Scandal Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Instinctively Julian kicked free of the stirrups and dived to the right. The last thing he wanted was for the stallion to come down on him. Both he and the horse landed hard and Julian winced at the pain that bunched in his shoulder as he hit the muddy ground. Horse and man immediately scrambled to their feet and ignoring his painful shoulder, Julian lunged for the dangling reins. The stallion shied and spun on his heels and Julian watched in furious dismay as the horse disappeared into the darkness.

  Slapping his ruined hat against his leather breeches, Julian swore. Bloody hell! It had only needed this.

  All thoughts of Elizabeth vanished. Finding shelter and seeing how badly he had hurt his shoulder were now his first priorities. Knowing that he had passed the last sign of habitation miles back, there was nothing to be gained from following after the horse. Resigned to a miserable walk, he set off in the opposite direction taken by his fleeing mount.

  If he had thought he had been miserable previously, he had not realized how much more miserable he could become, but he soon learned. The mud dragged at his boots, the wind buffeted him unmercifully and the rain was incessant. Never mind the idea of being struck by a falling tree or lightning—by the time he had fought his way two miles away from where he had parted company with his horse he almost welcomed it.

  He had just begun to consider seeking shelter in the forest when he realized that he recognized the area—particularly that half-dead, gnarled oak tree at the edge of the road. Unless he was mistaken, there was an abandoned toll keeper’s cottage just a short distance ahead. Bending his head and shoulders into the wind, he plowed forward. Finally making it around a bend in the road, his persistence was rewarded; through the blowing rain, he glimpsed the building he sought.

  He sprinted the last few yards and sank against the door. Pushing the door open, he entered the dark, musty-scented cottage. Bliss flooded him. It didn’t matter that the cottage was only one level above a hovel, all that mattered was that he was no longer at the mercy of the elements. He shut the door behind him and with it the storm and its fury.

  Picking his way across the littered floor, guided by the angry brilliance of the lightning outside, he reached one of the chairs and sat down in front of the cold hearth. He sat there for several minutes, letting the quiet of the cottage, after the brute force of the storm, wash over him.

  Chilled and shivering, he forced himself to move. A fire was his first priority. The old faggots were aged and dry and since he carried his tinderbox in one of the pockets of his greatcoat, as well as a brace of pistols, shortly he had a meager fire flickering on the smoke-stained hearth. The faggots would not last long and he ruthlessly sacrificed one of the chairs to keep the fire going.

  His immediate need taken care of, he took an all-encompassing glance around the room, noting for future reference the bed of rushes and the crumpled rags upon it. When necessary, the rushes could be used to keep the fire burning, and the table and the rest of the chairs, for that matter, he thought grimly—they were certainly otherwise useless.

  He took off his soaked greatcoat and using one of those chairs arranged the heavy garment off to one side of the fire. His hips resting against the table he pulled off his boots and stockings, aware that they were ruined. He shrugged and checked for the knife hidden in his right boot. Carrying the knife was a practice begun after one of his errands on the continent for the Duke of Roxbury, one from which he had almost not returned. Finding the knife, he carelessly slipped it into the waist of his breeches and placed his boots, the stockings draped over them, near the chair holding his greatcoat.

  Seated in one of the remaining chairs, he stretched his long legs out toward the fire, wriggling his bare toes in sybarite pleasure as the heat from the fire toasted them.

  Checking his shoulder he was pleased to discover whatever he’d done when he fell was minor and would heal on its own. He sighed in contentment, pulling at his rumpled cravat. The cravat undone, he tossed it on the table and absently loosened his fine linen shirt.

  All I need now, he thought drowsily, is a mutton pie, a bottle of port and a willing wench. He smiled; his head drooped and sleep took him.

  Nell’s father and brothers did not find sleep so easily. Having left London well ahead of Julian, they had come upon the tipped curricle some time before he had, and after a cursory inspection of the abandoned vehicle, had pressed onward. There was nothing to identify the curricle as having been owned by Tynedale—it could easily have belonged to some other unfortunate soul. On the off chance that it had been the vehicle used to spirit Nell away, they were alert for any sign of wandering pedestrians as they rode through the pounding storm. The abandoned toll house they passed by; with no sign of life to betray its presence, they overlooked it in the rain and darkness.

  Sir Edward and his sons traveled swiftly, anxiety and fury mingling in their collective breasts. Sir Edward’s main thoughts were for the safe return of his daughter; those of his sons were of a more savage nature. Once they finally overtook Tynedale, and there was no doubt that they would, Tynedale would be lucky indeed if he lived to see another sunrise.

  At every inn or tavern, and even the few houses nestled near the road that they came upon, they halted long enough to satisfy themselves that Tynedale had not stopped and taken refuge within. As the hours passed they grew weary and more discouraged and the confidence of the twins began to lag. Having ridden astride they had suffered the most from the vicious strength of the storm and when a shabby little tavern appeared on their right in the early hours of the morning, they were more than willing to stop.

  The tavern was set well back from the road, almost hidden by a copse of shaggy trees, and if not for the winking yellow light coming from one of the windows, they would have ridden on by. A few bony horses were tied to the hitching rail, their backs hunched against the storm.

  Leaving their horses to the care of the Anslowe coachman and the grubby ostler who had stumbled out of the tavern at the sound of their arrival, the four men entered the building. The tavern did not look to be the sort that catered to the gentry, but they were too discouraged and exhausted to care very much that the place was more likely the haunt of local highwaymen and suchlike than of gentlemen like themselves. All they wanted was a place to warm themselves by the fire and to partake of a drink of hot punch and perhaps swallow some sustenance.

  The arrival of four gentlemen caused a stir, and after some furtive observation, a few of the inhabitants disappeared out the back door. The others watched the gentry with curiosity.

  Sir Edward had begun to remove his greatcoat when he caught sight of the man seated at a scarred oak table near the fire.

  “Tynedale!” he roared, striding across the room. His three sons having spotted their quarry almost simultaneously were fast on their father’s heels, their expressions murderous.

  At the sound of his name, Tynedale glanced up from his contemplation of the tankard in front of him. He blanched and leapt to his feet. His gaze darted about for a way of escape, but there was none, the Anslowe men crowding him back into the darkened corner. The other inhabitants watched with interest, but no one moved to intervene.

  Robert’s hand was at Tynedale’s throat, his face dark with fury. “Where is she?” he snarled. He shook Tynedale like a dog with a rat. “Speak! If you wish to live another second, tell us what you have done with her.”

  Tynedale gargled some reply. Despite the icy cast to his eyes, Sir Edward said to his son with deceptive mildness, “My boy, perhaps if you loosen your grip just a trifle…”

  Reluctantly Robert did so, his fingers relaxing fractionally.

  Tynedale, gasping for breath and his eyes everywhere but on the faces of the men in front of him, muttered, “Have you gone mad? Why did you attack me?”

  Robert’s teeth were bared as he growled, “You know very well why we are here. Damn you! Where is she?”

  Recovering somewhat, Tynedale said, “I can see that you are laboring under great duress and for that
reason, I shall not hold you accountable for your action.” Tynedale lifted his chin. “I am afraid,” he said, “that I have no idea what you are talking about. And as for a female…I am traveling alone—you may have seen my ditched curricle several miles back.” He nodded in the direction of the tavern keeper, a brawny fellow who stood behind a long counter watching the exchange. “If you do not believe that I am alone, ask him. He will tell you I arrived here an hour or more ago and that no one else—male or female—was with me.”

  Robert’s hand tightened and Tynedale’s fingers clawed at the choking hold. “What have you done with her? Tell me or I will throttle you where you stand.”

  “Er, excuse me, sir,” said the tavern owner in a diffident tone. “We don’t have many gentry stopping here and I do not mean to intrude into the business of my betters, but I can assure you that what the gentleman said is true: he arrived alone.”

  Not content with the tavern keeper’s word, Sir Edward insisted upon a thorough search of the place. It did not take long and revealed no sign of Nell. Even an inspection of the ramshackle building that passed for a stable at the rear of the tavern turned up no clue as to Nell’s whereabouts.

  Tynedale vehemently protested his innocence despite dire threats from Robert and the twins. As the minutes passed, Sir Edward began to have doubts. Perhaps he had been wrong. Nell had been snatched from her room, of that he was certain, and Tynedale seemed the likely culprit. But was it possible that he had been mistaken? Dread filled him. Had his darling daughter been spirited away by some nefarious fellow with something uglier than a runaway marriage on his mind? Was she, perhaps, even still in London, having been whisked away to some den of iniquity, to be forced into whoring? He shuddered. It was not unheard of for comely females to find themselves in such a position, but for it to have happened to someone of Nell’s station seemed impossible and Sir Edward could not believe that she had suffered such a fate. The fact remained, however, that someone had snatched Nell. With Tynedale eliminated, he could only wonder whom. And for what reason?

  They could get nothing more out of Tynedale and eventually, with many a black look, removed themselves to a small table as far away from him as possible to discuss the situation. At a loss to know what to do next, it was decided that Sir Edward and Robert would return to London, watchful for any sign of Nell along the way. They were agreed to not abandon the suspicion that Tynedale had been the one to steal Nell. Because of that, and the impracticality of attempting a covert action with the coach, Drew and Henry would pretend to leave with them, but they would secret themselves nearby and watch and follow Tynedale. It was possible that he had hidden Nell somewhere nearby. And if he had…

  It was the ache in her leg that woke Nell. As she struggled upright, daylight was seeping into the cottage, but it was cold and gray and a glance out the window revealed that the day would be the same. The worst of the storm seemed to have passed—a steady rain was falling but nothing like the downpour of the previous night. And Tynedale had not found her. With her back once again against the wall, she stretched and rubbed her eyes, disoriented from the events of the previous night.

  The room felt warmer and Nell wrestled out of Tynedale’s cloak and pushed it aside. She looked down at her nightgown and made a face. Even protected by the cloak, it was ripped and torn in places and splattered with mud and who knew what other disgusting substances.

  A sound—a snort? a cough?—alerted her to the fact that she was not alone. Heart banging in her chest, she rose un-steadily to her feet. Her gaze fell upon the greatcoat and boots a second before she spied the dark head of the man who slept in a chair in front of the dying fire.

  She gasped and shrank back, terror flooding through her. Tynedale had been bad enough, but to be at the mercy of a stranger, possibly a robber, a murderer or a highwayman was far worse. At least Tynedale had not frightened her. Not really.

  Her gasp had been soft, but it had been enough and in one lithe movement the black-haired man surged to his feet. He spun around to face her, a silver-bladed knife appearing in one of his hands.

  Nell’s eyes dominated her face, the tawny hair hanging in tousled glory around her slim shoulders. Helplessly she stared at the tall man who confronted her, thinking she had never seen such a dark, dangerous face in her life. His eyes were a bright, glittering green beneath the scowling black brows; his black hair was untidy and tumbled across his wide forehead. The word dangerous came again to her as she stared at him.

  She would not have called him handsome, but there was something about those granite-hewed features that made Nell think that, in other circumstances, she might have found him attractive. His nose was certainly handsome, straight and haughty, and those hooded jade green eyes with their thick lashes were mesmerizing. His mouth was wide and well shaped, the upper lip thin and the bottom one full. As she stared, his lips lost their grim line and a smile appeared. A very, very appealing smile.

  “Forgive me,” he said in a cultured voice for such a rough-looking fellow. “I did not mean to startle you.” Before Nell’s astonished gaze, the knife disappeared and he added, “I did not realize that anyone lived here.”

  “Oh, I don’t—” she caught herself and cursing her impetuous tongue, looked away from him.

  Over his first shock at finding himself not the sole inhabitant of the cottage, Julian frowned as he studied the slender creature in front of him. He cast a considering glance around the room, his frown increasing. The place was a hovel, a mere shell, and revealed none of the usual effects found in even the poorest of homes. And the girl…No, he decided, not a girl, a woman, young to be sure, but past the first blush of youth. The woman did not belong here. The lace at the throat and cuffs of her tattered nightgown was too fine and that face…Instinct shouted that all was not as it seemed.

  The sight of that fairy-fashioned face left him reeling, as if a fist had slammed into his belly. He was breathless and dizzy at the same time. The sensation had been so powerful, so unexpected, that it was a wonder that he had recovered quickly from the jolt she had given him. Unsettled, as much because of the effect she had had upon him as a strong feeling that there was something very wrong about this situation, his gaze narrowed as he stared at her.

  Her eyes were downcast and she was chewing uneasily on her bottom lip. A bottom lip that Julian found himself fascinated with, the strong desire to replace her teeth with his own sweeping through him. That lip would be warm and so very sweet…His gaze swept down her slender form, his loins suddenly pulsating with a decidedly inappropriate reaction. Cursing the unruly member that swelled in his breeches and annoyed at his wandering thoughts, he pushed aside the unexpected and unwelcome notion of dalliance and considered the situation.

  She did not belong here, of that he was convinced. There was something about her…Her night attire spoke of wealth—at least at one time—and aside from their effect on him, her features had an aristocratic cast to them. The skin was too pale and fine to have suffered the effects of poor food and the unsanitary conditions that many of the common folk endured. And there was nothing common about her. She was no tavern slattern, or hulking farm maid, nor an apple-cheeked milkmaid. There was something about her, an air, an impression of gentle breeding, that puzzled him. Her form was dainty and appealing; the flowing tawny hair gleamed with good health, and no lice that he could see.

  He shrugged. Nothing would be gained by simply staring at her, although he found it, to his unease, vastly enjoyable.

  “You don’t—?” he asked gently, picking up the thread of conversation.

  Confused, Nell stared up at him. It took her a moment to realize that he was referring to her earlier exclamation. She quickly gathered her thoughts, deciding to stick to as close to the truth as possible.

  “This isn’t my home—I do not live here,” she said carefully. “You may have passed my curricle a few miles back. The horses spooked during the storm and broke free of the traces. There was nothing for it but for me to remain here,
while m-m-my driver went to find help.” Left unexplained was why she had been out on such a foul night in the first place and only garbed in her nightgown.

  “I see.”

  “I hope you do,” she added, looking down her delightful little nose at him. Boldly she demanded, “And you? How is it that you are here?”

  He smiled that singularly attractive smile. To Nell’s dismay, her knees turned to mush.

  “I, too,” he admitted, “am the victim of the storm. My horse bolted and I sought shelter here. I did not realize that you had already taken possession.”

  She nodded regally. “Well, these things happen. Now if you will give me a few moments privacy, I shall gather my things and be on my way.”

  “Will you not even give me your name?” he asked, with an upward flick of his brow.

  “N-n-no, that is not necessary. We are strangers. Let us leave it at that.”

  “I think not. Allow me to introduce myself.” He bowed. “I am Julian Weston,” giving his family name, “and at your service should you need it.”

  She looked uncertain, thinking that he must be one of those gentlemanly highwaymen often mentioned in the newspaper. “Thank you,” she responded shyly. “But it will not be necessary. M-m-my driver will be along any moment. You may be on your way.”

  In the distance the sound of an approaching vehicle gave credence to her words, but Julian paid no attention. He knew that he should turn away from her, but he could not. She was a mystery to be solved and heaven knew that curiosity had gotten him into more than one quagmire in his life.

  Fascinated against his will, all his instincts telling him to turn his back on her, Julian looked her up and down, noting with a smile the pink toes peeping from beneath the bedraggled hem of her nightgown. He found those dirty little digits charming and deciding that he was quite mad, he forced his gaze upward. His eyes landed on the small, high bosom and he could not look away, the most lascivious urges flashing through his mind. He jerked his gaze away and swallowed. Lud! Had he been that long without a woman?