He adjusted his coat. “I prefer to think of myself as expedient. Here’s what you need to know. Rayne volunteered to deliver the duke’s traveling chariot to my step-grandmother. Someone, by the way, I think you’d get on with very well.”
“Pardon?”
Farring waved his hand. “So much easier for you to see when you get there than for me to explain. Anyway, the salient point is that Gretna’s not two days drive from Periwinkle Gate. And, since he’ll be traveling—”
“Just how long have you been thinking about this?” she interrupted.
He shrugged. “A few days. Or weeks. Or longer. Does it matter?” Farring put his hands behind his back. “As I was saying, since he’ll be traveling without servants and using postilions, you have a perfect opportunity to accompany him without him knowing. That is, if you think you can manage to ride on the rear rail.”
“You want me to pose as his footman?”
“Not the whole way, of course. Only until he’s too far north to insist you return home.”
She massaged her temples. “Distance doesn’t matter. As soon as he discovers I’m there, he’ll turn straight around.”
“He won’t.”
She sent Farring a narrow-eyed glare. “You have more confidence in him than I do.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I have more confidence in you than you do.”
“And what if the plan goes awry?”
“They always do, of course. But how do you mean?”
“I could fall off.”
He squeezed her upper arm. “You feel strong enough to me.”
“We could be set upon by highwaymen.”
“Rare, these days, especially in the more populated areas—like the ground you’ll cover first.”
“What if, when I confront him, Rayne refuses to engage?”
“I’ve already considered the possibility. Lord only knows what stories he’s been using to justify his deplorable decisions. Which is why, if something should go wrong, you’ll take refuge at the nearest inn and send word directly to me. Under those unlikely circumstances, I’ll offer myself as an alternative means to restore your reputation.”
She threw up her hands. “Now I’m certain you’ve lost your mind.”
“Why?” He shrugged. “I’d say ‘future duchess’ would be quite the consolation, wouldn’t you? And I hate to inform you, but you have risen to the top of my mother’s list.”
She cleared her throat. “Flattered as I am, for one, you don’t love me.”
“No,” he cheerfully agreed. “But I like you, and that’s more than I can say for most.”
“You like everybody.”
He pushed up his glasses. “No. No, I don’t.”
“What about Mrs. Van—”
He put his fingers to her lips.
She pulled them away. “You,” she said with narrowed eyes, “want me to kidnap Rayne, but you won’t let me say aloud what everyone already knows?”
“Rather more an earlnap than a kidnap. And one hopeless situation at a time, my dear. One at a time.” He smiled. “So…do we have a plan?”
His idea was more absurd than anything she’d ever devised on her own, and that was saying something. Then again, a familiar rush was skidding through her body, making her feel more alive than she had for weeks.
Which begged the question—did she actually want to abduct Rayne…?
Of course she did. She’d never felt anything as strong as the current between them. She wanted him. Badly. Wasted love was the worst thing she could imagine.
And what if she did successfully manage to expropriate Rayne’s carriage and he still refused to acknowledge their connection?
Well then, she’d settle for making him very, very sorry.
She took a deep breath and shook Farring’s outstretched hand. “We have a plan.”
She was going to abduct an earl.
Exactly what she’d do with him once she had him depended entirely on him.
Chapter Three
Julia supposed being the only boy in a group of six highly opinionated siblings had honed Farring’s evasive skills, but she never imagined him capable of the cunning he’d displayed as he helped her prepare to depart—spymaster brilliance with a sprinkle of smudged-glasses charm.
As the handle on the back of the duke’s traveling chariot jostled beneath her glove, she could hardly believe they had succeeded in fooling everyone.
Thus far.
No one undertaking such a complicated enterprise succeeded by underestimating future hurdles. And their present success did owe a great deal to distraction. Markham had naturally been anxious to be alone with Clarissa. Bromton had been attentive to the needs of her pregnant sister, his wife. Consumed with their own preparations for departure, no one else had bothered to inquire.
And so, when the caravan had headed for London, everyone inside the three well-sprung carriages had been secure in the belief that, until Markham and Clarissa returned from their wedding trip, Julia would be safely ensconced with Miss Watson.
Which is how it came to be that, late in the afternoon, breasts bound, hair tucked up beneath a cap, and wearing a hodgepodge of clothing, including the livery Farring had provided, Julia made her way to the local inn and coaching stable, The Pillar of Salt. She quietly stabled her horse as previously agreed—Miss Watson had no barn, and the inn was far closer to her lodgings than Southford—and then, she waited.
When Lizzy, the innkeeper, announced that the traveling chariot was ready, Julia went into position. Teddy, the smallest of the local postilions, guided the compact, glossy carriage away from the Pillar, and then Julia swung up onto the back rail.
She had no words for the thrill of embarking on such an adventure. In fact, for the first hour, she existed on exhilaration alone.
The wind tickled her cheeks, the anticipation livened her blood, and any outcome she imagined seemed possible, from Rayne finally declaring his love to, well, the opposite. Of course, in the former case, she vowed to make him grovel. If he chose to deny what was between them and run away again, this time she’d happily help him on his way.
There must be a pirate or two off the coast of Northern England somewhere. She rolled her neck. If not, she’d drop him off with smugglers. Or Nordic traders. Or a press gang. Or maybe even one of those infamous one-way fishing boats to Newfoundland.
At mile six, just before Teddy stopped to water the horses, she quietly dismounted the slowing coach and disappeared into a copse.
Just in time, too.
Luckily, she was small…and quick. Quick enough to dodge Rayne when he emerged from the coach to stretch his legs.
He lifted himself onto the back rail and yanked on the straps securing the luggage.
Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades, those hands. Large, but elegant. And oh, how he moved, his long limbs latent with power. Just looking at him melted her female parts. Why such a reaction?
She wasn’t sure.
Katherine had promised to explain…but not before Julia was safely engaged.
And, anyway, why she was tingling need not be answered for her to admire Rayne’s thighs. Surely he’d grown more muscular since he’d left. In fact, his upper leg appeared to have a greater circumference than her waist. She lifted her own, small hands, squinting to see if they could span—
Rayne turned sharply toward the trees.
She ducked.
“Ready, guv!” Tommy called.
Rayne frowned in her direction, and then, shaking his head, he made his way back around to the carriage door.
She exhaled, long and slow. That had been close.
The carriage jerked as the great wooden wheels squeaked into a roll. She ran to catch up, hopped back up onto the rail, and grinned like a child who’d pocketed a secret sweet.
As for what she’d d
o with Rayne, once she had him—intimate exploration of those thighs had obliterated delivery to pirates.
At mile twelve, just before the chariot reached the next coaching inn, Julia repeated her winning strategy—hop off, hide, run to catch up, swing back on, and hold tight.
It took a little bit longer to catch her breath this time, but no matter.
She’d made it to the first change of postilions. Meaning there was little chance this postilion—whomever he was—would recognize her. Two, maybe three more stops, and they’d be far enough away for her to execute her next step.
Only, over the next three postilion changes the skies gradually darkened and the already-cool air turned frigid. Cloaked in complete darkness, her optimism frayed.
Perhaps Farring’s enthusiasm had made her overlook a few potential difficulties.
She’d known Rayne would ride through the night.
She’d realized holding on to the back of the carriage would challenge her stamina.
The real problem, however, proved to be the cold. She’d fully dressed for December, but none of her preparations proved impervious.
Underneath the livery, she’d donned a thick flannel shirt borrowed from a Southford stable boy. Extra padding in the form of bindings secured her breasts. Markham’s old greatcoat hung heavy off her shoulders. She’d doubled up socks beneath her boots. And even her breeches had breeches, for goodness’ sake.
Still, cold frosted between her wet lashes.
Cold froze her wind-burned cheeks.
Cold wove like smoke through her supposedly impenetrable layers, lapping up against her skin.
And that was before it began to rain.
Between two and three in the morning—she’d lost all perception of time—a fine sheen coated her clothes, her face, and her gloves. So, when they stopped to water, hiding in wet trees was not an option. If she didn’t move, she’d freeze.
She had to do something and quick.
To her relief, Rayne failed to emerge from the coach. Which meant she could make herself known—useful—and, in the process, warm up.
She approached the front of the traveling chariot, sparing the briefest of glances for the drawn curtains covering the window. She imagined Rayne fast asleep on the cushioned bench within, happily huddled beneath a thick, soft blanket.
Forget his thighs.
Pirates were what he deserved. Definitely pirates.
She rubbed her hands together and bounced as she quickened her steps, consoling herself with the thought that Rayne had no idea he was being abducted. And wouldn’t, if she could help it. Not until she was good and ready.
Then she’d fling open the door and announce…
Then she’d stand arms akimbo, legs spread wide, and demand…
Then she’d…
Then she’d…
Well, she’d figure out the perfect reveal. She’d always been good at finding solutions.
Taking a deep breath, she adopted what she hoped was a footman’s proud saunter and walked straight up to the postilion.
She forced her voice into the lowest register she could manage. “Need help?”
“Oi!” The postilion jumped. He peered over her shoulder to the carriage. “Where did you come from?”
“Been with the carriage all along,” she answered with more bravado than she felt, looping her thumbs into her pockets as Farring sometimes did and sending the postilion a practiced sneer. “I’m his lordship’s footman, of course. You don’t pay much attention, do you?”
The postilion eyed her with suspicion. “You sure you been there the whole time?”
“Daft as well as blind, I see.” She opened her coat, flashing the bright red livery as proof. Not that the postilion could see much in the faint glow of the carriage lamps. “Why else would I be out here in the middle of the night?”
The postilion squinted as he deliberated. “All right, then,” he finally decided. “If you’re his lordship’s footman, you can help me brush old Branson here down. But if you run off with me things, you’ll pay. Won’t get far, you understand. I know everyone in these parts. And we don’t like strangers.”
She caught his tossed brush, glancing down at the worn wood and spare bristles. If she needed to “borrow” a brush, she’d pick a better one than this.
She spoke low and soothingly to the horse as she smoothed his soft hair. When she was finished, the beast snuggled at her neck.
The boy turned back from the lead horse and snorted. “Don’t usually like fellers. Does that to my sister, Carol, all the time, though.”
She cleared her throat. “Lucky me.”
He folded his arms. “What did you say your name was?”
She hadn’t. Curse the details. “Stanley.”
The postilion snorted. “Took you a long second.”
“A second is a second,” she quipped. “Not one of them longer than any other. What’s your name, anyway…s?” She added the s a beat too late.
“Jack. You see? Jack. Didn’t have to stop and think about it, Stanley.”
“Here’s your brush, Jack.” She whacked the wood against his palm when he finally held out his hand. “Next time, I won’t offer to help.”
She turned on her heel and headed back to the rail. Even in the darkness, she could see raindrops clinging to the bottom of the handle. Summoning all her determination, she took hold of the cold metal and hefted herself back up onto the rail.
Only now she knew the cold and the wet weren’t her only problems. She’d inadvertently uncovered yet another unfortunate flaw to Farring’s plan.
She could bind her breasts. She could lower her voice. She could even throw a swift punch if she must—she’d grown up sparring with Markham, after all. But despite having collected a dictionary of vile male words she occasionally, silently uttered, she had no idea how men interacted when they were alone.
And even less idea how a footman should interact with a postilion.
Her own groom was quiet and gentle. And Samuel Coachman was a prince in livery. But she imagined they related quite differently to each other when she was not around.
Then again, really, how hard could it be to pass muster? Jack had eventually accepted her tale. No sense borrowing trouble, Stanley.
One postilion at a time.
She passed the next mile huddling as close as possible to the shiny black paint. Yet, by mile two, all the work-stored warmth had melted out of her clothes. And, if anything, the winter bit harder than before her exertions—her first layer was damp with sweat.
She pressed her face directly against the wood, willing the wind to pass her by. She closed her eyes, imagining the wonder of fire—part light and the rest, blessed, blessed heat.
Behind her lids, fire’s many forms danced.
Candles…
Tallow, beeswax, fat-coated thrush—she’d take any form of light.
Fires…
Coal, wood, brush, leaves—she’d take any form of warmth, too.
A low-hanging branch caught the top of Rayne’s trunk, and the mother tree delivered an additional deluge, which gathered into an unforgiving stream that snaked beneath her hat and onto her neck before leaving a slug-like trail against her spine.
Silently, she whimpered.
By the time they reached the inn, she’d be soaked through. And she hadn’t any extra clothes. She had money, of course. She’d planned to buy whatever she needed on the way. But she hadn’t anticipated needing to change so soon.
Damn Farring.
And damn herself for listening to him.
This wasn’t adventure.
This was foolishness of the highest order.
Dear heavens, if he found out, Markham was going to be so angry.
And Bromton? Well, forget pirates! Bromton Castle had dungeons down below. Left to the men
in her family, she might never see the sun again.
As for the women, Clarissa was the only one who might be slightly amused. But Katherine…?
Katherine would be deeply disappointed. And, if Julia ended up frozen or ruined or worse—Katherine would be heartbroken, too. Katherine had worked hard to be the mother Julia had never known. Now, Katherine should be free to think of her own children.
Julia winced away the sudden wave of guilt.
Wet or not, she couldn’t change course now. All she could do was dream of a warm, cheerful fire. Or, at the very least, a roof.
She sighed.
A cup of tea would be nice, too. And a steaming, meat-filled pastry.
Just imagining the smell turned her arms to jelly. Her foot slipped off the rail. She banged her knee while righting herself and swallowed a yelp of pain.
Heavens.
Her vivid mental pictures were not helping. She set aside thoughts of castigation and comfort. Right now, she needed to hold to triumph—Rayne, on his knees, begging her to forgive him.
Her cheeks ached, but she purposefully spread her lips into a smile. She might not know how, exactly, but his humbling would come to pass. She would force him to see how wrong he’d been. About everything.
Her fingers tightened around the handle. She leaned to the side and opened her eyes into the wind. Faint light shimmered in the distance.
Not far now—maybe a half mile off. That was how she was going to survive this. One postilion at a time. One mile at a time. One stop at a time.
She would survive. She—as Bromton often said—was an incurable firebrand. Which meant her heat came from within.
The carriage slowed, and she quietly stepped down into the shadows, careful to remain out of sight.
Outside.
In the rain.
Trying with all her might not to collapse into convulsing shivers.
…
Rayne lifted himself onto the back rail of the carriage, searching for the source of the gentle knocking that had roused him from a much-deserved, I-escaped-Southford-without-doing-anything-stupid slumber.
If he’d employed outriders or a footman, he wouldn’t have given the sound a second thought. Like any good sailor learned to roll with the waves, a seasoned traveler heard bumps, rattles, and knocks as music of the road. If anything, he was an expert traveler.
Diamond in the Rogue Page 4
