Courting the Country Miss

by Donna Hatch

  “There’s a certain saucy wench with passionate kisses who I mean to hogtie and drag to the alter. I want his advice on what kind of rope to use.”

  She giggled. She, Leticia, a normally sensible young lady, was blushing and giggling like a silly schoolgirl. “I recommend something gold.”

  “Ah. Gold. Yes, I see, and perhaps smaller than a rope?”

  “It only need be large enough to encircle a finger.” She held up her hand.

  “I will take that into consideration.” He kissed her hand.

  The thought of his absence, if only a few days, left her oddly anxious. Besides, she couldn’t pass up a chance to tease him a bit, and remind him of a certain promise. “You needn’t rush off to speak to him now, you know.”

  “No?” he drawled, his eyes gleaming. “I rather felt the need for haste. Especially after your last kiss.”

  “Oh, no. The altar must wait until after Christmas.”

  Horror crumpled his face. “Christmas! I cannot wait that long.”

  Gleefully enjoying herself, she said in an overly serious tone, “I’m afraid you must. If you’ll recall, you and I had a wager. You promised me that if I failed to marry by Christmas, you’d donate a hundred guineas to my charity school.”

  He blinked. “Er…no, I believe the wager was that if you didn’t accept a marriage proposal by Christmas, I’d pay you a hundred guineas. You’ve accepted mine, so it counts.”

  “No, I’m quite certain that it was marriage that must occur by then.”

  “You can’t be serious. Christmas is eight months away!”

  “Are you afraid you will change your mind by then?” She shot him a look of challenge.

  “No, of course not. I’m afraid I might ravage you before then.”

  She smoothed the lines from his forehead. Of course, ravishment implied a lack of willingness on her part, and nothing could be further from the truth. She grinned at the thought and didn’t have the decency to blush.

  He tilted his head. “Though I won this wager, far be it for me to deny support of your school. I’ll draw up a bank note and deliver it to you on our wedding day. We could get married as soon as I purchase the license. I will get one next week.”

  Sobering, she entwined her fingers with his. “We can’t marry that soon. My mother is in a family way and needs to stay abed lest the baby come too soon as the last two did. I want her at my wedding. We couldn’t get married before September—maybe not until October, to give her time to recover.”

  He deflated. “That’s still four months away.”

  “True.” She almost laughed at his sad puppy eyes—except she shared the sentiment.

  To his credit, he straightened. “Very well. I’m still going to ask your father’s permission; he’s expecting me and I want our engagement formalized.”

  She smiled. “I do, as well.”

  The worry lines returned to his brow. “Do you think your father will reject my suit?”

  She smiled and kissed his cheek. “I have already written him and told him how much you’ve changed and how much I love you. I also informed him that I refused two other fine gentlemen because I will have no one but you, so unless he wants me to die an old maid, he’d best accept you.”

  He lifted a dark brow. “Two offers?”

  She laughed guiltily. “I may have exaggerated Captain Kensington’s interest in me.”

  He chuckled. “No one else believes you have a devious streak in you—it’s small but it does exist.” He smoothed a wayward tendril by her ear and skimmed his fingers along her cheek.

  How she loved him! She leaned her cheek against his hand. “No one else knows me like you do.”

  She kissed him. Before she had time to worry if he thought her too forward for attacking him—twice—Tristan wrapped his arms around her and kissed her with such possessive tenderness that she melted.

  He pulled away as flushed and breathless as she. “If it were anything less important than speaking with your father, I would not be going.”

  “If it were anything less important, I would take exception to your leaving me for so long.”

  Brushing a hand over her cheek, he grinned. “I have something for you. It belonged to my great-grandmother.”

  She brightened. “The one you called Oma?”

  He nodded. “She taught me to love poetry. Despite their harsh-sounding language, Germans are extremely poetic and always speak with beautiful imagery.” He retrieved a tiny package from a pocket in his tailcoat and unwrapped the handkerchief.

  In his palm lay an exquisite brooch of delicate silver roses and leaves, and tiny rose cut diamonds. Her breath rushed out at the thoughtful gesture. “Oh my,” she breathed.

  With a hushed voice, he explained, “Oma often pinned it to her gowns. She said it reminded her how much she and her late husband loved one another.” His face clouded. “She passed on a few months before my mother left.”

  If only his grandmother had been there to love and reassure her broken-hearted great-grandson abandoned by a thoughtless mother.

  “I will cherish this always,” Leticia said. She pinned it to her bodice and glanced up at him.

  He kissed her, then held her close, his familiar scent embracing her as much as his arms. After another kiss to her temple, he stood. “I will be back in three days. I love you, Leticia.”

  She would never tire of hearing those words. “I love you, Tristan. Godspeed. Come to dinner when you get home.”

  He grinned. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

  To say Aunt Alice was in raptures over Leticia’s engagement to Tristan would have been an understatement. They embarked on a flurry of activity selecting a new gown for the ceremony as well as several new gowns and accessories Aunt Alice declared were quite necessary for a married lady. Isabella caught Aunt Alice’s contagious enthusiasm and soon behaved as her old self.

  When she wasn’t shopping with her aunt and sister, Leticia met with their solicitor or contractors to begin rebuilding the school. In the meantime, Mrs. Harper taught her students in the park with only a few borrowed books and an ever-growing class size.

  Leticia threw herself into the daily fray, all the while missing Tristan. On the third day, she arrived home later than she’d planned. With any luck, Tristan had returned and would be present for a small dinner party tonight. She’d invited Elizabeth and Richard as well. She’d toyed with the idea of inviting Lord Bradbury for Isabella’s sake, but discarded the idea for fear both Tristan and Lord Bradbury would be uncomfortable. So, with little time to change for dinner, she headed for the stairs, unbuttoning her plum pelisse, and calling for her lady’s maid.

  “Miss Wentworth,” called a footman from the foot of the stairs. “There’s an urchin at the kitchen door asking to speak to you. He says he is here on behalf of one Molly.”

  Leticia put a hand over her heart. “I hope she’s all right.”

  As she hurried to the kitchen, a second footman came from the front of the house. “Miss Wentworth. Mr. Barrett is here to see you.”

  She halted. Tristan was home! Forgetting herself, she trotted into the front parlor. There he stood, so beloved that her heart did a triple flip. He’d always been the kind of handsome that made her smile and sometimes covertly admire him, even when she’d been sure her heart belonged to someone else, but at that moment, he was so beautiful that the sight of him stopped her breath.

  “You’re home!” She launched herself into his arms.

  Laughing, he caught her. All the nerve endings in her body let out a sigh as if getting a drink after a drought. He held her close. “Not quite, Love, but I plan to make a home with you soon.”

  She nestled in closer and kissed him, half laughing at his enthusiasm, then moaning as his mouth brought her to an edge she wanted to leap off.

  When he ended the kiss, she fanned herself and managed, “Father said yes, I take it?”

  “He did. Your mother said the doctor agreed to allow her out of bed in six w
eeks’ time if all goes well, so we may have the wedding then—before the baby comes.”

  She let out a breath. “Oh, that’s wonderful!”

  His gaze moved downward. “You’re wearing Oma’s brooch.”

  “I wear it every day.” She fingered his gift.

  The first footman cleared his throat. “Shall I send the urchin away, miss?”

  “Oh, dear. Molly. I almost forgot.” She peeled herself off Tristan. “Molly is at the kitchen door. I’d best see to her. I fear what her father may have done now. I’ll return in a moment.”

  Without taking time to remove her gloves or reticule still dangling from her wrist, she strode to the kitchen, passing servants bustling to prepare dinner, opened the door, and peered out.

  A boy of perhaps six—with hair that looked as if it had never seen a comb—looked anxiously at her. “Miss Wentworth?” At her nod, he continued, “Molly wants you but she’s too scared to come.” He turned and gestured over his shoulder.

  Leticia handed him a coin and followed him out. At the gate leading to the kitchen entrance, Molly slumped over, weeping and shuddering. A black bruise spread over her cheek and one eye swelled shut.

  “Oh, no. Molly.” Leticia rushed outside to the child.

  Molly lifted her head and held up a hand as if trying to push her away. “No, miss. Go back inside.”

  “Oh, Molly. Did your father beat you again?”

  “Meddling little tart,” growled a voice behind her. Pain exploded from the side of her face and the ground slammed into her shoulder.

  Dazed, she tried to breathe. A pair of arms threw a rough bag smelling of horses over her head. She kicked and struggled but another heavy blow landed on her face. Black and white sparks blazed before her vision. A feminine voice cried out from far away and she floated backward in slow rolls.

  When Leticia became fully coherent, a bumping, rocking sensation suggested she rode in some kind of cart. The coarse bag over her head scratched her face. She reached up to pull it away but her hands came up together, bound. Panic left her breathless. Think. How could she escape?

  She lay on a hard surface, her head covered, and her hands tied in front of her. Her pulse pounded. She tried to move her feet but they were also bound. Working with care, she pulled the bag away from her face enough to see. Gray light illuminated her hands, still in their gloves, tied with a rough rope. Her pulse throbbed where a strip of cloth tied over her mouth bit into her skin.

  Near her head sat several large metal containers like the kind used to transport milk. Between the metal containers, cloudy skies and fingers of fog met her sight. Voices nearby called out the last chance to purchase wares, and the scent of fish hung heavy in the air, mixing with damp, mildew smells nowhere but the waterfront could produce. Ship bells rang out, and water sloshed and gurgled.

  A hundred questions bounced through her head. Yet a single clear course of action shone through the noise: if anyone were looking for her, she must leave clues to help them find her. She wiggled and strained but could not loosen her ropes. She managed to open the strings of her reticule and pull out a monogrammed handkerchief. Odds were high that someone else would find it first, but she had to try to let Tristan know where she was being taken. She stuffed the handkerchief through a large crack between the slats of wood in the cart and watched it fall.

  The cart turned, shifting her body to the right. She pulled out a tiny throwaway bottle of perfume and shoved it through the cracks. It shattered on the cobbled streets, but hopefully the scent and the gold leaves painted on the glass would be a clue. The fan would be too big to fit. She stuffed everything else in her reticule down the crack. Still, the cart continued. What else could she leave in her breadcrumb trail?

  Tristan’s brooch winked in the fading light. No. She could not part with such a precious, and sentimental gift. Besides, urchins would likely find it before Tristan did.

  Of course, if anyone but Tristan were looking for her, they wouldn’t recognize her breadcrumb trail for what it was.

  The cart stopped. Leticia toyed with the idea of pulling the bag back over her head and pretending to be out of her senses, but the need to see where her captor was taking her overruled that thought.

  A face came into view. She let out a growl of disgust. Molly’s father. She should have known. He’d used the perfect bait to draw her out of her aunt’s home.

  He narrowed his gaze at her. “Ye gonna come quiet-like or are ye gonna make me ’it you agin?”

  Her face still ached from the last time he hit her. Besides, bound and gagged, she had little to offer in the way of resistance.

  He grabbed her feet and hauled her out from between the cans, pulled her to a seated position, and threw her over his shoulder. She let out a moan as his shoulder dug into her abdomen. As he carried her to a door and fumbled with the latch, she made a last, desperate attempt. She tore Tristan’s brooch off her pelisse and tossed it to the side of the door. It landed facedown, covered by a piece of torn plum cloth. She prayed that her rescuer would find it before someone who would see it as an expensive bauble rather than her plea for help.

  Her captor carried her inside and dropped her on the ground. Her breath left in a whoosh. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. The darkness in the room where she lay obscured her surroundings.

  Panic stole her breath but she fought it back. Surely, if her captor desired her dead, he would have killed her already. Of course, there were worse things than death.

  “If you were my wife or daughter, I’d beat ye about the ’ead and shoulders an’ then take a belt to yer backside. But I suppose that wouldn’t be decent to do wiff ye.”

  Decent. She let out a snort. Such a villain didn’t know the meaning of the word. She was surprised it existed in his vocabulary.

  He retrieved a knife and showed it to her. The sliver of light coming through the cracks under the door shone on the blade. Fear turned her cold.

  He leaned over her. “I warn’d ye afore but y didn’ listen, so listen now: close th’ school an’ ne’er open it agin.”

  She glared at him. What an ignorant fool!

  As if seeing the defiance in her eyes, he grabbed her by the hair and jerked her head back. The cold metal of his knife bit into her throat. A gasp worked its way out through her gag.

  “I kin kill ye, see?” he continued. “It’d be easy. But I ain’t no murderer. So, I’ll give ye one final warnin’. If’n yous don’ stop yer school, I will kill ye. I’ll already be a murderer then so I migh’ as well kill yer teacher. Then yer fancy friend with the fancy title. I’ll take my time wiff ’er—I bet she smells real purty.”

  He grinned and the stench of rotten teeth gagged her. The thought of Miss Harper or Elizabeth in this villain’s hands sent a shower of nausea raining down on her.

  “I’ll leave ye ’ere a while to think it over. Maybe I’ll come back and let ye go if’n ye promise you’ll leave off wiff this school business.”

  He opened the door and slammed it behind him.

  She let out a half gasp, half sob. Were the lives of her friends worth the school? Would she live to see Tristan again? If only she’d realized sooner how matched she and Tristan were. Her affection for Richard all those years were a schoolgirl crush compared to the deep love she bore for Tristan. She’d wasted so much of her life pining away for the wrong man.

  Tristan was probably searching for her with the same dogged devotion he’d used to rescue his brother last year—the rescue that had gotten him shot. Oh heavens, he might get hurt. Or worse. Panic left her breathless.

  “Be safe, Tristan. Please be safe.”

  The gag muffled her words and they dissolved into silent prayer.

  Chapter Forty

  Gun in-hand, Tristan glanced back at Richard. His brother shook his head. A cart sat in the street, but who knew into which building the scoundrel had taken Leticia. She’d left a trail of clues for them—clever girl—as they’d followed, lost, and then found the cart again. But no
w?

  In front of one in the endless line of doors, lay a piece of cloth. Was it purple? In the waning light, color faded.

  He crept forward, bent down, and examined it. Purple. Unless he was mistaken, that purple cloth was the exact color of Leticia’s favorite pelisse. He picked it up and found a hard object inside the soft fabric. When he turned it over, Oma’s diamond brooch lay, still pinned, to the ragged scrap of cloth, glimmering in the twilight. He sagged in relief. She was here. Tristan tucked the brooch into his pocket and nodded at Richard. Stepping stealthily, his brother took up position opposite him with the door between them. From inside the building a male voice spoke.

  As Tristan bunched his muscles, ready to spring, the door flew open and the man who’d stormed into the school and dragged out one of the students stepped out. Focused on tucking away a knife, the disgruntled father walked out.

  Tristan leaped into action. A primal cry rang out. He knocked the man down and leaped on him. Rage blinded Tristan to all but the need to punish Leticia’s attacker for all the ways he’d hurt and frightened her. A pair of arms pulled Tristan off the man. Tristan struggled to continue to rain vengeance upon the scoundrel but the other arms held him fast from behind.

  “He’s had enough!” Richard’s voice cut through the haze of fury consuming Tristan.

  Tristan shook off his brother’s arms. “Let go of me!”

  “Leave off. Don’t kill him.” His brother’s voice, calm and authoritative, peeled back another layer of the haze.

  Tristan blinked. The cretin lay moaning, his face unrecognizable through blood and swelling. A knife lay several feet away. Tristan’s gun lay in the opposite direction. Tristan looked down at his hands, bloodied and cut. How much of that blood was his and how much belonged to the other man, he could not guess, nor did he care.

  “I’ll watch him,” Richard said, gripping his pistol. “Go inside and see to Leticia.”

  Leticia. Her name snapped him into motion. He strode into the dark room. “Leticia?”

  A muffled whimper replied. What had that monster done to her? His heart pelted his chest and echoed in his ears. Cold perspiration trickled down his face. If she’d been harmed, he’d go back out and finish off the beast.