clamped his mouth shut. Instead, he stooped and came up with her in his arms and resumed walking.

  “What are you doing? Put me down," she cried, kicking her feet and pummeling his shoulders with her fists.

  He stopped dead in his tracks and juggled her in his arms. "Hold still, or I'll drop you."

  She complied instantly.

  “That's much better." He pulled Emily closer to his chest. The feel of her soft curves set his pulses to racing, and her lilac scent intoxicated his senses. With calculated effort, Gabriel reined in his desire, reminding himself that this tempting morsel was the enemy. He met her glowering expression with a cold stare. "Put your arms around my neck and behave. It's late and I'm tired. This way we'll get back to the house sooner." He waited until she clasped her hands together at the back of his neck, and started off again.

  All too soon, they reached the terrace outside the library, and he reluctantly set her down on the flagstone. Gabriel plucked more leaves from her tousled curls. "You'd better brush your hair before going to bed. Otherwise, your maid will wonder where you've been."

  Gabriel took her roughed hands in each of his, rubbing his thumbs over her bloodied scratches, and let his eyes slowly scan her attire. "She'll probably ask questions anyway. By the look of you, she'll likely surmise you've been in some sort of brawl." He slid his hands up her arms, clasping her shoulders and turning her toward the door. "Go to bed, Emily," he said, giving her a gentle shove at the small of her back.

  As he followed her inside, he let his gaze rest on the sway of her hips as she climbed the stairs. When a door above clicked, signifying she'd reached her room without mishap, he turned back into the salon and sank into a chair.

  What a night! So, his little protector had also seen Cecil leave the house. And like himself, she, too, had lost his cousin's trail. Probably, Cecil had slipped out to meet his accomplice, the very one whom Emily had overheard him plotting with in the woods.

  Gabriel had never developed a fondness for his two cousins. While growing up, Deborah exhibited a grasping nature and whined whenever she didn't get her way. As an adult, she still acted the spoiled brat, pouting or venting anger whenever things displeased her.

  Cecil and he had argued often during adolescence. As a result, a good number of their differences had been settled with fisticuffs. Over the years, Cecil had made it clear that he resented Gabriel's position as heir to the title and fortune. Since Gabriel's return from the Peninsula Wars, he had often spied a covetous gleam in his cousin's cold, dark eyes.

  Gabriel had no illusions concerning the advent of this house party. His cousin's creditors must've been nipping at Cecil's heels to precipitate his protracted sojourn into the quiet hills of Cotswold. In addition, being here would have provided an alibi for Cecil had his hired thugs in London succeeded in slitting Gabriel's throat. Yes, Gabriel thought, it would behoove him to exercise more caution, just as Emily had said.

  Emily! What a fright that violet-eyed minx had given him tonight in the woods when he recognized her cry. He'd swear his heart had actually skipped a beat, fearing something dreadful had happened to her. One way or another, the girl was going to be the death of him.

  He allowed a roguish smile to curve the corners of his mouth as he recalled how she looked standing in a pool of moonlight. Her wild tresses snarled with leaves. Her robe wrapped tightly, protectively, about her slender body, emphasizing every feminine curve. Her stance was defiant. Her chin tilted up as her eyes sparkled with fury. Her pouting mouth. Those deliciously kissable lips. It had taken all his will power not to take her in his arms and make love to her then and there.

  Then, he remembered the flashback of trying to flee Napoleon's troops, and he suddenly understood its significance. For there was little doubt about it--Miss Pendleton was one deadly trap—the parson’s mousetrap.

  ###

  To evade an inquisition by Emily, Gabriel rose early, rode out with his bailiff, and managed to stay gone half the morning. When good manners finally forced him to return to entertain his assembled guests, he fully expected Emily to be lying in wait for him. Trying to outwit her, he entered the house through a side door, scanned the hall, and on his toes, snuck past the drawing room, feeling like an utter fool in front of a curious footman.

  He was at the base of the stairs when a familiar giggle caused him to
glance up to the first landing and groan. There sat Emily, perched precariously on the banister with a bird's eye view of the length of the hall.

  “Up here, milord," she chocked on another giggle and waved her dainty fingers at him.

  “So I see."

  “Who are you trying to avoid?” she whispered loudly. “Miss Raines?”

  When Gabriel didn’t answer, she squared her shoulders and frowned. “Not me?” Then she giggled. “It never works, you know."

  “Apparently not," he replied drily.

  “Besides, I have been watching for you. We never properly finished our discussion last night--"

  “Em...er, Miss Pendleton," he corrected himself, slewing his eyes toward the interested footman positioned a mere ten feet away by the drawing room door. “Perhaps we could continue this conversation in the study." Tossing her a fulminating glance, he pivoted on his heel and headed down the hall. He heard her light steps bouncing down the stairs, running up behind him.

  “Ladies do not run, Miss Pendleton," he shot over his shoulder.

  “True, but it is imperative you do not escape me."

  That stopped him--physically and mentally. Turning to face her, his eyes were drawn to hers. He noted the loose tendrils of hair framing her smiling face. Instantly, he envisioned her chasing him across a green field, saw himself outdistancing her, then deliberately slowing his pace. He wanted her to catch him. In his mind's eye, she reached out, grabbed his coat and tripped, bringing them both down. He was falling, falling toward her, falling into a kiss....

  “Gab, are you all right?"

  Her voice broke his reverie, and he shook his head to force his eyes free of the hypnotic depths of her blue-violet gaze. One hand, he realized, was wrapped about her upper arm. He jerked his fingers away as though they'd been seared by a red hot flame. Taking a step back, he threw open the door to the study for her to enter.

  But this gave him little reprieve. For once inside, Emily whirled around, her violet eyes staring up at him. "Someone is trying to spill your claret--"

  “Ladies do not use cant, Miss Pendleton." He heaved an exaggerated sigh, a cover to gain control over his racing heart. He was shaken by the extent of his desire for this girl.

  “Yes, no, I mean you have forbidden me to say someone wants to kill or murder you."

  “You're splitting hairs."

  She shrugged a shoulder. "What does it matter? What is important is that you admit your life is not worth a groat."

  “Thank you."

  She ignored his sarcasm. “Ahha! So you admit someone is after you. All that remains is for us to--"

  “Us?"

  “Yes, us. We must discover who wants you dead."

  He ran one hand through his hair, then gave her a long, searching look. "Let's just say I'm willing to listen to your crazy ideas. Nothing more," he amended quickly.

  “Very good,” she said with a nod of her head, setting her curls to bouncing. “Although, I agreed to come over to Lindemann Park with the condition that I be allowed to sleuth about and find your foes.” When Gabriel offered no argument, she asked, “So, who do you think the culprit is?"

  “You first, Em," he shot back with a sly smile.

  She eyed him suspiciously, then tapped her lips thoughtfully with one slender finger and began pacing the room. "The most obvious suspect is your cousin, of course."

  “I presume you mean Cecil rather than Deborah."

  She nodded her head abstractedly, continuing to wear a path in the floral design of the Axminster carpet. “He certainly has the look for it. His eyes are so...demonic."

  “Demonic eyes?"

  “Do not laugh, Gab. Have you noticed that he keeps his eye lids half closed as though he were very sleepy, yet all the while he is tracking a person all about the drawing room."

  “Can't say I've noticed," Gabriel answered when, in fact, he had, especially when Cecil's gaze was fixed on Emily or, rather, parts of Emily's anatomy. He wondered if she was aware of his cousin's scrutiny of her or of his reputation as a womanizer.

  “Then you should watch him carefully," she said. "I swear—“

  “Ladies do not swear, Miss Pendleton,” he said.

  She glared at him for a moment. “At any rate, there are times the man verily makes my skin crawl."

  Ah, so she had noticed Cecil's interest. By Jove, if the cad laid one finger on her....

  “Aside from that," Emily's voice drew his attention once again, "there is a lot of damning evidence."

  “Really, Emily, you must learn to curb your tongue."

  She came to a halt in front of him, her arms hanging stiffly by her sides and her hand balled into fists. "Stop acting like one of my cranky governesses and listen. Please, Gab, this is important."

  His purpose hadn't been to tease her. If anything, far from that. He wanted only her happiness. He certainly didn't want her worrying or fretting over him. A cold fission of fear ran down his spine as it occurred to him that, because of him, she might be in real danger.

  “I'm not laughing." He reached out and tweaked one errant curl before tucking it behind her ear and gently rested his hands on her shoulders. Searching her face, he saw no scratches resulting from her dive into the holly bush last night. Her hands, though, had not faired as well. "I'm merely concerned for your safety. Do you realize that if I play this game with you--"

  “This is not a game, Gab."

  “Exactly my point," he said, giving her a little shake. "If I listen to you, I could be endangering your life. I won't have that."

  “Oh, Gab." Tears pooled in her eyes. "That sounds just like something one of my brothers would say," she said with a most unladylike sniff escaping her. "And I feel the same about you. So, you see...." She paused to use the back of her hand to swipe at one lone tear that had overflowed the dam, and squared her shoulders under his hands. "I intend to help you whether you want me to or not."

  It was obvious she meant what she said. While he’d agreed to accept her help in the beginning to get her to come to Lindemann Park, he had not really thought that she would be so observant or bold about catching his enemy. Those two evenings he’d caught her out chasing after men who might very well do her real harm proved that. This impetuous woman-child would be safer with him than sneaking about on her own. He'd probably be in less danger of harm, too, for that matter, as the memory of their first meeting flashed painfully to mind. Yes, he decided, the smartest thing for him to do would be to graciously accept her help. At least that way he'd have an idea of what she was scheming.

  “I'll agree if you'll give me your word not to do anything without first consulting me."

  “Done!"

  She hadn't hesitated for even a second, and he wondered if he'd made some mistake as she twisted out of his grasp and headed for the door.

  “I told Aunt Esmeralda I wanted to fetch a book to keep me busy. I better get back to the drawing room before she becomes suspicious."

  She was gone before he had a chance to question her further. He looked at his hands, still suspended in the air where they'd caressed her shoulders, and wondered if she shared the feeling of having been cut adrift.

  ###

  Emily was glad to see Tom came over from the Grange soon after lunch. She'd given the situation some thought and had decided to enlist his help in nabbing Gabriel's enemy. But before she got an opportunity to speak with Tom, Sylvia Raines ushered everyone through the drawing rooms doors that opened on to the east lawn for a game of croquet.

  There was a delightful breeze fluttering the lacy flounce of Emily’s blue muslin gown and pulling on the brim of her straw hat. The other ladies used netting to further protect their delicate complexions, but Emily relished the warmth of the sun's rays on her upturned face. While the others were busy pairing off and making up rules to accommodate a game for five teams, Gabriel approached her with a mallet in each hand.

  “This one is for you," he said holding out a green stripped mallet to her.

 
She was flattered as he had not picked out a mallet for any of the other ladies.

  "You never said if you liked croquet?" he said.

  The smile he offered her was enough to set her pulses racing. "I have only played a few times." She saw Sylvia striding purposefully their way. "It is not my best game."

  His smile broadened. "And what is your best game, Emily?

  His tone was teasing, and she flushed, remembering the feel of his arms about her. Before she could answer, however, Sylvia commanded his attention, boldly placing one gloved hand on his sleeve.

  “We are ready to start, Lindemann. Will you come and lead off?" she said, leading him away. She was all smiles for the Viscount, but the look the blond beauty tossed over her shoulder for Emily held pure venom.

  Trailing behind, Emily found she was teamed with her brother, who seemed to have eyes only for Prudence. The young girl was prettily dressed in a cherry poplin gown while a straw confection trimmed with matching ribbons topped her dusky curls.

  Her brothers always considered croquet too tame a sport. So Emily studiously watched the other players to get an idea of how to play. It looked easy enough, as the players applied swift, sure strokes that sent their wooden balls across the smooth lawn. Still, after several turns Emily and Tom lagged behind the others in points. She'd only passed through one hoop.

  Anxious to make a better showing, she pushed the brim of her straw hat back, then lowered her head and fixed a determined eye on her ball. Tom's ball was well ahead of hers. She figured a well aimed shot could place her ball next to his. The trick was not to hit his ball as she tried to go through another hoop.

  The crack of her ball knocking his off course drew his gaze from Prudence to her.

  “Have a care, Em. The goal is to win the game, you know,” were Tom’s encouraging words.

  Unfortunately, on her next few turns she did little better and was soon annoyed with her brother's constant criticism. But really, he of all people ought to be more understanding. He knew how awful her aim was.

  “I say, Em," he called over his shoulder when her ball sailed into his, this time knocking it out of bounds. “You've no right whacking my ball."