Kirkwood lifted one eyebrow. “She’s English. Why do you care?”
“Because I’m partly responsible.” If he hadn’t pushed Pomeroy, if he hadn’t challenged him—
“I’ll have to take your word for that. But I suspect that’s not your only reason for wanting to rescue her.”
Ignoring his cousin, Lucas headed for the stairs. “I have to arm myself.”
After ordering the carriage brought round, his cousin hurried up after him. “Be careful, Lucas. You can’t murder an English war hero in cold blood.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not about to give your countrymen reason to hang me.” But neither would he let Pomeroy hurt Amelia.
As Kirkwood followed, Lucas entered his room to grab his pistol case, and then, as an after-thought, his sword and rifle.
“If you don’t catch up to them until tomorrow—”
“I’ll catch up to them tonight. I have to.” Opening the pistol case, Lucas checked to be sure he had adequate ammunition.
“But if you don’t?”
Lucas whirled on him. “I won’t let her be ruined.”
“That would mean—”
“I know,” he ground out. “Someone would have to marry her.” He strode out into the hall and down the stairs. “If I don’t return by tomorrow, tell everyone she and I have eloped.”
His cousin followed him in silence. As they reached the study, Kirkwood said, “Hold up, Winter. You’ll need something else.” He hurried into his study, and Lucas hurried in after him. Kirkwood took paper out of a drawer and began to write. “To escape being caught, most eloping couples post through the night and day until they get to Gretna Green, so you’ll have to do the same. Since no one will want to give an American stranger information about a war hero like Pomeroy, here’s a letter to smooth your way.”
As he signed and marked it with his seal, he shot Lucas a rueful smile. “You’ll have an easier time with a peer on your side. So throw my title around as much as you need to.”
“Thank you.” Lucas took the papers from Kirkwood and started for the door.
“Do you have money?” Kirkwood asked.
Lucas halted. “I have enough. Thanks to your family’s generosity in letting me stay here, I haven’t spent much of my pay since I’ve arrived.” He glanced down at the papers Kirkwood had given him. “Cousin, I…I don’t know how I can ever repay you for all you’ve—”
“Get Lady Amelia back. That’s repayment enough.” He added, eyes gleaming, “Besides, the more you use my title, the more it will mislead Miss Linley’s father when he sets off after me tomorrow.”
“Good luck.”
“Be careful.”
With those words ringing in his ears, Lucas rushed out to the carriage. As it set off at a quick pace through London’s dark streets, his cousin’s statement stuck with him.
Spending the night with a man is as good as sharing his bed.
If he brought Amelia back unmarried, she’d be ruined. She’d never marry, and she’d be a pariah in society, even if Pomeroy hadn’t touched her. The parents of her former schoolmates would forbid their daughters to speak to her, as if scandal were catching, and her entire family would have to live with the shame.
He knew something about living with shame, and he sure as hell wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy. Maybe the adventure-loving Amelia wouldn’t care, but she’d care a lot about having her family hurt. And about not having a choice in the matter. So he couldn’t let her be ruined—not when he’d pushed Pomeroy into it.
But I suspect that’s not your only reason for wanting to rescue her.
He tightened his hand into a fist on his knee. No, it wasn’t. He just couldn’t stand the thought of her in another man’s arms when she was meant to be—
His. He scowled. He’d lost his mind if he thought Amelia could ever be his. His lover, his wife. Sharing his bed, his life, his future. Even if she agreed to it, once she found out what he was up to, she’d never forgive him. Then where would that leave him?
Without her.
The possibility made his chest ache. Staring out the window, he forced himself not to think about it. At the moment, he had to concentrate on rescuing her. Later, he could consider the ramifications of doing so.
He only prayed he got that far. Because if he caught up to them to find her married to Pomeroy, he might just have to kill the man.
Chapter Sixteen
Dear Charlotte,
I shall await further news with eager anticipation, but I know thatyou,dear friend, could never be negligent. Regardless of the circumstances, I stand ready to leap to your aid in any way I can.
Your obedient servant,
Michael
Amelia felt like water coursing over rock, fluid, changeable, her stomach roiling with the motion, her eyelids so heavy…so very heavy. Was this another wild dream? Like the one with the camel who’d turned into a crocodile guarding a teapot? Or the xebec dream with Lucas at the helm and Dolly lashed to the mast?
No, this felt too…mundane to be a dream. She smelled stale oil and onions, overlaid by a stench of burning tallow and unwashed bodies.
The odors pierced the veil of sleep. It took her another second to realize she was being carried up stairs, with voices buzzing around her. Her mouth felt as dry as cotton. She swallowed, then opened her mouth to ask for water…
And closed it again. Drinking was dangerous. How did she know that?
A voice nearby hissed, “Can’t you move any faster? I don’t want her to wake before we reach the room.”
She knew that voice. And she knew the one that answered so close to her head that it startled her. “Beg pardon, milord, but I’m moving fast as I can. Milady must weigh more than she looks.”
If Amelia’s head hadn’t still been spinning, she would have given John a piece of her mind for that insult. And why was her footman carrying her, anyway?
Because he wasn’t her footman anymore. He was Lord Pomeroy’s. That was the other voice she knew.
“Damn these provinces,” Lord Pomeroy grumbled behind them. “What can the owner mean—refusing to rent us a posting horse until morning?”
“The ostler told me the innkeeper won’t risk them at night. That’s why the inn is crowded. That fellow, the Scottish Scourge, has been riding the road near here.”
“And I suppose you think I should have listened to you when we passed that other inn a few miles back. That we should have stopped there.”
A tense silence was the answer.
As the fog in her head thinned to mere vapors, her memory solidified. She’d been carried off by the marquess. He was taking her to Gretna Green. And she had to get away!
But her limbs still felt so heavy. Yes, he’d given her laudanum. And bound her.
She didn’t feel bound, though. Still, she dared not leap up and try to run, not in the stairway. Besides, she wouldn’t get past John, much less Lord Pomeroy.
How long had she been asleep? What time was it? She cracked her eyelids open enough to see the lit candles puncturing the darkness of the stairwell. Thank goodness it was still night. If she could escape her captors, perhaps she could return to the town house before Mrs. Harris sounded the alarm.
They reached the top of the stairs. Through the slit between her eyelids, she saw that the innkeeper had preceded them and was already in the room, ordering maids this way and that.
“Here you are, sir,” the man said, as John carried her into a room. “Your wife will be very comfortable here.”
Wife! For half a second, she panicked, thinking she’d not only missed the trip while drugged but the ceremony as well. Then reason asserted itself. Lord Pomeroy wouldn’t be fretting over their speed if he’d already married her.
John laid her on the bed, then turned away. She flexed her muscles. Her feet and her hands were definitely untied. And her cape was gone, leaving her scandalously low-cut gown exposed.
She had another moment of panic, remembering Lord Pomeroy’s words
about making her more comfortable. While she’d slept, he’d untied her and removed her cape. Had he done anything else? Touched her? Fondled her?
Deflowered her?
She didn’t know, drat it! Her whole body felt different. Was that due to the drug? Or something else?
She forced herself to be calm. Right now all that mattered was getting away.
While the marquess and John dealt with the innkeeper and the maids, she stretched out her legs. They felt less heavy, more normal. And being unbound worked to her advantage. Lord Pomeroy had overpowered her the first time by surprising her, but never again. Not once they were alone.
She needed a weapon, though. Her slitted gaze scanned her immediate surroundings. She saw only a pillow—not much good unless the cursed idiot agreed to lie down and let her smother him with it.
She turned her head. A night table stood within inches of her, and on it sat a pewter pitcher. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it might do.
“I shall send your footman up with your dinner as soon as it’s ready, my lord,” the innkeeper was saying. “And some broth for your poor sick wife. I assure you, she will not suffer a moment’s discomfort in our—”
“Yes, thank you.” Impatiently, Lord Pomeroy ushered the man and the servants out of the room, including John.
She jerked her eyes shut, her heart sinking as she heard him latch the door. She’d just have to hit him hard enough to gain her time to unlatch it.
“Now, my angel,” he murmured, “time for your refreshment. Can’t have you waking up before the wedding, can we?”
Her heart pounded as she heard him rummage in his cursed bag of “provisions.” It was now or never, before John returned. When Lord Pomeroy bent over her to make her drink his cursed potion, she would brain him with the pitcher.
She heard his footsteps near the bed. But as she braced herself for her one chance, a knock came at the door.
“Who is it?” Pomeroy snapped from very close.
“Dinner, milord,” a muffled voice sounded from beyond the door.
No!she wanted to scream aloud. How could John be back so soon?
That was it—she’d had enough. She opened her eyes as Lord Pomeroy headed for the door. She would just have to do it anyway; she might not get another chance. The footman’s hands would be occupied with holding the dinner tray, and Lord Pomeroy would be focused on opening the door.
Between that and the bloodcurdling scream she intended to let loose, she could gain her freedom. The marquess would have a hard time convincing the innkeeper she was ill when she stood over his prone body brandishing a pitcher and screaming bloody murder.
She used the sound of his flipping the latch to cover her slipping from the bed on the side farthest from him. As he opened the door, she picked up the pitcher and sidled to his right so the open door would block her from John’s sight when he came in.
“You!” Lord Pomeroy growled, and she froze.
The marquess backed into the room, and then she saw why. Lucas was entering, sword drawn and aimed right at Lord Pomeroy’s throat.
Her heart leaped. Lucas had come after her! Despite the risks, despite what it probably meant to his plan. He’d come to save her. She could kiss him!
“Where is she?” Lucas glanced beyond Lord Pomeroy to the empty bed.
“You’re too late,” Lord Pomeroy said, as Lucas forced him farther into the room and shut the door without taking his eyes off the man.
“Too late?” she whispered.
The marquess jerked his head around, then gave a start to see her standing a few feet away, pitcher in hand.
At the sound of her voice Lucas’s hard expression shifted to blatant relief, yet he kept his gaze fixed on his quarry. “Are you all right, Amelia?”
“Yes. No…I-I don’t know. He drugged me with laudanum, and I just now woke up. He could have done anything to me while I slept.”
“I would never hurt you!” Lord Pomeroy made a motion as if to go to her until Lucas prodded him back with the sword. The marquess glared at Lucas. “And I would certainly never behave badly to a woman while she slept.”
“Then why did you say he was too late?” she asked.
“Too late to save your reputation,” he said hastily. “That’s all I meant.”
She thrust out her chin. “It’s not too late.” She glanced toward the window where night still held sway. “It’s been only a few hours. If Lucas and I leave now, we can still get back to London before anyone discovers me gone.”
A deafening silence fell on the room. Lord Pomeroy looked decidedly uncomfortable, and Lucas muttered a curse under his breath.
“I’m sorry, darlin’.” Though Lucas still kept his gaze on Pomeroy, his voice held an aching remorse. “I tried to catch up to you sooner, but I don’t know the road well, and I had to stop often to ask after Pomeroy—”
“What are you saying, drat it?” she demanded.
“It’s been two days since you left.”
“Two days!” She gaped at him. “That can’t be! Surely I would have…” But now that her brain was pushing clear of the drug, she could sift the dreams from the hazy memories. Of someone coaxing her to drink more than once, of being led from a carriage to relieve herself, of dozing in a carriage too bright for it to have been night—
“You see?” Lord Pomeroy said, in a placating voice that further sparked her temper. “You’ll be ruined if you return unwed. The only way to save your reputation is to marry me.”
“Marry you!” She stalked toward him, brandishing the pitcher. Water sloshed out of it with her every step. “Marryyou?You’re the one who ruined me, drat it!” Her temper soaring, she whacked his arm with the pitcher. “How dare you keep me drugged for two days?” She whacked his other arm. “Lord only knows what you did to me while I was asleep!”
He held his arms up to block his head. “I did nothing, I swear!”
“Then why is my cape gone?” she spat.
“I removed it merely to allow you to sleep more comfortably, my angel—”
“Don’t call me that!” She struck his crossed arms, tears welling in her eyes. “I was never your angel!” Half-blinded by tears, she hit him again. “I will never be your wife!” Her tears fell, and she swiped them away furiously. “How could you?” She punctuated each word with a blow. “You…had…no…right!”
“That’s enough, darlin’.” Lucas came up from behind to snag her around the waist with his free hand. “You’ve made your point.”
As he dragged her off the marquess, she threw the pitcher at her captor. “I shall never forgive you for this, never!”
Lucas tightened his arm about her waist, pulling her up against him. With his sword arm now lowered to his side, he backed toward the door. “Time to go.”
“No, wait, please,” Lord Pomeroy begged. His hands slid down from his head to bare his reddened features and tufts of hair all askew. “I know you’re angry now, Lady Amelia, but if you don’t marry me, you’ll never be able to hold your head up in society again.”
“I don’t care!” she cried. “I would sooner live the rest of my life a ruined spinster than marry you, my lord!”
“She won’t be ruined,” Lucas said firmly. “She’s marrying me .”
For a moment, her heart soared. He would marry her? Truly? Just to protect her from scandal? What a dear, dear man!
Then reality sank in. What if he wasn’t doing it to protect her? What if he thought it would help him in his investigation somehow?
She swallowed. It didn’t matter why. She could still use it to make sure Lord Pomeroy never attempted kidnapping her again.
“Yes,” she said, “I’m marrying Lucas.”
“An American?” Lord Pomeroy cried. “Think what you’re doing!”
He started forward, but Lucas stayed him with his sword. “If you lay one finger on her, I’ll make what she just did seem like child’s play. You won’t go unpunished for this, either. I’ll see you dragged before the courts—”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Amelia said quickly, though his fierce words sent a thrill coursing through her. Perhaps he did care, after all. “No lawyer would take an American soldier’s word over an English peer’s about what happened. He has the weight of the public behind him. And even if you succeed in having him prosecuted, you’d have lost your appointment in your government. And my family would be shamed. So there’s no point. Let’s just go.”
“You can’t go off with him,” Lord Pomeroy protested, casting her a glance of mute appeal. “He only wants your fortune, can’t you see?”
“He can have my fortune if that’s what he wants.” She ignored how Lucas stiffened against her. “I’d rather marry anyone—anyone,do you hear?—than you.”
Lord Pomeroy looked bewildered. “If you’d just give me a chance, I could make you happy. I know that in your heart you care for me.”
“Then why did I send that purgative out to your carriage in London?” She had to put an end to his insanity right now. Kindness and evasion had clearly not worked. “I was the one who ordered that, not Mrs. Harris. I was that desperate to be rid of you.”
When he looked stunned, she felt a moment’s pang, but she reminded herself of what he’d just done to her, and her resolve hardened to ruthless intent. “I am not an angel. Did you really believe I’d choose a husband old enough to be my father over a virile young fellow like the major? That I’d willingly marry a man I’d soon have to nurse through his declining years? A man who has to eat opium just to—”
“Enough.” Lord Pomeroy suddenly looked far older than his fifty-odd years. He drew himself up with a stiff dignity at odds with his mussed hair and rumpled coat. “It appears that you are correct—you are not the woman I took you for. I thought you had discernment and a kind heart. Apparently I was wrong.”
“She’s been kinder than you deserve,” Lucas muttered under his breath.
Thankfully, Lord Pomeroy didn’t hear him. “Do as you please then, my lady. Marry a scoundrel. I will not stop you.”
“You’ll have to do better than that.” Lucas brandished the sword. “You’d best keep this whole matter to yourself, do you hear? As far as you’re concerned, Lady Amelia and I eloped. My cousin is telling that story in London, and so help me, if you say something else—”
Never Seduce a Scoundrel Page 16
