Any Rogue Will Do

by Bethany Bennett

  The only ones hating him now were the earl and himself.

  “No, my friend. There’s no going back. Only forward. We can awake every day, determined to be good men, then follow through. That’s as far as our control goes.” Cal signaled the barkeeper for a drink.

  Holding up two fingers, Ethan ordered himself one too. Five years of no whisky for a Scotsman was long enough. He’d spent each day living with the fear that he’d lose control. Well, he might not be able to control much, but he could reclaim this.

  “Are you sure?” Cal asked when the drinks arrived.

  The amber liquid reflected the light in the glass. Benign. Like so many things in life, something he could use for good or evil. A pleasure to enjoy or to overindulge and suffer the consequences. Ethan didn’t have the craving disease, like Lottie’s coachman and others he’d known. These years hadn’t been about making healthier choices for himself. They’d been a form of self-flagellation. Was he sure? “Aye. This all comes down tae fear and hating myself for what I’ve done. I’m tired, Cal. So bloody tired.”

  “So just like that, you decide five years of penance is enough?”

  Ethan rested his head on his fist, staring at the glass. “Can you tell me what more I can do? I mean it. Name one thing I can do tae make everything right, and I’ll do it. I’ll do it standing on my head while shoutin’ ‘God Save the King.’” The words had to fight past a throat tight with regrets. “I used tae be an arse, but I’m no’ that man anymore. People depend on me for their livelihood, see? Besides, turns out I can make bad decisions sober as well.” Like giving his heart to a woman never meant to be his.

  Cal’s expression remained neutral as he raised his glass. “To doing all we can.”

  Ethan touched the rim of his glass to Cal’s. “Tae being better men.”

  The whisky burned as it went down. He had no desire for another.

  * * *

  As the sun set, it became apparent that rescue would not arrive as soon as Lottie would wish. With no way to calculate how far ahead they were of whomever Darling had alerted, she kept her ears open but found the day wearing on her. Yes, Darling was healthy and raising hell on her behalf—Lottie could not contemplate the alternative. She must not give up hope.

  Someone would come. Soon.

  Tugging the thin blanket over her shoulders, she cradled her head on her arm and stared into the fire. Their small room contained one narrow bed, which Montague had claimed, and a table barely large enough for a washbasin of water.

  Today had been hell. True to his word, Montague had trussed her like a piece of wild game at each change of horses. The shiny pink skin on her wrists glowed red in the firelight. No doubt her ankles showed the same marks of abuse, although her walking boots provided some measure of protection. By the end of the day, Montague believed her sufficiently cowed to stay quiet without a gag. And she had, since she’d been too busy plotting her escape.

  Montague had shared their “tragic” story with the innkeeper, along with a coin. She’d stared at her feet, wishing the earth would open and swallow her, then meekly followed him upstairs. The bastard should count his lucky stars she didn’t smother him in his sleep with a pillow.

  With no money, transportation, maid, or protection of any kind, all Lottie could claim was her father’s name. Unfortunately, the Earl of Brinkley held little influence this far east, and she had no way to prove the connection. Montague had a fat purse borrowed from someone with equally shady morals. The flashy carriage, the horses, the steady flow of coins—none of it belonged to him. Through circumspect prying, she’d determined that Montague owned nothing except clothing, debt, and a substantial ego. There could be a valid argument made that the clothing wasn’t his, since she’d bet the tailor remained unpaid.

  Montague’s snores overpowered the snaps and pops of wood in the hearth. Did most men snore? During their one night together, Ethan hadn’t made such a racket. The snoring paused. A bubbling gurgle of flatulence echoed through the room. The snoring resumed.

  How could anyone think eloping to Scotland was romantic? Hours upon hours cramped in a carriage, barreling up the Great North Road, relieving themselves in front of one another, and now spending a night on a hard floor, listening to a man break wind. Ballrooms and lusty novels did not prepare one for this. Thankfully, Montague had turned his back willingly enough when nature’s call had finally forced the use of the bourdaloue, and then she’d disposed of the “dirty” linens in the small pouch within the bag he’d fetched for her.

  All a ruse, of course. A ruse that needed to continue if she was going to have any chance of Montague keeping his hands to himself. They were one day down, with several more ahead of them. Lottie prayed an opportunity for escape would present itself during that time. She could only natter on about bowel distress, nausea, and cramping for so long before the man knocked her out again.

  This—by far—had been one of the worst days of her life. Lottie finally allowed her eyelids to drift shut.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow, she would escape.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Doesn’t kidnapping and elopement strike you as rather melodramatic?”

  “Blame your precious Lord Amesbury. He didn’t leave me much choice in the matter,” Montague said.

  “What does Ethan have to do with this?”

  “Ethan, is it? He and Lord Carlyle bought my gaming debts, then wrote my father threatening to ruin me. Father isn’t happy. To add insult to injury, there’s a rumor that Father cut me off. This last week men tried to collect debts left and right. Hounding me as if I were some commoner, instead of a gentleman. I’m not going to debtor’s prison.” Montague curled his lip in a cruel expression that fit him perfectly. “If I marry money, everyone is satisfied. You’re conveniently rich, and the man who attempted to ruin me seems awfully attached to you. That’s what I call a winning hand.”

  A winning hand. Something Montague must not be terribly familiar with if his gambling debts were crippling. She studied her intertwined fingers instead of looking at his smug face. Funny that someone so vile could remain beautiful on the outside. Thanks to her actions that day by the pond, his nose had a distinctly crooked angle to it, forever marring his perfection. Good. No less than what he deserved for using his physical appeal as a tool, and his ego as a weapon. There wasn’t enough room in the coach for them and his ego.

  Catering to the third occupant of the carriage might be key. Pander to his ego. Make him think he’d won. Yesterday Montague had believed her willing to wait in silence, so he’d left off the gag by the end of the day. Perhaps if Lottie convinced him he’d converted her to a willing captive, he’d create an opportunity for escape through complacency.

  While nothing appealed to her more than the thought of smashing the delicately painted bourdaloue over his head, she’d need to lie convincingly. “Let us call a spade a spade. I broke things off with Amesbury earlier this week.” Lottie feigned earnestness. “You need money. I need a husband or else I’ll be firmly on the shelf. I see no reason we could not lead entirely separate lives if we married.”

  Montague cocked his head. “How separate?”

  “No heirs. No more contact than needed, and only then through a solicitor. You live the life you currently enjoy, while I manage the estate. An estate that’s far, far away. You stay in London doing whatever you wish.”

  “You wouldn’t mind if I used your piles of pretty pound notes to keep a mistress or two?”

  Focusing her gaze out the window, she searched for clues to their location. “I don’t care what you do with your man parts, as long as you don’t do it with me.”

  “One woman is as good as another. I won’t need any snot-nosed brats to carry on my name unless I somehow end up inheriting. If that happens, you’ll need to do your duty and give me an heir. What you describe sounds like the perfect marriage.” He laughed. “We are of an agreement, then?”

  Even the abstract idea of bearing this man’s child made her throat
burn with bile. Lottie hesitated—because the idea of sex with a crazy man should be enough for any sane woman to pause—then nodded. Whatever she needed to do or say to pacify Montague long enough for her to get away, she would.

  How ironic. She’d just manipulated her way into a man agreeing to everything she’d wanted when she arrived in London. A hollow victory, indeed. One thing her time with Ethan had taught her was to raise her standards. He’d shown from the beginning how wrong she’d been to want an uninterested husband—not that she’d listened. Throwing herself headlong toward disaster, all the while believing she knew best, appeared to be her strength these days. How ridiculous that it took an escapade of this scale to show her what a great nodcock she was.

  Even thinking Ethan’s name brought a spike of pain. Would that ever go away? She might forever compare men to a certain giant, rough-hewn Scotsman. They’d had one night to fully enjoy each other, and it would have to be enough.

  It would never be enough.

  She wanted more mornings waking up in his arms. More pillows that smelled like him. A child with his blue eyes. One hand rested on her belly. What if they’d made a child? The French letter wasn’t guaranteed protection. Except then Ethan would marry her out of obligation instead of desire. And she’d be an even greater burden on him, penniless, with a ruined reputation and a child.

  At some point her heart had slipped past affection and friendship into unknown territory where she didn’t want to imagine a future without him. Due to her strong pragmatic streak, she knew he’d need money to rebuild Woodrest. Thanks to her father, money was something she couldn’t offer. She’d been so sure it was the right choice to free Ethan. Noble, even. After all, Woodrest and Ethan’s people were more important than her heartache.

  Here she was, finagling and lying and doing what she had to do to escape this kidnapping. It was a hell of a reminder that she wasn’t by nature someone who capitulated easily. Why, then, had she rolled over when Father sent his ultimatum?

  Ignoring the headache brewing behind her eyes, Lottie tried to logic her way through the mess she’d made. If she gave up her fortune but had Ethan, would it be worth it? He’d never said he loved her. But then, she’d never spoken about her feelings either. Did she love him and not just desire him—as scary as that idea was?

  Perhaps emotion couldn’t be excluded in this matter. Logic coexisted with emotion, surely. Going forward, balancing the two might be the only way to fix the mess she’d made.

  If Woodrest needed an infusion of capital to recover from the sabotage, she’d be the worst possible woman for Ethan to marry. But what if they could figure out a way? The situation would present a unique challenge to an estate manager—or a woman of her interests. Instead of being handed a property and a fat purse by her father, she could step out of that safety net and help Ethan rebuild. Together they could make a difference. Really, that was what her dream always boiled down to—making a difference.

  There wouldn’t be the independence of being on her own. Risking a glance at Montague, she tried to imagine the future he demanded. She’d have independence. In fact, she’d have everything she’d initially wanted when she rolled into London with her stupid, detailed, narrow-minded plan.

  Whether he’d meant to or not, Ethan had changed everything. If she were entirely honest, she didn’t want to be independent of Ethan. She wanted to work alongside him. Hear the rumbly burr of his accent when he teasingly called her Princess and see the way his face lit up with laughter when she made a face at the nickname.

  Objectively speaking, if her dreams could be fulfilled with Ethan, then Father’s ultimatum held little weight beyond finances. Their relationship had never been terribly close to begin with, and almost nil since Mother died. It pained her to consider losing him, but it was killing her to imagine a future without Ethan.

  So, new plan. First, escape this damned carriage. Second, find Ethan and apologize. Finally, explain about Father’s letter in detail, then try to concoct a way to somehow rebuild Woodrest without her dowry.

  The landscape outside the window hadn’t changed significantly in hours. Everything whizzed by in a blur of brown and green, broken by gray stone fences. The midday light played over Montague’s perfect features. Even on the second day of their journey, Montague managed to be clean-shaven with crisp linen and polished boots. No wayward curl to brush off his forehead, or scars with stories tucked away under his shirt. Montague would never dream of padding around his library in stocking feet. And no way would Montague let her cut his hair in front of the warm kitchen hearth late at night.

  God, she missed Ethan.

  Leaning her head against the padded wall, she closed her eyes and let the swaying rhythm of the carriage lull the tension from her bones. Nothing could be done right now. A huge yawn split her face until her jaw popped. “I’m exhausted. I’ll take a nap if you don’t mind, Mr. Montague.”

  “We established long ago that you were to call me James. Now that we’ll be married, I insist,” he said.

  Lottie closed her eyes, exhausted on every level. “Yes, James.”

  Go to the devil, James.

  Finally, she slept.

  By the end of the day, he left her unbound, as she’d hoped. They stopped for the night at a cozy inn nestled beside the road, shadowed by the great limbs of a black walnut tree. An owl called from somewhere in the nearly bare, menacing branches silhouetted against the night sky.

  With or without help, tonight she would escape. If rescuers didn’t arrive, she’d steal clothes from a groom, then sneak into a nearby barn to hide until Montague left the area. Her mind buzzed with contingency plans and scenarios.

  When they arrived inside, Lottie stood quietly, fixing a vacant, placid expression on her face as he repeated the lies from the previous night. Montague obviously relished explaining how unhinged his poor wife had become to necessitate a trip north to a convent, where he would leave her in the Lord’s hands. He brought his hands over his heart when he said he’d pray she might find sanity once more and be returned to him—a farce worthy of the stage.

  Lottie almost smiled. Let him have his fun now. She’d have the last laugh soon.

  The innkeeper’s wife, Mrs. Mitchell, clucked over Lottie, calling her “poor lamb.” The burly innkeeper appeared less impressed, but as his pocket was heavier by the end of the dramatic spiel, he didn’t ask questions.

  As Mrs. Mitchell led her by the hand toward their room, Lottie said over her shoulder to Montague, “Why don’t you relax with a pint? I’ll speak to this kind woman about replenishing those female supplies you gathered for me yesterday.”

  A moue of distaste crossed his face, and he stayed behind in the taproom. Montague made a lousy fake husband. Not that she had any comparison, having only had a fake fiancé before this.

  Fussing over the linens, Mrs. Mitchell sent for a maid to fetch water for the washbasin. “You mentioned feminine supplies. Are you on your courses, dear?”

  There would be no better opportunity. Holding out her wrists so the woman could see the shiny red marks, burnt and rubbed raw around the delicate skin, she said, “I need help. My name is Charlotte Wentworth, and that man kidnapped me. That is why I have no luggage. I’m without a maid, because he attacked her on the street when he abducted me.”

  While Mrs. Mitchell didn’t look entirely convinced, she didn’t pat Lottie on her head and fetch Montague either, so Lottie continued. “He imprisoned me in the carriage, bound at the wrists and ankles, with a gag in my mouth. Please. If I were going to a nunnery for the rest of my life, wouldn’t I have trunks? Gowns? I beg you, Mrs. Mitchell, help me.”

  The red marks on Lottie’s wrists held Mrs. Mitchell’s attention for what seemed an eternity before she asked, “What can I do?”

  The relief nearly brought her to tears. “Thank you. I believe my family is somewhere on the road behind us. Until they catch up with me, I must do what I can to stall our travel.”

  “Smart, my dear. How do you
plan to do that?” The innkeeper’s wife appeared to warm to the subject. After two days of feeling so very alone, Lottie wanted to hug the woman.

  “Do you have an herb garden or apothecary nearby? With lady’s slipper, white willow bark, and hollyhock, we can make a draught. All we need do is upset his stomach and then induce him to sleep. As tempting as it is, I can’t hurt the man permanently. I just need to make him too miserable to travel tomorrow.”

  “Perhaps some poppy syrup to sweeten the mix?” the lady innkeeper said. “Yes, I think I have everything you need.”

  Lottie cocked her head to the side. The woman’s dark-stained fingers triggered a memory from the hours spent making rounds at Stanwick with the midwife. “Is that black-walnut dye from the tree out front?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Mitchell hid her blackened fingers under the corner of her apron. “Today I mixed the darker pulp with wax to stain my wood floors. It gives a great shine.”

  “Have you any of the soft outer casing left from the walnuts?”

  Mrs. Mitchell nodded. “I have plenty.”

  “Perfect. We’ll mash some of that pulp into a paste. With the tincture of herbs and poppy syrup in his food, whatever he’s eating has to have a strong enough flavor to mask the mixture. But that should do the trick. Black walnut will make him want to be near the outhouse for a while.”

  Mrs. Mitchell’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’ll gather what we need. Then let’s see what we can do about poisoning your husband.”

  When the woman served them herself, Lottie sent up a prayer that everything had gone smoothly in the kitchen. “We have a hearty beef stew for you to warm your bones after a long day’s travel. I hope the flavor isn’t too strong for you, Mr. Montague. I use a nice dark ale in my stew. Mr. Mitchell loves it.” She gave them each a bowl, handing Lottie one with two chunks of bread on top. “Mrs. Montague, I included some extra bread for you. Eve’s curse is miserable, isn’t it? The bread may make you feel better.” She winked at Lottie on her way out of the room. The bowl with two slices of bread clearly hadn’t been tampered with, plus it came with the bonus of extra bread. Bless the woman.