by Tanya Wilde
“You feel responsible?” Dalziel sounded surprised.
And of course, he would be shocked, Sebastian’s be and let be nature notwithstanding, he had never shown any concern for a female’s welfare before tonight.
“I am responsible. Had I known one blasted kiss would draw me into her problems, I would have steered well away from the chit. Now I have the misfortune of feeling guilt. Deplorable emotion, that.”
Dalziel whistled. “Dare I ask her family connection?”
“Sheffield.”
His friend’s brow rose. “As in the Duke of Sheffield?”
“What do you know of him?” Sebastian asked.
“Of him? Not much. Only that the doctor who treated the late duke vanished without so much as a trace.”
“Christ. You suspect foul play?”
“I believe I’m smart enough not to question the reasons for the deaths that plagued that poor girl’s family.”
“Her brother died in a carriage accident.”
“And those accidents happen all the time, do they not?”
Sebastian cursed. Had her uncle plotted to become the next duke? It seemed unthinkable, yet Sebastian had recognized the look in the man’s eyes.
Ambition.
Savage, raw ambition.
Sebastian cast another glance in the direction of the chamber, his heart suddenly pounding between the cavities of his chest. It would appear that his role as the hero had still a little way to go.
The thought both terrified and excited him at the same time.
Chapter 9
Anastacia woke with a painful ache that spanned from her head down right to the tip of her toes. At first, she thought the surface beneath her back was the floor where her uncle and Bloomington had dumped her, and panic rose, but a slight wiggle found that she lay on a mattress, soft as heaven’s clouds, though not the same could be said of her pillow.
She remained frozen like a statue, one eye flitting open, attempting to take stock of her surroundings. An unfamiliar room, with foreign furnishings, met her gaze. Her other eye popped open. Where was she? Her last memory was that of her uncle beating her for her insolence and Bloomington watching in morbid fascination. They had locked her away after that. How long ago had that been?
Hours? Days?
That she was in a room probably meant days, which begged the question, where?
A vague, dream-like recollection of a third figure materialized, but the haze of the pain dulled her senses, the desperate need for such a fantasy to be real, she suspected, playing havoc with her mind.
But, she was quite certain, she was not in the closet anymore, and was that a leg she felt move beneath her head? Was this her uncle’s idea of further punishment? Had he given her to Bloomington already? Perhaps they had locked her in a tower, awaiting her doom.
Anastacia nearly leaped from the bed when gentle fingers stroked her hair, almost as if in thought.
“You’re awake; it’s about damn time.”
Her heart lurched.
Blackcress?
How had she ended up with him? But then Anastacia suddenly recalled his visit amidst her uncle’s confrontation. Confused, she attempted to rise but flinched, and he assisted her upright. She also refused to dwell on the soothing sensation of his hands.
His eyes searched hers. “How do you feel?”
“I’ve been worse,” she murmurned, and swept the room with another glance. “Where am I? And how did I come to be here?”
Anastacia loathed that Blackcress had seen her in such a pitiful state of degradation. Out of habit, she attempted to shift away from him, but he would have none of it.
“You do not remember?” he asked.
Shaking her head, she regretted the action with a grimace. “The last thing I recall is my uncle and . . .” The rest seemed quite obvious. She would rather not relive the horror of it. The evidence of her own blood’s cruelty was portrayed on her face for all to witness.
A gentle hand touched hers, but she pulled away.
Blackcress’s dark, unfathomable eyes bore into hers for an uncomfortable moment before he got up from the bed and handed her a glass of water. Anastacia murmured her thanks as she took his offering, the cool liquid bringing such relief to her parched throat that a small moan trembled from her lips. This time, instead of taking his former place, he seated himself on a chair that had been placed beside the bed.
“How long has your uncle abused you?” he asked her.
Her head whipped to the side and locked on his face, but she found nothing but concern and anger. Anger at whom? Her? Her uncle? That he had been drawn into her troubles?
“Anastacia, you have nothing to be afraid of from me. Your uncle is a bastard who should be strung up from his di—feet.”
“Why do you care what happens to me?” she said, resentment choking her.
She was grateful that Blackcress had rescued her, but at what cost? He had only wanted “one night of wild passion” and had refused to aid her. So did he imagine that saving her would earn him his one night? Was he playing the hero just to get into the damsel’s bed? Had he not thought her a conniving hussy last they spoke. What had changed? Why help her now?
He blanched at her question. “I was wrong to assume you were attempting to entrap me when you were only asking for aid. It was a mistake born of years of feeling hunted, but it’s no excuse, and I am sorry.”
When Anastacia remained silent, watching him impassively and with some suspicion, she was sure, he sighed and continued, “I suspected I made things worse for you when I came to your home, so I snuck into the house when Sheffield and Bloomington left. Then I found you in a damn hole in the wall. I took you home and summoned a doctor. Do not worry,” he said when he saw her eyes widen, “he is a friend and prized for his discretion.”
Anastacia looked away, her heart heavy. “After my brother and father passed away . . .” she shuddered, “My uncle has never been fond of me.”
When he leaned forward to tuck the blanket firmly around her shoulders, Anastacia cringed, causing a growl to rumble in Blackcress’s chest.
“I may be a wretched scoundrel, Anastacia, but I don’t hurt women, and I will not allow your uncle to lay a finger on you again.”
Lovely words. Ones she desperately wanted to believe, but Anastacia dared not.
“You snuck into the house?” she asked instead of delving further into his heartfelt declaration.
He nodded, resting his elbows on his knees. “I searched all the chambers. They were all empty. I was about to leave when I heard a soft sound.” His lips turned up into a snarl. “Never wanted to kill a man more than the moment I found you. You don’t recall any of this?”
Anastacia shook her head. “How long ago?” she asked. The question seemed more important than dwelling on the fact that Blackcress had come to her aid and a stranger had probably poked and probed at her wounds.
“Sheffield,” he snarled and then visibly attempted to relax his shoulders. “Darkened my door with his banging as I expected him to, and it took him two days.”
“My uncle came here searching for me?” She had slept for two days?
Blackcress nodded, his face grim. “I managed to send him away, threatened to shove his entrails down his throat if he took one step into my home.”
Anastacia glanced around the room. “We are at your house?”
“Hell no, we’re at an inn bound for Scotland.”
Her eyes rounded, and her pulse leaped. In trepidation? Shock? Relief? She felt so much it was impossible to sort through her emotions. But Scotland was good. She could hide there. “He means to marry me off to Bloomington.”
“The hell he will!” Blackcress exclaimed, his face darkening into a thundercloud. “That man is as foul as they come.”
Anastacia agreed. Another thought occurred to her. Had Blackcress been carting her unconscious form in and out of roadside inns? Heat crept into her cheeks. But after a strangled moment, she decided ignorance wa
s bliss and instead admitted with a sigh, “My uncle sold me to him. Bloomington will not stop until he gets what he is owed.”
A string of curses flung from Blackcress’s mouth, and his jaw clenched. “They would have to catch us first.”
Suspicion colored her voice when she asked, “Where in Scotland are you taking me?”
“Gretna.”
That did not make a wit of sense.
“Why are we going to Gretna?” She could much more easily hide in Edinburgh or in the highlands—or cross the sea to Ireland. Better still, she could cross over to Europe and board a ship bound for the colonies.
“Why else do couples dash off to the blacksmith?” And as if to further say “do you take my meaning,” he lifted one dark brow.
Elope. They were eloping.
“Now you mean to marry me?” she asked, stunned, searching his dark eyes.
Here it was: a way out.
Isn’t that what she wanted?
Why then, did she feel so uneasy? And why the change of heart? Had he learned the truth of the fortune she came with? Was he trying to use her—to control her? But he had no need for money—she disregarded that idea.
So why this sudden willingness to marry her? Yes, he’d saved her from her uncle’s fists—but marriage? Her stomach twisted as a sinister thought crawled its way into her mind. Was this his way of guaranteeing that he got what he wanted? If she married him . . . she would share his bed. He’d been clear he wanted that from the beginning.
And he was a rake. He’d become bored and resentful. And then? Then lock her away so he wouldn’t have to deal with her—so that she wouldn’t threaten his freedom—and in the process, she’d lose her own. She’d wanted a husband to gain freedom from her uncle, yes, but also freedom for herself.
Blackcress was many things—he was even a hero today—but in all their interactions, he’d proven himself a domineering male. A rogue who had the world served to him on a silver plate. Had he ever once considered what she wanted? Would he ever? Or, if she married him, would she be trading one prison for another?
He grunted, but replied, “Why did you not tell me your situation was so dire?”
“Would you have believed me?”
“Yes, dammit!”
Then after a while, he said, “I would have looked into the matter.”
“And by then it would have been too late.”
“Damnation, I am helping, no, rescuing, you now, aren’t I? You will marry me.”
Her cheeks flamed. He’d not even asked her. He’d simply told her what she would do. That cemented it.
“Oh, I will, will I?”
“Devil take it, Anastacia, that’s not how I meant it. I am trying to be a hero here.”
She had already stopped believing in heroes.
“Yes, and I thank you for it, but you needn’t feel compelled to toss your bachelor days aside for me. I will, however, be much obliged if you escort me to Edinburgh.”
Those dark eyes landed on her with a fierce scowl. “The hell I will! First, you wanted to marry, and then you came to me demanding funds for ruining your little tête-à-tête with Averly, and now you only want me to escort you to Edinburgh?”
“I asked for funds to purchase passage on board a ship,” Anastacia said, shooting him a heated look. “And that was before. Now you have given me another chance to seek a more preferable husband.”
“More preferable? I bloody well saved you, perhaps even your life. You do not get more preferable than that.”
“Look, Blackcress,” Anastacia started, a feeling of guilt stealing over her. “I am truly in your debt for saving me. But marriage? Surely you agree that a wife would not suit you all that well. You would tire of me within a week and where would that leave me?”
But at least you would not be bloody and broken.
Damn her inner practical self for intruding upon her thoughts. She couldn’t say she’d be free with Blackcress, but she could say that he’d never lay a hand on her. That, in itself, would be a welcome change. For a moment, Anastacia wavered but managed to hold firm. This was not one of her plans.
“I ought to be insulted, but damn if I don’t know whether you are right or not. What, pray tell, will you do if I agree to your request and escort you to Edinburgh?”
“Perhaps I shall travel to the colonies, or maybe I shall find a highlander to wed.”
“A highlander, eh? Heathens, the lot of them.”
A small smile tugged at her lips. “It seems a heathen is exactly what my situation calls for, do you not agree? Thank you, by the way, for saving me from the horrible fate that awaited me at the hands of Bloomington.”
“Do not thank me yet, sweet; Sheffield and his cronies may yet be on our heels,” he muttered but said nothing else, only regarded her with an impassive countenance. After what felt like a lifetime, he settled back into the chair. “Get some rest, Anastacia, we leave under the cover of darkness.”
Exhaustion tugged at her eyelids, and Anastacia’s eyes drifted closed. Her uncle would not give up. She’d been a fool to run away from home, a fool to believe she could escape him, yet fate had allowed her paths to cross with the most unlikely of men, the dashing reprobate that was the Duke of Blackcress. A reprobate whose soothing hands provided the most exquisite sensation.
As Anastacia drifted off into a peaceful slumber, her last thoughts hovered on a question, one she’d forgotten to ask. In which direction were they to head when darkness descended?
***
Sebastian regarded the small bruised frame of Lady Anastacia, and his insides softened. He even felt a slight prickle in the region of his heart. The chit had gotten to him, more than Sebastian cared to admit. But he did. Admit it, that is. He wasn’t a man to deny simple pleasures or hide behind denial. So he did not lock away these foreign feelings that plagued him or refuse to acknowledge them. No, instead, he inspected them from every possible angle and with much scrutiny.
And it all came down to one fact: Sebastian wanted Anastacia—and he wanted her however he could get her.
It was no mild thing that she had arrested his attention from the first moment he’d caught sight of her. She hadn’t needed to cajole him or bat her lashes suggestively. It took only for her to arrive, and he had been swept up into her magic.
And she now wanted to wed a highlander?
He snorted.
Or leave the country?
Not on his watch.
Let her believe he would hand her over to the Scots. Fighting him on the matter would only weaken her strength, which she would need to face her uncle—as the new Duchess of Blackcress.
Sebastian had always been a selfish man. And in this, there was no exception. He would be damned if he let her slip through his fingers and marry a barbarian or leave the country altogether. And he’d be damned if he’d ever share her.
It was then that he realized that he was willing to give up his escapades. He’d stay faithful to her if she’d have him. The knowledge jolted through him. It seemed—much to his own surprise—that his skirt-chasing days were over. They’d fallen by the wayside as he played the hero to this one woman.
But he did not tell her any of that. Not yet. Not while she remained skittish and set on fleeing. Oddly enough, the thought of her delicate form in the arms of a muscled, oaf-headed Scot made him see red, which just proved it was as Sebastian suspected. There was a connection between them, a spark that if nurtured, could perhaps transform into an immutable blaze.
But first, she must forgive him for how he handled their entire acquaintance so far. Surely, she could not fault him for making a mistake? Or two. Or three.
Gazing upon her porcelain features and the dark bruise that stained her cheek, it occurred to him that a year ago, no, a month ago, he would never have rescued a damsel or wed, for that matter. He had certainly never given thought to the type of husband he’d be. What was it about Anastacia that made it impossible for him to resist? Did it even matter? He was powerless to stop
it, in any case. All his instincts, protective and otherwise, flared to life in her presence.
She, on the other hand, did not believe he could save her from Sheffield, not entirely. And that troubled him. His heart bled every damn time he glimpsed the fear and doubt in those big beautiful eyes.
However, she was smart to be afraid. Sheffield possessed an infinite amount of recourses. But if they were married, no amount of appeals could circumspect the law, and no man would dare take her from him. In fact, Sheffield could place his lips on Sebastian’s unscrupulous white posterior.
He considered what Dalziel had told him, about the speculation of how her family had all perished. Her mother had died young from consumption. Her brother, heir apparent, had then died in a tragic carriage accident years after. His death was followed by their father’s, who died of . . . What, exactly? An unknown illness thought to be an ailment of the heart. Poison perhaps? Would Sheffield truly commit such horrible deeds to gain the title of dukedom?
Of course he would, look what he had done to his niece. And the chit thought Averly a match for her uncle? That foppish bore?
Sebastian conveyed his disbelief with the shake of his head.
The baffling workings of the female mind.
Anastacia had been mistaken in her assumption that the boy could keep her safe, just as she now mistakenly believed that it was best for him to escort her to Edinburgh so that she could hunt down another husband.
No indeed.
They would go to Gretna as planned.
Where he would marry her and keep her for himself.
Chapter 10
The next day, tucked into the plush confines of an elegant carriage, Anastacia considered how to go about securing a highland lord—or farmer, it mattered not. As long as it meant she lived far away from her uncle. Blackcress had not mentioned Gretna again, so she assumed he had recanted his offer and was escorting her to the city of Edinburgh. Which was for the best. Honestly, he could not control his domineering ways—he’d never had cause to.
With no more time for a proper courtship, she supposed the best approach to secure a highlander was a forward one. Anastacia would find a Scot who had enough gumption to stand up to her uncle, but would also agree that they live amicable, albeit independent lives.
