Her fingers tightened and flexed experimentally round the hat pin. She must not act too hastily, she was going to need help…witnesses.
Lionel had to step sideways over the threshold, putting him ever so slightly off balance. This was the best opportunity she was likely to get. With all the strength she could muster, she jabbed the hat pin through the blanket she was wrapped in, into the nearest part of Lionel’s anatomy. He gave a yelp, and just as she’d hoped, dropped her as if—she giggled as she hit the flagged floor—as if someone had stuck a red-hot needle in him.
It was not as easy as she’d thought it would be to get to her feet. The blanket that had been her friend when she’d needed to conceal her weapon was now conspiring with Lionel to keep her his prisoner. By the time she’d fought free of it, he had grabbed the collar of her coat, and it was he who yanked her to her feet.
With no compunction she stabbed wildly at him over her shoulder, feeling immense satisfaction as she felt the pin run into the flesh of his hand.
He cursed, jerking his hand free of both her pin and her collar. She did not stop to look back, but ran headlong down the passage, towards the sound of voices. The passage had looked immeasurably long when she’d scrambled to her feet, so she was bewildered when she reached the door at the end of it after only a few stumbling steps.
There was a blaze of light, a flood of heat, and a sea of masculine faces turning towards her.
Momentum carried her into the room, until she careened into what felt like a brick wall clad in homespun.
‘Please help me,’ she began. The brick wall sprouted hands, which clamped round her upper arms and set her roughly aside.
‘My apologies, gentlemen.’ Lionel’s hateful drawl came from the doorway behind her. ‘I fear my lady friend has imbibed a little too freely on the way here. I was fool enough to offer her a little something to keep out the cold, but you know what her sort are like.’
A whiskered face loomed over her. ‘You oughta take more water with it.’
‘No,’ she protested. ‘I never drink. He put something in it.’
The room was filled with crude male laughter at her contradictory statement.
‘Why won’t you help me?’ she pleaded. ‘He’s trying to abduct me and force me to marry him.’
There was a second of disbelieving silence while the occupants of the tap room glanced from her to Lionel before they began to laugh even harder. She knew what they must be seeing and groaned in despair. Lionel was the picture of unruffled elegance, lounging against the door jamb, while she was staggering about spouting nonsense. She’d even been conned into wearing the simple rough clothes she always wore when visiting the poor. Even Lord Lensborough had taken her for a working woman when he’d come across her in the exact same outfit.
She was suddenly furious that she’d taken such pains to stitch the balding velvet ribbon back on to the damaged bonnet only for it to betray her like this. She should have thrown it away. She tore the offending item from her head, flung it to the floor and stamped on it.
No wonder nobody would listen to her. She was acting like a mad woman. She couldn’t seem to help it. It felt as if her mind was stuck on the rim of a huge wheel, bowling along at high speed through a whole cycle of emotions, from abject despair, through uncontrollable anger into a weird sort of detachment where she found everything hysterically funny. She raised her balled fists to her throbbing temples.
‘Look out,’ someone said. ‘She’s got some kind of a weapon.’
‘She looks the violent type an’ all. Just look at all that red hair.’
Inspiration struck her. ‘I am,’ she said, swinging the fist that still clutched the hat pin in a wide arc on a level with the jeering faces. ‘Get out of my way or you’ll be sorry.’
A path opened through the sea of male bodies and she plunged through it, towards a door she’d spied on the far side of the tap room. Lionel caught up with her just as she set her hand to the latch. Whirling to face him, she dodged his attempt to disarm her by dropping to a semi-crouching position, ramming the hat pin into the side of his thigh and jerking it out again in one viciously fluid movement.
He leapt back, cursing in disbelief as what started as a tiny, ruby jewel welled and flowed down the seam of his breeches.
‘That’s one for the hell cat,’ somebody yelled. Several other men cheered as she scrabbled the latch up and fell backwards into the room beyond the door.
She spun round, ramming her back to the door to hold it fast since there was no bolt. She rapidly scanned the room for something heavy to wedge against the door, and blinked. She had assumed this was going to be a store room, but it was a private parlour. A fire was blazing in the grate. A large wing chair was pulled up in front of it. An occupied chair. She could see a pair of booted legs stretched out towards the hearth. Good quality boots. The sort of boots that belonged to a gentleman. She had no more illusions about the sort of men that frequented the tap, but surely a gentleman would help her?
‘Get out,’ the man growled, before she had even given voice to her last desperate hope.
Yet the curt dismissal gave her hope wings.
‘Lord Lensborough!’ She could not mistake that harsh, gravelly voice. How welcome it sounded to her ears. She did not pause to question what his lordship was doing here. His mere presence gave her hope.
‘You will not let me down.’
Hester felt Lionel give the door a tentative push. She braced her back more firmly against it.
‘You know nothing of the sort.’ His lordship did not deign to so much as turn his head to look at her, never mind do her the courtesy of getting to his feet. Yet she knew instinctively that this rudeness only stemmed from some black humour he happened to be in. Just as she knew that he had not intentionally hurt and humiliated her that day they had first met. In the week he had been at The Holme, she had realised that his brusque manner cloaked a basically honourable nature.
She tried to run to him, only to land in an undignified heap on the hearthrug when her rubbery legs gave out from under her. Grasping at the arm of his chair, she pulled herself to her knees. The look of utter contempt on his face almost made her quail.
‘Please…’ She had to make one last attempt, even under the withering blast of that scorn. ‘Please believe me. Lionel lured me into his carriage and drugged me. He’s trying to abduct me.’
His lips twisted into a parody of a smile, but his eyes were cold and hard. He did not believe her either. ‘Please…’ Her eyes filled with tears.
Then the door flew open, and Lionel came pelting into the parlour. He must have put his shoulder to the door, and, since Hester was no longer holding it shut, there was nothing to check his headlong rush.
His eyes homed in on her where she cowered beside the wing chair.
‘Don’t think you’re going to find anyone who will be sympathetic to your version of events, Hetty.’ He limped towards her. ‘Just be a good girl, leave this poor gentleman out of it, and come with me before I really lose my temper with you.’
Lionel’s words had the effect on Lord Lensborough that Hester’s had not. He was out of his chair and across the room in a blur of black worsted, his powerful right fist slamming into his jaw before Lionel even had a chance to recognise his assailant.
Lionel staggered backwards through the still-open door into the arms of a semi-circle of spectators. Several of them cheered again, delighted by the entertainment this impromptu brawl was providing. Lord Lensborough, who enjoyed watching a good mill himself, took the time to acknowledge the applause with a bow, before closing the door on their curiosity.
He turned round just as Hester, white faced, slithered to the floor after an abortive attempt to lift herself on to his chair. Two strides brought him back to her side.
Had she fainted? The ordeal that cur had put her through would have floored a lesser woman. He must loosen her clothing. That was the correct treatment for a faint, was it not? His fingers fumbled at her coat bu
ttons.
Her eyes flew open, her bloodless lips drawing back into a snarl.
‘Don’t touch me.’ Her arm arced back as she prepared to strike him, and it was only as he caught her wrist in a reflexive act of self-defence that he caught sight of the bloodied hat pin.
‘What do you take me for, madam?’
For a moment longer she continued to resist his grasp. Then recognition flooded into her strangely blank eyes. ‘Lord Lensborough?’
‘At your service.’
Her whole body relaxed. She opened her hand and dropped the hat pin into his palm, before closing her eyes and murmuring, ‘I’m safe now, then.’
He sat back on his heels, frowning. She was out for the count. Hadn’t she been babbling some wild story about being drugged before that cur Snelgrove had barged in? Or was it wild? She had certainly lacked co-ordination, she was confused, her pupils had been tiny pinpricks. Might she have been fighting the effects of being drugged, and now she felt safe, have given up the struggle?
With fingers that were sure of their purpose now, Lord Lensborough removed her coat and gently moved her more fully on to the hearthrug, closer to the fire. He then removed his own jacket and wadded it to make a cushion for her head, finally draping her own coat over her.
How long was she likely to remain in this stupefied state? He had no experience with the aftereffects of any kind of drug, but coffee always helped to sober up a drunk. Getting a hot drink inside her could only be beneficial. Her hands had been icy cold. He called for the landlord.
* * *
When Hester next opened her eyes she felt deliciously warm and utterly at peace. A slight sound drew her attention to the occupant of a wing chair, at the foot of which she appeared to be lying.
Lord Lensborough was scowling down at her. What a grouch he was. She smiled at him, remembering. ‘You got rid of Lionel.’
He nodded. ‘I had the landlord throw him out.’
Hester’s smile slipped. ‘Naturally.’ Nobody had believed her, or heeded her pleas for help, but Lensborough had only to quirk that haughty eyebrow and everyone leaped to do his bidding.
‘There is coffee upon the table. I believe it might still be warm. You should try to drink some.’
Coffee sounded good. But when Hester tried to sit up, the room began to spin alarmingly. She had to grasp at the floorboards to stop herself from falling off.
‘Here.’ A strong arm went round her, a cup was held to her lips. She sipped the fragrant brew gratefully, resting her muzzy head against Lord Lensborough’s rock-solid chest in between sips.
‘When you first came in,’ he murmured into the curls that were tickling his nose, ‘I thought for one glorious moment that you had followed me. Even now I know it was no such thing, I cannot help but see the hand of providence in this. We cannot fight fate.’
Hester sighed and settled into a more comfortable position.
‘We were meant to be together.’ While she had slept he had planned it all out. He did not want to let her go. Why should he let her go? What kind of a future did she have anyway? ‘From the first moment I saw you I knew somehow you were my destiny, darling.’ He dropped a kiss onto the crown of her head. Her hair was so soft, and it smelled like wood smoke, and something herbal, underpinned by an essence wholly feminine.
‘To hell with propriety, and duty. I can’t marry anyone else when I want you so much. Come with me to Stanthorne. You will like it there. Or if you don’t, I have other estates. You can choose to live wherever you wish. We cannot press on in this weather today, but the landlord says he has a room free. Stay with me, Hester. Be mine. And I will never let anyone hurt you or frighten you again.’
He pressed a finger under her chin so that he could raise her face up and look into her eyes. ‘Hester, my heart, what do you say?’
Chapter Eleven
Lord Lensborough cursed as he brushed a crusting of snow from the front of his driving coat. On the curricle seat beside him, Hester bristled.
‘If my language offends you,’ he snarled, ‘you have only yourself to blame. I warned you against setting out in this weather.’
‘And I told you there was no need to stir from beside that lovely warm fire yourself, my lord.’ Her tone was as arctic as the wind that was driving the powdery snow into drifts against any barrier it encountered. ‘Your groom is quite used to attending to errands you do not care for yourself.’
‘I thought the whole point of this exercise was to get you back to The Holme without arousing any suspicion about where you have been all day. Servants gossip.’
Lord Lensborough swore again, colourfully, at the memory of Hester’s response to his impassioned plea to become his mistress.
She had let forth a gentle snore. He had tilted her head back to find that her eyes were closed. Damn him if the confounded woman hadn’t slept through the whole thing.
And he was glad that nobody but himself knew how completely he’d lost his head during those few moments when he’d cradled her in his arms.
He had thought that by leaving The Holme, he could dismiss her from his mind, but the minute she had walked into the room he had known he would fight to the death to defend her. The very thought of her in another man’s arms had filled him with such revulsion that he had readily sacrificed everything else he held dear, even down to producing legitimate heirs, for the chance of possessing her himself.
And when she next woke, before he had a chance to say a word, she went rigid, exclaiming indignantly, ‘Why are we lying on the floor like this? What do you think you are doing?’
The look of horror on her face was too clear for him to misunderstand. Hester was nowhere near ready to become any man’s mistress.
Angry that, but for her stupor, he would have just made a colossal fool of himself, over a termagant who neither particularly liked him, nor was worthy of his regard in any respect, he had snapped back, ‘I was trying to get you to drink the coffee. You fell asleep on me, madam.’
‘I beg your pardon.’ She had pulled out of his embrace. ‘I had no intention—that is…I hate being touched,’ she had blurted as she had scrambled unsteadily to her feet.
‘At least you have some colour in your cheeks again,’ he mocked as she busily dusted down her skirts.
The tension was intolerable. He wanted her out of his sight, out of his reach before he did or said something irrevocable.
‘You may have the use of the room I had procured for my own stay,’ he said gruffly, getting up and brushing sawdust from his breeches. If there were no other rooms available, God help him, he would sleep in the stables, anywhere to get away from her bewitching influence.
‘But I can’t stay here.’
‘Well, you certainly cannot go anywhere else today. We’re stranded in the middle of a blizzard, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
She had gone to look out of the window. ‘It’s not what I’d call a blizzard.’ Her voice had dripped scorn. ‘There’s just a few tiny, powdery flakes drifting down. The wind will blow them right off the road. I could get through.’
‘I fail to see why you wish to risk your health by venturing out at all, not when I have made all the arrangements for your comfort, you ungrateful baggage.’
She’d whipped round and he had braced himself for a retaliatory torrent of abuse. Instead her eyes had been luminous with unshed tears.
‘Pray forgive me if I sounded ungrateful, my lord.’ She had twisted her hands together at her waist. ‘If not for you, if you had not been here…’ She had turned pale, and swayed, and stumbled to the table where she had dropped on to the seat like a stone. After drawing a couple of deep breaths, she had been able to continue, though not to look directly at him.
‘You may not have considered the repercussions.’
‘Repercussions?’ He had laughed harshly as he had lowered himself on to a chair opposite her. It was not as if she had a reputation to lose. She had given birth to a child outside wedlock.
She had address
ed her next remark to where his hands were loosely linked on the table top. ‘Well, firstly, there is my family to consider. If I don’t return home tonight, they will imagine some dreadful accident has befallen me.’
‘Once the weather has improved, you may return home in comfort and explain it all.’
‘Explain it?’ She had looked appalled. ‘Do you think I would want to repeat out loud…what…?’ She had shaken her head vehemently. ‘Besides, only imagine what effect the telling would have on them. Uncle Thomas is bound to set straight out into the snow with a horse whip and a pistol, threatening to hound Lionel to the ends of the earth. Aunt Susan, even if she were spared the details, would go into strong hysterics, which would upset Julia and Phoebe, and frighten poor Harry and George and Jenny. The whole household in an uproar, to what end? I am…’ She gulped. ‘He didn’t…’ She shook her head again. ‘They would all be so much happier if only I could somehow prevent the story from reaching their ears.
‘And then—’ she had blushed ‘—there is your reputation to consider. Only imagine what malicious gossips could make of you spending the night in an inn, on the eve of your betrothal, with a different woman than your intended. And if the word “abduction” ever got thrown into the mix…’
‘I don’t really care what inferior persons may say about me.’
‘No. How well I know that.’ Her head flew up then, her eyes flashing emerald fire. ‘But Julia and Phoebe could be dreadfully hurt if any whiff of scandal was spread about you and me.’
Her selflessness shamed him. A lump came to his throat. ‘I will return you to your family at once,’ he’d said, rising to his feet and turning his face from her. Taking refuge in sarcasm, he had added, ‘God forbid that Sir Thomas should have to venture outdoors in the snow.’
‘We really should not be seen together. I can walk home.’
‘Walk!’ he had thundered. ‘Right back into Snelgrove’s waiting arms? You little fool. Do you even realise how far it is to Beckforth from here?’
In a tight little voice she admitted she did not, that she was not altogether sure where ‘here’ was. When he had told her, she had been horrified.
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