by Stacy Reid
“If you move, I will shoot you,” Phillipa vowed. “I would rather hang than let you defile me.”
“One can’t defile a harlot,” Orwell sniped savagely.
“You will stop this carriage and let me leave. If you don’t, I will kill you.”
His dismissive laughter froze her insides. She gripped the heavy pistol, ignoring the growing burn in her muscles, and the jostle of the carriage as it sped her to complete ruination.
He rapped the trap door to the driver’s seat to give instructions, and her heart sped with relief. Until he yelled up, “Faster! Drive faster!” His laughter echoed sinisterly.
Tears stung her eyes as she heard the crack of the whip. The carriage careened, sped up even more, and her breathing became ragged. The oiliness of his smile, the depravity in how he licked his lips had her stomach cramping harder. The heaviness of the pistol grew harder to manage. She did not know how much longer she could hold on.
She did not dwell overlong on her decision. He gave her no choice. She raised the pistol and fired.
The bang exploded in the close confines of the carriage. Her ears rang; her head pounded. She heard the muted neighs of the horses, the driver’s frantic commands, and the carriage rocked wildly as it slowed. She acted with desperate alacrity, wrenching the door open. Before the team had fully halted and before the driver could stop her, she jumped.
And ran like her life depended on it.
Chapter Ten
“Grab her!” Orwell’s cry of wounded rage spurred her faster.
Phillipa clutched the pistol to her breast, holding her torn bodice closed against the chill, and raced across the flatlands. She could see a manor house in the distance, but her breath labored in the daunting cold. She was grateful for the moon that peeked from the clouds providing her with light. She gripped her skirt, hating how the petticoats hampered her movements. She raised it high above her knees and sprinted as fast as she could. Fat drops of rain slapped her cheeks as she ran and ran. She refused to look back. The thundering in her ears grew louder, and she belatedly realized it was hoofbeats.
Oh, Lord. Her breath caught and tears splashed her cheeks. He was riding her down.
“Phillipa! Stop!” His hated voice was muffled by the wind and the ringing in her ears.
“Leave me alone!” she cried, her tears flowing with the rain.
She could not run any faster, so she turned into the woods. With brambles ripping at her hair and her lungs burning, she stumbled to a stop and spun, jerkily raising the pistol.
Her heart thundered, and she blinked, dazed, at the massive black stallion that loomed over her.
Sweet relief crashed through her as she stared into the grim face of the man she most wanted to see in the world. Her heart soared.
“Anthony!”
“Oh, thank God!” He jumped from his horse and swept her into a tight embrace. “Is he dead?”
“No!” she gasped, her body racked by a rash of shivers.
“I heard a pistol shot.”
Her teeth chattered. “I fired into the cushions, to create a distraction while I fled.”
The cold rain came down in torrents. She raised her violently trembling hands to Anthony’s cheeks. “Is it really you?”
“You’re freezing.” He shrugged out of his greatcoat. “Here,” he muttered, bundling her into the voluminous cloak. It was warm and smelled like Anthony, and she sank into its comfort. He’d come for her. She was safe.
Pounding footsteps came through the trees, and she gripped the pistol tight. She really would shoot Orwell this time, before she let him hurt Anthony.
But it was the coachman. He broke through the thick brambles of the forest and screeched to a startled halt when he saw Anthony. “I— I—”
His stammer was cut short in a wheeze when Anthony delivered a short, brutal jab to his throat. He fell with a crash into the thicket, choking, then stumbled off, running in the direction of the last village they’d passed.
“Stay here,” Anthony ordered her.
Not a chance. The dark pressed in on Phillipa, and she scrambled to keep up with Anthony as he strode back to the carriage. His fine white shirt was plastered to his broad shoulders and rain ran in rivulets down his golden hair. He looked like an avenging angel.
Orwell drew up sharply when he saw them, quickly masking his astonishment.
“Lord Anthony,” he said with a sneer, stepping down from the carriage into the rain.
Her mouth went dry at the dangerous glitter in Orwell’s expression.
She started to warn Anthony, but she realized it was unnecessary. She flinched from the cold rage that gleamed from his emerald eyes.
“Are you really willing to go to the gallows over this tease? This lascivious slut?” Orwell smirked, strolling with insolent confidence toward Anthony.
Hadn’t they just had this same conversation? But this was worse. They were talking about Anthony now.
Anthony did not deign to answer. Instead, he backhanded Orwell when he came within striking distance, shocking her with the viciousness of the action. Orwell snarled and charged him. Anthony grabbed Orwell’s lapel and yanked him forward, then slammed a fist into his face.
Phillipa stood rooted to the spot, trembling, as Anthony punched Orwell again. Anthony gave him no quarter, no chance to retaliate. Anthony slammed his fist in Orwell’s gut, doubling him over. Orwell groaned.
Thankfully, it was over almost before it started. With Anthony landing another vicious blow to his face, Orwell crumpled to the ground. Anthony casually walked toward the carriage. She stared at him in ill-concealed shock, feeling faint. Rain pasted his hair to his scalp and ran in rivulets down the sharp blades of his cheeks into his soaking jacket.
“Get in,” he growled with barely leashed fury, flinging open the carriage door.
She jerked into motion, stepping gingerly over Orwell and scrambling into the equipage just as the sky opened with fury. Anthony leaped in after her and sank into the darkened shadows of the carriage, silent and cold. They sat mutely, listening to the sound of thunder and clouds pouring out torrential rain. She trembled, freezing and nervous, feeling the palatable tension in the air.
“Anthony—”
“Quiet.” His voice cracked like a whip.
She shuddered. Tumultuous emotions glazed his eyes, as if he fought for restraint. She did not know how to respond to this unknown side of him. Before, he had been so sensually teasing. She would never have thought him capable of brutality. The beating he had given Orwell could have been far worse, had he truly lost control, but it made her realize how little she knew of Anthony.
She had never imagined any of this would go this far. With Orwell or with Anthony. She swallowed, tears burning her eyes, shivers racking her.
And yet, Anthony had rescued her. He had come for her.
Weak moans came from outside; Orwell had regained consciousness. She didn’t dare ask what would happen next.
“Let’s go,” Anthony said, saving her the trouble, and stepping down from the carriage.
She scrambled after him, avoiding the curled-up form of Orwell on the ground. The cold rain caressed her cheeks like a dark omen. It shook her to the core.
And knew her life was forever changed because of this night.
They halted at the massive black stallion. “What will we do?” she beseeched Anthony, hating the rage he thrummed with. She wanted her sweet lover back again.
He drew her to him. His head slashed down and his lips captured hers in a hard, rough kiss. Her lips parted, but before she could sink into his kiss, he lifted his head again.
“We are about fifteen minutes’ hard ride from my manor house in Baybrook. We can rest there for the evening.” He raked a hand through his wet hair. He looked as if he’d been about to say more, but stopped.
A crack of thunder made her jump.
“We must get there before the deluge returns,” he said, looking up at the black clouds.
He leaped
into the saddle and held out his hand to her. She did not hesitate to grip it, and was swung up behind him. They raced into the night as the sky opened a little more. She wrapped her arms tight around his waist and pressed her face into the hard muscle of his back. She couldn’t stop her tears from falling, mixing with the drops of rain that splattered so insistently.
She had almost been raped.
She wanted to curl into Anthony, to feel his arms around her, to banish the horror and the edge of fear that still lingered. The profundity of her gratitude staggered her. Her mouth whispered words of thanks, even though he could not hear them.
The night was icy cold as they rode, stealing her breath and chattering her teeth. The sky darkened, eclipsing the stars. A premonition of her future?
The sky opened as they raced by houses they could have sought shelter from, but she understood why he did not stop. A harsh sob ripped from her. Even now he had thoughts to protect her reputation. She did not know if it could be salvaged, but she hoped so. If not for her own sake, for Payton’s. She prayed Orwell would not trumpet the fact he had tried to kidnap and rape her. Instinctively, she knew Anthony would protect her.
A manor house loomed in the distant with a light flickering high from a lone window. Relief surged when Anthony turned the stallion toward it. Within minutes, they rode into the yard and he swept off the horse, pulling her with him. He handed the reins to a stable boy who ran out to meet them, and stalked toward the entry. The front door was flung open, and he marched in, issuing commands. Servants scurried to obey, and a matronly woman bustled toward them clucking her lips.
“Ach, to be out in this weather, milord.”
“Prepare warm milk and food. Send it up to my room. A decanter of brandy, as well.”
The housekeeper did not falter at his growled command as she handed him a towel and threw a blanket over Phillipa’s trembling body.
“Thank you,” she said, though it did not ward off the chill.
Anthony strode through the foyer, and she hurried after him. He made a sharp right into an open doorway. A gas lamp glowed in the room, illuminating a sizeable library. She felt numb as he sat behind a desk and scrawled a note with furious haste, then stamped his seal.
“See that this is delivered to Lady Radcliffe tonight,” he ordered, and she spun to see a butler she had not realized followed them in.
“Very good, milord.” The man cleared his throat. “My lord, about that other letter you bid me deliver…”
Anthony looked blank for a moment, then frowned. “Yes? What about it?”
“You asked me to give it to”—he glanced at Phillipa then back to Anthony—“the person in question myself.”
“Yes, yes, and did you?”
“No, my lord. The…family has been away visiting relatives, and I—”
Anthony slashed a hand in the air dismissively. “Just see it’s done. Meanwhile, get moving with the note to Lady Radcliffe. That is far more urgent.”
“Very good, my lord.” The butler’s gaze scanned over Phillipa with curiosity before he took the missive, bowed, and exited the library.
Phillipa knew the Viscountess Lady Radcliffe was Anthony’s mother, but why had he sent a note to her? He was in such a temper she didn’t dare ask. Nor about the other mysterious letter—though it hadn’t seemed overly important to him.
“Come with me,” he said, and Phillipa’s heart beat faster as her trepidation returned and her situation closed in on her. She should not stay overnight at his house. The consequences would be untenable.
Questions and dread swirled in her mind as she followed him down the hallway. Thunder rumbled, and lightning speared through the rooms they walked, mocking her. She struggled to keep up with his rapid strides up the elegant staircase. He led her down a long hall, finally stopping in front of a large oak panel door. He wrenched it open, making it crash against the wall.
“Why are you so angry?” she asked.
He darted a disbelieving look at her, tugged off his dripping jacket, and snapped, “Undress.”
She stepped back warily.
His jaw clenched. “You are wet and shaking. You need to get warm and dry. I do not want you catching influenza.”
Lightning lit up the room again, and the thunder rattled the windowpane. She looked to where he pointed, and saw it was a bath chamber. It did look awfully inviting. And she was, in truth, shivering with cold.
A maid bustled in and lit a gas flame under a copper water tank. The chamber held a large tub with two spigots pouring into it, one with heated water from the tank and the other for cold. In the tub, she sprinkled salts with the most delicious scent of jasmine and honeysuckle, and soon hot water was filling it.
She relented, and another maid helped Phillipa remove her wet garments. “I will see they are washed and ironed, milady,” she said as she finished unlacing her corset.
Phillipa did not have the energy to correct her use of a title. She wearily sank into the soothing heat of the fragrant bath, easing the tension in her body. She yearned to sink into its comforting embrace and stay there forever.
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she’d not eaten since her afternoon tea with Elisabeth. Hunger and uncertainty had Phillipa hurrying her bath. She dried off and pulled on a gown the maid had left for her. It was simple and of an old fashion, but clean and dry. A wobbly chuckle escaped her lips at the size of the voluminous garment. It swallowed her slender frame and trailed around her on the floor. With a sigh, she gripped the skirts to keep from tripping, and went into the bedchamber.
She froze. “Anthony.”
He was still dressed, only his coat and boots had been removed. Was he not cold?
The fire from the hearth blazed, providing much-needed warmth. When he didn’t respond, she flicked her gaze around her.
The bedroom was stunningly elegant, with masculine decor. A large canopied bed graced the center of the space, and in the far left corner stood a rather impressive oak armoire. Thick, jade-green curtains were drawn back with golden cords. The drapes and the Oriental carpets were bold colors of green, red, and silver. The blandest colors were the soft peach curtains that surrounded the canopied bed.
Clearly not a guest chamber.
Her cheeks burned. Now she understood the furtive glances the maids had given her. She really should not stay in this house.
She met his gaze as she stepped deeper into the room, faltering when his voice snapped at her, sharp as a whip.
“What is it between you and Orwell?”
Her heart slammed against her ribs as she caught a towel he threw at her. “I—”
“Dry your hair,” he ordered roughly. “Orwell?”
“Nothing. There is nothing between us.” She clutched the lapels of the dressing gown tighter, ignoring her hair.
His eyes silted and the anger flared anew. “Phillipa—”
“I can see you are angry, though I do not understand why. I want to thank you for saving me from—” She stumbled backward as he surged to his feet and in two strides stood before her.
“You do not know why I am angry?” His voice was dangerously low, and he was frightening her.
Her eyes skidded to the bed and then back to his. “No.”
He raked his fingers through his hair. “Surely, you must comprehend the situation you placed yourself in,” he said more calmly.
“Me?” She gaped at him and her own anger flared. “I was abducted and attacked! How is that my fault?”
“I do not blame you, Phillipa, for Orwell’s atrocious conduct. However, all this could have been prevented if only you had confided in me when I asked,” he said with visible frustration. “What do you think he planned to do to you?”
She trembled at the memory of her fear and revulsion. The pain of Orwell’s fondling pummeled into her anew and a tear slipped down her cheek.
“So help me God, if you cry I will tan your backside,” Anthony whispered.
Her eyes widened.
“He
would have raped you. Beaten you bloody when you resisted. Broken you in unimaginable ways. And no one would ever have known, because Orwell would have likely ended your life afterward,” he said, his teeth grinding. He was clearly more than upset. “I gave you every opportunity to seek my aid, but you chose to withhold the truth. So now we must deal with the consequences together. We will marry, whether or not you wish it.”
She recoiled. “Marry?”
He gave her an incredulous glare. “What did you think would happen? I would rescue you, and everything would simply go back to the way they were yesterday? It will be a miracle if this debacle has escaped society’s notice!”
“Please say no more about Orwell!” she cried, and stuffed a fist in her mouth to contain her sobs.
“We will wait out the storm. I will obtain a special license, and my mother will arrive in the morning. I asked her to send a note to your family so they won’t worry.”
“Thank you; I am eased considerably knowing they won’t be anxious over me, but I will not marry,” she insisted.
His eyes gleamed dangerously. “I do not think you fully understand the situation.” The lethal softness of his voice slapped her more than his snarls.
“I understand perfectly,” she declared, fighting to stay calm. “A cad tried to kidnap and defile me, and instead of society condemning him, judgment will be levied on me, and I will be forced to marry, just so society does not cut me from its ranks.”
They glared at each other in a bristling silence.
“I should leave,” she said.
“You shall do no such thing,” he stated firmly. “The weather is fierce, and enough damage has been done for one day.”
Her eyes swam. “You are being cruel.”
“Phillipa…”
“Do not.” She jerked from the hands that reached for her, her tears running unchecked. “I have never been so afraid in all my life. I am eternally grateful that you rescued me. I do not want to fight with you. I do not want you railing at me. I do not want to consider the consequences of my naïveté. Oh, Anthony, I only want to be held in your arms, with your touch wiping away his.”
