by Darcy Burke
She opened her eyes slowly, revealing wariness in their depths. She averted her gaze from him and spoke softly, but firmly, “I want to go home.”
He couldn’t take her home. And if she went home, she’d be a sitting target for Gin Jimmy. He opted for deflection again. “Just stand here and look at the stars. Do you see Aquila, the eagle?”
She tilted her head back. After a long moment, she exhaled. “Yes.”
“Good. Tell me what else you see.”
He hurried back to the ditch where he pulled the highwayman’s coat from his body. He glanced back at Audrey and saw that she was watching him. He pointed to the sky. “What else?”
She snapped her head back up. “I see Cygnus, the swan, and Delphinus, the dolphin.”
“Excellent. Cygnus is one of my favorites.” He rushed back to the cabriolet with the coat, one sleeve of which was already rather bloody. He used the rest to wipe up as much of the blood on the floor of the cab as he could.
She was quiet as he moved past her to dispose of the ruined coat, which he tossed atop the corpse. When he turned back toward her and the cab, he was suddenly and thoroughly spent. His vision blurred. His knees shook. He barely kept a grip on consciousness.
He must’ve swayed, because the next thing he focused on was her coming toward him.
“Are you all right?” she asked. She clasped his good arm and only just stopped from grabbing the bad one.
No, but he didn’t say that. Nausea swirled in his gut. Tossing up his own accounts didn’t seem like such a bad notion all of a sudden.
“We need to get off the road.” She pulled him toward the cab and helped him climb up.
“I’m supposed to be helping you,” he muttered.
“It’s a bit late to act the gentleman, isn’t it?”
Nothing she said could’ve stung more. He’d tried very hard to be a gentleman. It was all he bloody wanted. But it was impossible when trouble was intent on finding him. If tonight’s plan had been successful, he’d be at Lockwood House toasting the arrest of one of London’s worst criminals and he’d be free of his old life.
Instead, he was fleeing London with two holes in his arm and was subjecting a perfectly lovely young woman to atrocities she should never experience. Yes, it was altogether too late to be a gentleman.
He landed in the seat with a loud exhalation.
She climbed up and sat beside him, casting a look of distaste toward the floor. She didn’t, however, break down, once more affirming his estimation of her intrepid spirit. “How’s your arm? Should I drive?”
Ethan cradled his injured arm and winced. “Do you know how?”
“I used to drive our gig in the country. It had two horses, so this has to be simpler, doesn’t it?” She picked up the reins.
Ethan wanted to argue, but he was too overcome with pain and exhaustion. He just wanted to close his eyes.
The last thing he heard was another shriek.
AUDREY BARELY KEPT Mr. Locke from toppling from the cabriolet. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him toward her, trying to be careful of his arm, but in the end, she feared she’d caused him more pain.
But now he was slumped toward her. She peered at his face in the lamplight. Dark circles, accentuated by the pallor of his skin, had formed beneath his eyes. Eyes that were closed.
“Mr. Locke?” She shook him gently. “Mr. Locke?”
He was utterly unresponsive.
She let him go, careful to angle him against her, and leaned back against the seat. Panic seared through her. Where was she to go? She couldn’t stay here. One of the highwaymen had run off. He might decide to return with reinforcements.
Get a hold of yourself, Audrey. You are not a simpering featherwit.
She turned sideways and shook him again, this time more firmly. “Mr. Locke. Wake. Up.” In the absence of smelling salts, she did the only other thing she could think of: She slapped his cheek.
His eyes shot open. “Ow.”
“Sorry, but I had to wake you.” She smoothed her hand against his stubbled cheek. The dark growth of his beard was visible. She ought to find his appearance shocking; instead she was oddly intrigued by the scratch of the hair beneath her fingers.
“No, my arm.” He groaned again and cradled his wounded arm with his good one.
“You may return to your unconscious state as soon as you tell me your plan. Where am I to drive?”
His head rolled back against the seat and he closed his eyes. His pale throat was elongated above the twisted knot of his cravat. He looked a gentleman, despite his unshaven state, but he’d done things tonight she doubted most gentlemen could—or would—do. “An inn,” he said weakly. He tried to sit up, but barely moved. His breath came in sharp gusts, like he’d run a great distance.
He pierced her with his intense gray stare, eyes she’d looked into before as she’d taught him to waltz. She’d wondered why he hadn’t learned before, but had been too shy to ask. It would join the list of questions she’d formed tonight.
“Be careful. Not all of the inns are . . .” His head lolled back against the seat and his eyes shuttered once more.
“Not all of the inns are what?” She willed him to open his eyes again, to answer her, but he didn’t stir. His chest rose and fell with his breath, rapidly at first, and then slowing to a sleeping rhythm.
She repositioned herself on the seat and picked up the reins again. It took a few tries, but she managed to get the horse moving. The road was dark as pitch and rather uneven. She was glad Mr. Locke was unconscious because the constant bump and jostle would’ve caused him no small amount of pain.
Her mind traveled over the course of the night. She’d started it with scandalous behavior—a quick glance down at her gentleman’s costume affirmed that—and she was ending it in much the same manner. If anyone knew that she was alone with Mr. Ethan Locke, she’d be completely ruined.
As if it mattered. What sort of marriage prospects did she have? None. Her parents would be horrified; she’d scandalized them before, but that would be the extent of things. Oh, she supposed she wouldn’t go to any more balls or parties, but what was the point of them anyway? She propped up the wall and visited with her small circle of friends, things she could do anywhere, anytime.
Should she turn back to London? No, she wanted to find shelter as soon as possible, and there was nothing behind her for a few miles. However, returning home meant she could preserve her reputation. Her stomach roiled, not with the same gut-wrenching sickness the dead highwayman had provoked, but with a gripping tension that accompanied thoughts of the life that awaited her in London. The life she’d tried so hard to appreciate and succeed at, and she’d failed miserably on both counts.
Yet when she thought of the last hour, her body thrummed with exhilaration—dead highwayman notwithstanding. She flinched. What sort of person did that make her? She’d shot a man, committed larceny, and witnessed a murder. No, surely it wasn’t murder since Mr. Locke had been defending her.
And what sort of person was Mr. Locke? He’d fought off the intruders at her house, orchestrated the theft of the cabriolet, and saved her from the highwayman. She couldn’t fault him for any of those things, only the manner in which he’d done them. And yet, she was invigorated by him.
The cabriolet moved forward. Away from London. Away from the life she didn’t really want. A sense of rightness settled over her. Whatever happened now, things would be different. She relaxed into the seat and smiled softly. The one thing she would do upon arriving at the inn would be to draft a short note to Grandfather, assuring him of her well-being. She didn’t want him to worry, but neither did she want to give details about where she was or why.
The sound of hooves clopping in the dirt drew her to sit up straight and search the darkness. She prayed to God it wasn’t another highwayman. Where on earth was an inn? She needed to get off this blessed road!
The horseman came into view. And rode straight into the center of the road, jus
t as the highwayman had done.
Chapter Three
LIGHT BLISTERED THE backs of Ethan’s eyes. He turned his head to try to evade the intrusive glare and promptly groaned at the shard of pain that sliced through his temple. Tentatively, he opened his eyes. He stared at the ceiling over his head, registered that he was in a bed, and that his arm was on fire.
Memories of the previous night rushed over him. Audrey.
He pushed himself up, wincing with the pain the movement wrought. A thorough scan of the room revealed it to be empty. It was narrow, with two slender windows on either side of his bed. A small table and a rough-hewn chair sat before the hearth, which held a smoldering fire. Though sparse, the space appeared clean and well-kept. And completely foreign.
Where was he? Was Audrey near? God, he hoped nothing had happened to her. He didn’t remember a thing after dragging the body of the highwayman from the cab.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He still wore his breeches, but the rest of him was quite bare, save the bandages covering his right bicep and shoulder. Who had tended his wounds? More importantly, who had removed his clothing?
The door opened and Audrey stepped over the threshold. She carried several garments folded over her arm. Her gaze connected with his and she smiled. “Good morning!” she said cheerily, as if she hadn’t seen things last night that no proper young lady should.
And she looked like a proper young lady this morning—gone was her gentleman’s garb. A simple gray frock hung a bit loosely from her frame, and it was too short for her taller than average height. Her hair was pulled up haphazardly. Errant curls tumbled here and there. She looked fresh and lovely, not at all like she’d been to hell and back the night before.
She set the clothing on the chair next to the table and bustled toward him. “You shouldn’t be up.”
“Where are we?” he croaked, as if he’d spent the night drinking too much gin in a flash house.
She waved at his feet, directing him to put them back on the bed. However, she kept her gaze fixed on his face. “An inn. Don’t you remember?”
He complied and brought his legs back up, though he kept them atop the coverlet. “Should I?”
Her brows gathered in an adorably perplexed expression. “You seemed at least semiconscious, but perhaps you weren’t.” She fluffed up the pillow. “You should lie down.”
“May I have something to drink first?” He had no intention of lying down.
“Certainly, I should have thought of that straightaway.” She went to the table, where there was a pitcher and a cup. She returned to him with water, which he drank greedily.
He handed her the empty cup. “Thank you.”
She kept her gaze focused on his face. He recognized that his lack of attire was completely scandalous to someone like Audrey. The gentleman he was trying to be urged him to put on a shirt, but the wounded animal he currently felt like didn’t give a damn.
“What happened last night? I’m assuming I lost consciousness. How did you get us here?” Shit, they didn’t have any money since that boy had stolen his bag from the cab. How was she paying for this?
She turned and went to the chair. When she came back, she handed him a shirt. “Maybe you could put this on?” Her gaze dipped to his bare chest and dainty little roses bloomed in her cheeks.
Ethan leaned back against the wall behind the bed. A jolt of satisfaction shot through him. Audrey was a beautiful woman, intelligent, and able to handle herself. In any other circumstance he’d tumble her into the bed. Just then a stabbing pain in his arm reminded him that tumbling of any kind might be a few days off.
He took the proffered shirt. “I’m not sure I can raise my arm up to get this on. At least not without help.”
Her blush deepened. “I can help you.”
He sat forward from the wall and drew the shirt over his head. Thrusting his left arm into the sleeve was no problem. He looked at her and she helped lift his right arm and slide it into the shirtsleeve.
“I don’t suppose you helped me out of my clothes last night?”
She pulled the shirt down his back and stepped quickly away from the bed. Her maidenly sensibilities were charming. “Yes, with the innkeeper’s wife’s assistance. We had to burn the clothes, however.”
“Yet, you found new ones, as well as lodgings, and treated my wounds—”
She cut him off. “Yes, wounds. Why didn’t you tell me you’d been shot?”
“If you recall, we didn’t exactly have time for idle conversation. I was terribly distracted by those foul highwaymen—and that lad who stole my money.” He peered at her intently. “I’m afraid to ask how you’re paying for this room and my care.”
Her eyes widened and he belatedly realized his comment could have been taken in a rather perverse way. He added, “I didn’t mean to suggest you’re doing anything untoward. You are, I’m certain, above reproach.”
She glanced away. “Clearly not, since I fled London with you.” When she returned her gaze to his, she revealed a quiet dignity in the depths of her blue-green gaze and he knew in that moment that he was right—she was above reproach. And not just by Society’s standards. She was a good and honest person at heart. The type of person who should run screaming from the likes of him.
“I had money in a purse sewn inside my pants,” she said.
His mouth sagged open for a moment before he snapped it closed. “Your pants. Why the devil were you even wearing pants? And why did you have money sewn into them? Thank God you did.”
“Yes, thank goodness I did, though I suspect the Bow Street Runner would’ve paid for our lodgings.”
Ethan’s blood ran cold. His legs itched to run. He mentally calculated how quickly he could finish dressing and get out of the inn. Except he didn’t know the layout, which put him at a very distinct disadvantage. Any criminal worth his salt knew every way to escape a building before he entered it. “What Bow Street Runner?”
“The one who was thankfully patrolling the highway last night. I encountered him after you fell asleep, and he guided us to this inn.”
And not directly to Bow Street? Ethan relaxed, but only slightly. “What did you tell him?”
She blinked at him, appearing a little uncertain, perhaps because he’d asked that question in a rather ferocious tone. “I said we were attacked by highwaymen.”
He modulated his question this time. “What did you tell him about us?”
“Oh!” She flashed a beguiling smile that did odd things to his belly. He found her quite attractive, but it was more than that. He didn’t like it. “I told him my name was Mary St. Clyde and that you were my brother, Algernon.”
“Algernon?”
She lifted a shoulder. “To be fair, I only called you Al.”
“What a god-awful name.” That she’d taken the time to come up with aliases and even a nickname for him only proved her cunning and courage. He looked away from her. “Smart girl.” Dangerous girl. “Why’d you lie?”
“I thought it best to protect my identity for now. My reputation will likely be ruined, but then I have no intention of returning to my life in London, so it really doesn’t matter.” She squared her shoulders as if in response to some silent conversation going on inside of her. He wanted to ask what she intended to do, but she continued before he could open his mouth.
“The Runner was kind enough to lead us to this inn, which he knew to be reputable. You’d cautioned me about the inns, but I’m afraid you slipped from consciousness before explaining. The Runner said some of the establishments along the highway are in league with the highwaymen, is that what you meant?”
“Yes.” And with Gin Jimmy. “Where are we exactly?”
“Hounslow.”
Jimmy’s reach extended at least this far, which meant they needed to get back on the road. And go where? His experience with the country was limited to a few summer visits to his father’s estate in northern Oxfordshire. But they couldn’t go there, his brother’s m
other lived there and she was ill. Plus, she despised Ethan like fire hates water.
He looked back to Audrey who was watching him expectantly. “Where’s the Runner now?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “He guided us here and was going to go back to take care of the dead highwayman.” She cringed and looked at the floor. “Sorry, I had to tell him what happened, that you’d killed him defending me. I know he was a terrible criminal, but he at least deserves to be buried.”
Is that all she thought a terrible criminal deserved? If she knew how terrible he’d been . . .
“You look worried.” She took a step toward the bed. “He’s coming back to talk to you. Do you think we should tell him the truth?” Her shoulders slumped. “I suppose we should.”
“No.” He spoke without thinking, but there was no other answer. The truth would reveal his true identity—that of a notorious criminal—not only to her but to Bow Street, which was already looking for him in order to charge him with the murder of the Marquess of Wolverton and for organizing the death of Lady Aldridge. Ironically, they were two crimes he hadn’t actually committed. No one would believe that, however. No one save his brother, who’d only just decided to trust him last night. That thought gave Ethan a very small amount of relief.
“You still haven’t told me why you needed to leave London. Or why you were climbing up the tree outside my window.”
And he didn’t plan on answering those questions now. “Assuming I’m identified as the man who was in your house last night, I think it’s fair to also assume Bow Street will think I’ve kidnapped you. For that reason alone, I should prefer to avoid not only Bow Street, but also the entirety of London.”
Her eyebrows—slender brown swathes that made her forehead impossibly elegant with the way they swept over her incredible eyes—slanted down. She shook her head once. Definitively. “That doesn’t address why you were climbing the tree outside my window.”
“Perhaps you’d care to tell me why you were wearing men’s clothing?” Her eyes widened and she shook her head again as definitively as before. “Then I guess we’re both going to keep a few secrets.”
