by Jenn LeBlanc
He escorted her downstairs, past the parlor where the mother was working on her basket of embroidery, and toward the front door. The butler walked up to him but Hepplewort waved him off. The butler looked down his nose at the short man and turned, striding toward the parlor as they left.
“How charming you are, my lord, and thoughtful to include a picnic,” she said, trying to hurry his movements.
He smiled up at her as she climbed into the phaeton, placing his hand on her rump, feigning assistance.
“Fergus! What is this?”
Francine froze like a deer in headlights.
“Mother.”
Francine gripped his sleeve.
“What are you doing?” she spat. “Where is Morgan?”
Hepplewort looked at his mother, surreptitiously removing his hand from Francine’s rear end. “I imagine he’s asleep in his room, since he was charged with standing vigil over my betrothed last night. As for what we are doing, I am going to show Madeleine around the estate.”
The wrinkled old woman’s eyes blazed. “You will do no such thing, you incessant twit,” she said as saliva sprang from her mouth.
Francine backed away, into the seat of the phaeton.
“Perhaps a picnic in the meadow,” Hepplewort sputtered.
“Sometimes I wonder where you came from. You quite obviously do not have my intelligence, or the earl’s. If I didn’t know better, I would say you belonged on the land, not in charge of it.”
Francine glanced down at Heppelwort and sighed to remind him of her presence, then she reached out and gently stroked the back of his sweaty red neck.
He reacted to the touch and straightened. “We shall return in time to dress for supper. Good day, Mother.” He bowed perfunctorily and turned to climb into the phaeton.
Francine patted his hand in encouragement as he struggled to get aboard. Then she grabbed his moist chubby hand and yanked him up.
Slitting her eyes, the mother grumbled and stormed into the house.
Francine jerked around when Hepplewort took the ribbons and drove the horses to the field. Next obstacle, she thought. Looking around, she decided to ask about the estate. Hopefully he would continue to behave like a stooge.
“Where exactly are we?”
“The estate?” he asked, and she nodded. “Well, we are in Shropshire, which is northwest of London most of a day by carriage. The road is rough and difficult, so it must be traveled slowly. Since the railroad connected us to London, it’s gone much without repairs.”
“Railroad?” She hadn’t really considered the railroad. If she could find any tracks, she could follow them to London, and from there it shouldn’t be too difficult to find the duke. Gideon, she thought. Where are you?
Gideon rode toward the sunset like the devil was on him. Hepplewort’s estate was more than halfway back to London, and he could only hope there was some sort of delay in his plan. How could he have been so foolish? He had insisted they go to Gretna Green. He hadn’t even considered that Hepplewort would already have a license.
“Gideon!” Perry yelled. “You cannot treat the animal like this! You must let it rest!” Gideon drove the horse harder, until he felt Perry next to him, reaching for Samson’s bridle. “Gideon!” Perry shouted.
Gideon yelled, not an easy expiration of air but a guttural, all encompassing, gut-wrenching cry that emanated from his very core.
Perry put his hand on his brother’s arm as they slowed. “We’ll find her.”
“I know we’ll find her. I know we will,” he replied. “But I don’t know if it will be soon enough. You didn’t see her, Perry. You didn’t see her bloodied and bruised. You didn’t see what he caused.”
“I know, brother—”
“You can’t know.”
“Gideon.” Perry tried to stave off the words that would only work to worsen his brother’s agitated state. He took one of Gideon’s shoulders, forcing him to meet his gaze. “We are going to take this leg by rail. We should arrive in Shropshire early on the morrow. His estate won’t prove much of a ride beyond that.”
Gideon nodded and the brothers walked the horses, coming to the station at the edge of county Westmoreland and handing them off to his men so they could see them boarded and cared for. They arranged passage and boarded the train, Perry keeping a close eye on his brother. He remembered this Gideon all too well. This was the boy who couldn’t help his mother, who had grown into the man who’d lost everyone he cared for.
Francine knew she could take Hepplewort, but she needed him out of the carriage. She didn’t remember the accident with Gideon’s curricle, but it had been described to her in detail and she wasn’t interested in a repeat performance. They came to rest at the far edge of the meadow. Hepplewort threw the heavy brown rugs down so he could spread them on the ground and then he slid from the phaeton, motioning for her to follow.
She jumped down, careful to keep her boots covered by the hem of her skirt, and walked around the phaeton, inspecting the horses’ attachments as she pretended to stroke and speak with them. She would at least need to disable the carriage. She already knew she couldn’t take it because of the state of the road, and she needed speed. Horseback was the only way.
Hepplewort placed the basket on the blankets and motioned to Francine to sit down. She kneeled, tucking her boots underneath her. He looked at the basket, expecting her to serve him, and she smiled, pulling it closer even though they had only just had breakfast. They had some fruit, cheese, meat, and a bit of a red wine.
She felt his hand on her booted ankle beneath her skirt. “What—”
She panicked when she saw the confused look on his face and reached in the basket, pulling out the block of cheese to throw at him. As she grabbed the cheese the handle of a knife jabbed at her wrist and she yanked it out, too. She jumped to her feet.
He reached for her and she kicked. He squealed and retreated from her range. She moved toward the horses, which shifted uneasily at her brisk movement. Hepplewort’s eyes bulged and his mouth gaped, catching flies as he tried to get his rotund ass off the ground.
She turned on him with the knife as he approached. She kicked him hard in the knee then punched him in the face, sending him back to the ground.
“You bitch!” He gasped for breath.
“You sick, twisted monster! Did you really believe I could enjoy your company? You perverted, unkempt, slimy, rotten—swine!”
“Mother was right,” he squealed.
“Screw you!”
He had never been set down so soundly, and by a woman no less. His jaw flapped, begging for purchase on a retort, but found none.
She patted one of the horses gently to calm it, then unbuckled the large belt that held the arms of the phaeton to the horse’s back. Hepplewort crawled over and grabbed her boot and she turned, kicking at him again.
“Get off of me!” She caught his fingers under her boot and stomped hard, then kicked him in the face. There was a resounding crunch, and he rolled over on his back, yelping and twisting like a snake run over by a carriage as blood poured from his nose.
Francine spun back to the horse, yanking at the ribbons and trying to unhook them from the leather straps of the phaeton, but she couldn’t. Her mind raced. She glanced back at Hepplewort to make sure he wasn’t coming at her again, but he was still rolling around, blubbering and holding his face in his hands.
“You broke my nose! You broke it!”
She shook her head and looked over the back of the horse at the manor to see Morgan astride a giant brown horse and moving straight for her. She panicked as she pulled on the ribbons, using the knife to saw through them, releasing one of the horses. She led it to the side of the phaeton and crawled up onto the seat, hiking up her narrow skirt. She leapt onto the white horse, letting the knife slip from her hands to the grass as she held on for dear life.
“Oh, God, please help me, what was I thinking.” She grasped the cut ribbons in one hand and a fistful of the horse’s mane i
n her other to help steady her, clicking her tongue as she leaned forward. She glanced back once to see Morgan approaching rapidly and Hepplewort running toward the manor, and she cried out, losing her balance. She steadied herself on the horse and leaned forward again like she had seen Gideon do every time he broke for the forest at Eildon.
Her mind raced and her breath caught as she attempted to steer the animal toward the wood. She heard too many hoofbeats, pounding the ground hard like a thunderstorm. She thought it sounded like a whole team was after her, and when she heard the deep panting of a horse coming up next to her she yelled as loud as her voice would allow, belting out the sound from deep within, letting it carry through her and fill the meadow. She thought she heard someone calling her name and she leaned harder, gripping the horse tightly between her thighs.
She closed her eyes momentarily, trying to think through the deafening sound of the approaching hooves before opening them again and concentrating on the land ahead.
She could hear the other horse gaining but wouldn’t look back to see how close it was. She was determined to keep her focus on where she was going, because she didn’t want to lose her balance again. She kicked at the horse, driving it as hard as she dared, listening, praying the hoofbeats and heavy breaths would break off.
The four men raced down the drive that led onto Hepplewort’s estate at a breakneck pace. They could see the manor just above the rise. Gideon’s heart pounded in his chest, matching the sound of the hooves on the ground. He looked across the meadow and saw movement, then, hearing a scream, he bolted toward it, the other men following.
He saw a phaeton with only one horse, and Hepplewort running haphazardly toward the manor. He scanned the horizon for Francine and caught sight of her on the back of the other carriage horse, steering it toward the forest. His breath stopped—no way was there a saddle on that beast. Another movement caught his eye and he saw a giant of a man on horseback chasing her through the field. His gut lurched to see the brute gaining on her handily. He pointed at Hepplewort and yelled “Gentry!” and Gentry immediately left his side to go after the man.
Gideon and Perry came up behind the brute, flanking him. The sound of hoofbeats multiplied, shaking the ground as they traversed the meadow. Perry and Gideon pushed their horses, with Smyth behind them, until they overtook him. They both reached out, grabbing the man’s shoulders as they slowed their horses. They pulled him from the saddle and sent him to the ground in front of Smyth’s horse, which jumped over the mass, narrowly missing his head when it landed. The giant rolled to a stop in a cloud of dust.
Perry turned back to help Smyth collect him.
“Francine!”
She tried to be frightened, but realized her mind wouldn’t let her. She knew that voice. As sure as if she’d been speaking it her whole life, she knew that voice. She loosened her death grip on the reins and tried to sit back to slow the horse, but it was determined to continue the run like a train with no brakes.
“Gideon!” she screamed, “I can’t stop! Please, please help me!” The forest loomed ahead of her and she panicked. Gideon came up alongside her, moving Samson as close as possible.
He reached around her waist. “Just lean to me. I have you, trust me.”
She closed her eyes and leaned, letting go of the cut ribbons as she reached for his shoulders.
Gideon dragged her from the horse with one strong arm, sitting back to slow his steed. The white carriage horse disappeared beyond the break as Gideon pulled her across his lap.
She cried, she screamed, she kissed, she grabbed, and she felt as she had never felt so much in all her years. “Where have you been?” she gasped, turning her face into his rigid neck. “Where have you been?” Her mouth pressed into the hollow at the base of his neck, her lips on the strong pulse, the salty taste.
“I have been looking for you.”
“He took me from the bookstore. He brought me here, and his mother—”
“Hush, my sweet Francine.”
“There is also a very large man, he, he— Morgan, that other man, the giant is there. He is— We can’t—”
“We took care of him.”
She stopped and breathed of him, grasping his shirt tightly in her hands.
He walked the horse, rubbing a small circle into her back to calm her breathing. He tried to think of a way to ask the most important question, but before he could she looked up to him.
“He hadn’t a chance, Gideon. I am yours.” She turned her head into his chest. She had nothing more to say. She only wanted to take in his scent, the very essence of him, to keep it in her soul and her memory and never let it out. “Gideon, something must be done.”
He rested his chin on her head. “Now is not the time. This is not the place,” he said gruffly.
“Gideon.” She turned her face up. “The only perfection I need”—she kissed the soft underside of his jaw—“is the man you are, and what you carry with you every day.”
Gideon grunted, then held her tightly to his chest, lost deep in thought.
Perry caught up with Lord Hepplewort, whose face was bloodied and battered as he ran toward the manor screaming, with Gentry giving chase. Perry kicked him to the ground with his boot to shut him up, then jumped from the horse and pulled Hepplewort up by his jacket, leaving his feet dangling and toes barely touching the ground.
“You repellent sack of used up man-flesh,” Perry said, letting the man fall back to the ground. “Get up and walk. You disgust me.”
Hepplewort grunted, rising and turning quietly for the manor, flanked by the three very large, very angry, very armed men.
Perry examined his face. “Did Fra— Madeleine do that to your face, man?” he asked jovially.
Hepplewort ignored him and kept walking.
“Must kill yer pride to be thrashed by a woman, yeah?” Gentry added.
Hepplewort grunted again and continued limping toward the manor as the men carried on around him.
“She’s no woman,” he countered, unable to control his mouth.
Gentry jumped toward him with a deep growl and Hepplewort squeaked, covering his head with his hands.
“You had best watch your words and tone as it pertains to the future Duchess of Roxleigh,” Perry said easily. “If she heard you, she might break something else,” he added with a wry grin.
Perry looked over his shoulder at the large man they had tied to the saddle of a horse, to make sure he was still unconscious, and saw Gideon turning his horse toward the break in the wood with Francine in front of him. He grinned from ear to ear. “About that contract of yours, Hepple…wort. I believe it may soon be void.”
Hepplewort scowled. “That is not possible,” he huffed.
Perry glanced back over his shoulder. All he could see was the phaeton with its one remaining horse. “Oh, I believe you’ll find it is possible,” he said, chuckling as he pushed Hepplewort forward.
The men moved at a leisurely pace toward the manor, partly to give Gideon time to catch up and partly because Hepplewort was a stunted little man with a newly acquired limp.
Francine’s breathing slowed and she opened her eyes to find them headed into the wood where she could see a meadow beyond dappled with sunlight and covered in a thick blanket of wildflowers.
She held him tighter as they came to a stop in the shade, just inside the safety of the trees. “Gideon?”
“Francine,” he said gently as the sun broke from behind a cloud, creating a halo of light behind him, “you are absolutely correct. Hepplewort will not stop looking for you, this much we know. He will not give up, not until his contract is void.”
“And? It isn’t likely we will find a priest in the meadow or the forest between here and that manor,” she said, pointing back toward the estate.
“No, I don’t suppose we will.” He neatly lowered her to the ground and jumped from the horse.
Her gaze followed him. “Then what do you have in mind?”
“My lady,” he said,
standing in front of her, so close that the heat from his body permeated her gown. “My intention—” He paused as his breath quickened and his baritone deepened in his chest. “—is to ruin you.”
Gideon’s hands cradled her chin, weaving into the hair at her nape as his head lowered, drawing her mouth to his.
When their lips met her heart fell back into the panicked cadence it had been used to with his touch. She looked up into his eyes. He took her about the waist and drew her away from the horse to the wavering shade of the meadow.
“You c-can’t,” she stuttered.
“I can,” he countered.
“You wouldn’t.”
“I will.” He kneeled before her on the blanket of flowers, running his hands under her skirts, up her legs, unfastening the ties that held her stockings in place and unbuttoning her boots.
She gasped, trying to push her skirt back down. “Gideon! I didn’t exactly mean—”
“No,” he replied, “I don’t think you did. However, here we are.”
“What about— What about propriety?” she begged.
He glanced up at her, rolling the other stocking smoothly down her leg. “Propriety be damned,” he said with a devilish grin.
Her skin prickled at the sincerity of his words and she had no more reservations. This is it, she thought, and her head spun.
He ducked back under her skirt to find the ties of her drawers, one hand carefully reaching into the slit, testing her warmth.
Surprised by his touch, she cried out, her knees buckling as her drawers slid down to her ankles. He caught her against himself, delivering her trembling figure to the earth beneath him.
They created a bed of flowers with the weight of their bodies. Surrounded by the field of green, lavender, blue, yellow, and pink, they laid together in the peaceful meadow bordered by the tumult of the world.
