by Hart, Amelia
He had also thought – first and foremost – that he must find a reason to see her again; knowing that hunger was foolish, knowing it would only frustrate him more yet unwilling to deny himself that gut-clenching thrill of gazing upon her, seeing the reluctant response in her body as it inclined to him, the darting looks, the flared nostrils.
Certainly she would think of him again – how could she not if she felt only half of what he did? He wondered if she would come to regret her stern denials.
He would like her to repent. He would like her to return to London and come to his house, all knowledge and heated challenge, to duel with him until they found their way back into his bed.
He thought she might if he only gave her room, for still he did not understand why she held back.
It was crazy.
Why deny each of them pleasure when they had already shared it and found it so good? Why refuse herself the luxury he offered when he had already demonstrated his willingness to lavish her with funds?
Yes, his restraint might win her over, and even if it did not it was still the correct course. Meanwhile in seeking her out he had a final chance to match wits with her.
But that expression on her face shook him from his preoccupation with his own lust for her.
But that look on her face called to something deeper within him, pushing aside any other consideration.
Instinctively he caught up one of her cold hands and chafed it gently, concern and a bewildering desire to fight dragons for her rising simultaneously in his chest.
She raised her face to his, her jaw set mutinously, and he saw her rage against him was still there. Who would have guessed such a ferocious creature lurked behind the composure and bovine stupidity she had shown him by turns thus far?
She intrigued him more than any woman he’d ever met. He would know the secret of her. But first he must remove that awful fear she wore like a cloak.
“Something has happened, little one. What is it?” he said, bending his head close to hers and speaking softly so they would not be overheard.
“I cannot . . . that is, it is nothing; nothing for you to concern yourself over.” She pulled her hand free, walked quickly to the door and yanked it open. “Good day to you.”
“Ah, no.” He stepped up beside her, placed his palm flat on the door and gently eased it closed again. “You cannot think I would leave you to cope with your problem alone? Come. Tell me all.”
“I wish you would go! I do not see how you can be of any use at all!” Her tone was angrily dismissive, but he took no offense.
“There’s no need to snip at me.” He took her hand again, feeling it lie small and bare in his own gloved one. He felt the fine tremors that seized her, and longed quite violently to keep her safe from whatever threatened her. Still holding her hand in his he led her the few steps into the parlour, she too dignified to struggle. He shut the door behind them.
“No point in sharing your troubles with the household. Now,” he put one large, warm hand on her shoulder and gave her the gentlest of shakes before pulling her against his broad chest and wrapping his arms comfortingly around her. “Tell me what has happened.”
“You presume too much,” she said. It sounded ridiculous, spoken into his body. And even as she said it, her hands crept up to hold him. It felt bizarrely wonderful. Had she ever had a man hold her like this? Never; nor wanted a man to do so.
Men were not made for comfort.
Yet he felt so solid, a calm rock in the midst of her terror. She buried her face in his jacket. Just for a moment. One breath of linen dried in the sunlight, and warm spice and clean male. Then she shoved him away. He didn’t move, so she was propelled a few feet across the carpet, whirling to turn her back on him as she went.
“No doubt. Tell me anyway.”
“My brother P - Trevor has taken our money and gone to London.” God. Oh God, it was all ruined if she could not catch him quickly.
“That was very ill-mannered of him,” he said in a puzzled tone, walking to her side to look down at her face. She kept her eyes averted. “Is it a great deal of money?” Was it her imagination the words were weighted with the implication of the twelve hundred pounds that had changed hands between them?
“Perhaps not great to some, but I was depending on it.” She bit her lip.
“Do you expect him to spend it all?”
“I . . . ah . . . yes. That is, spend it, give it away or have it stolen from him.”
“Well certainly it is shocking that a boy should take his sister’s funds,” he paused, and Melissa flushed hotly as she thought of their shared knowledge of how her money had been earned. It was so wrong to have this conversation with him; with any person, but with him in particular; so wrong to put herself in his power in any way. But she was afraid. Terrified, and so alone. “He must be a hardened soul indeed if you think he will spend it all in the short time it will take for you to catch him.” Mr Carstairs teased her, his head bent towards her, his eyes gentle.
“Yes . . . that is . . . no, not hardened or evil but . . . he thinks to repay a debt I have already paid off. I do not trust the person to whom he seeks to give the money. They may well take it from him then . . . pretend the transaction never occurred.” She tried to stitch it together into something that sounded plausibly coherent, and peeked at him from under her lashes. Would he accept her stammered explanation? The urge to tell him more, to – God! – lay the whole problem at his feet confused and appalled her. What was wrong with her?
He considered her words a long moment, then seemed to make his mind up to something.
“Well let’s not waste any more time. We shall fly after him.”
“We?” she blinked at him stupidly, her mouth falling open. “Mr Carstairs, I do not think-”
“No, no time for arguing. You can argue on the way. Pack a bag and I’ll come and fetch you.”
“Fetch me?” she repeated blankly.
“We shall take my carriage, of course. Pack that bag quickly, for I shan’t be long.”
“Mr Carstairs, there is absolutely no way . . .”
But she was talking to thin air. With his firm tread he was swiftly out of the room and a moment later the house. Through the front window Melissa watched him untie his horse and mount, stirring the big bay to a trot then a canter.
She gaped after him, astounded, thinking he must surely be deranged. She to travel in his carriage? Mr Carstairs carriage, on the road to London? Alone with him for mile after mile, hour after hour; after the things she had said to him; the things they had done together.
Oh, how would she bear it? How could she possibly bear it?
She could not. There was no way. No conceivable way. It simply could not happen.
But what else was there?
What else could she do?
She was helpless. No money, no friends, no resources. She had nothing but his offer of help.
Freely given, but there would be a cost. There was always a cost. Nothing was truly free.
Why would any man go so far out of his way to assist a woman who spurned him in the strongest of language, vilified him even? He would not do it unless he were mad or he hoped to profit from it somehow. She was certain he knew she had no money to give him. She had all but said Peter had taken everything.
He must have something else in mind.
She did not have a choice. She must accept his aid, and be ready to repel any advances he made on her person. She must now act the model of propriety and ladylike behaviour, hoping to appeal to the gentleman within him.
Pray God it would not come to force. She had no weapons to defend her virtue.
She smiled a bitter little smile. Virtue? Aye, there was the rub. He was the very worst person to travel with, for almost alone in the world he knew she had no virtue to speak of.
A depraved, fallen woman. And now it was up to her to teach him to think differently of her, with only the power of her wits.
“Mrs Bristow? Mrs Bristow?�
� Melissa called out as she came hurrying down the stairs, portmanteau clutched in one hand, the other hand holding her sensible hat. “Mrs Bri- oh, there you are, Ma’am,” she said, coming upon the widow reading a novel in a chair by the fireplace.
“I hate to say it, but the most vexing thing has happened. That foolish brother of mine has – for a lark – run off to London to visit with a chum.” She put her bag on the floor and her hat on her head, hastily doing up the ribbons as she spoke. “He has said nothing to me about it, only posted me that letter. I’m afraid I must hurry off after him for I can’t have him roaming about. He’s a good lad but with no real sense of how to go on in the world.”
“Oh dear, vexing indeed! But surely he will be safe enough on the road. None will think to bother a country lad, I’m certain.”
“You have no notion of the awfulness of his chum,” said Melissa darkly. “A most dangerous young man, and not at all the thing. He is the reason I brought Trevor away from the city. I feared for his morals. But I will say no more. I do not wish to distress you.”
“Oh how upsetting. That poor, dear boy. But surely you cannot mean to travel alone? How will you get to London? By stage?”
For a second Melissa considered simply answering yes, but she knew it would only take a moment for the widow to find out otherwise from any of her neighbours.
“Actually, the most marvellous thing happened,” she said airily, trying to make light of it. “That gentleman you encountered here the other day – Mr Carstairs – came to call, and found me wondering how to chase Trevor down. By happy chance he is off to London himself this afternoon and offered to escort me. So very kind of him, to be sure.”
“Well, that is lucky,” said the widow doubtfully, “but do you think you ought to . . . well I’m certain that any friend of Mr Mayhew’s must be . . . I mean he is quite a striking young . . . Do you think I ought to go with you?”
Melissa wished again she could say yes, but how would she deal with the widow in London while she tracked Peter? For that matter, how would she deal with Mr Carstairs while she did so? She paused, arrested by this worrying vision and trying to come up with a solution. It was several long moments before the widow’s expression of dread recalled her to the unanswered question still hanging in the air.
“Oh no, Ma’am, why should you? Unless of course you would like to go to London. But I can’t see chasing some harum scarum boy as something you’d enjoy. I shall be back before you know it.” There was the sound of a carriage and pair pulling up in the street outside the house. “Ah, and here’s the kindly gentleman now.”
Much as she tried to make him sound like an avuncular sort, there was no disguising the trim, muscular figure and handsome face of Mr Carstairs driving his dashing curricle, as Melissa opened the door and the widow joined her on the front stoop. He looped the reins and leapt down, coming towards her with his loping stride, his hand outstretched. It made her heart leap into her throat, for no reason she could define.
Melissa could see the words of protest forming on Mrs Bristow’s lips as she – duty-bound – made to call her innocent young boarder back from the perils of associating alone with an attractive gentleman; and in such a vehicle, no less.
Before the widow could speak Melissa passed her small portmanteau to Mr Carstairs to stow, mounted the step into the carriage and was seated, speaking as she went:
“We must be off now after Trevor,” she called firmly as if there were no other option to consider. “If we only hurry we will quickly catch him and I may be at peace. We shall see you soon, Mrs Bristow.”
The widow frowned, clearly torn, then gave way. “Certainly I wish you Godspeed, my dear, and also His blessing to keep you and the young master safe on your travels.” Melissa saw she still looked upon Mr Carstairs with misgivings but would say no more.
Mr Carstairs inclined his head and flashed his beautiful smile at Mrs Bristow before leaping up beside Melissa. The widow fluttered and curtsied, not above being charmed by the notice of such a smart member of the ton. He flicked his whip over the ears of his horses and the carriage lurched into motion. Melissa turned her head in the direction of the road. To London then, with all its perils.
Chapter Fifteen
Lord Carstairs’ curricle was exquisitely well-sprung and comfortable. Comparing it to the journey from London to Bourton-on-the-Water in the hired carriage, Melissa could have believed they took a different road entirely.
But to see the ground rushing by almost under her feet at such a speed was frightening. Mr Carstairs had declared he would spring the horses, and he was true to his word. Fresh and eager, the matched bays surged ahead so fast Melissa clutched at her straw bonnet with one hand and the seat with the other and pressed her lips tight together.
He handled the reins smoothly, and with such surety eventually her heart stopped beating hard with fright they would be overturned at any moment. Her whitened knuckles, aching, called themselves to mind and she unclamped her hand from the seat and gave them a little rub, pressing her back into the leather-covered squabs.
They flashed past a farmer’s cart and then a gig. They were so fast. Perhaps they would catch him yet; although truly they would have to travel at twice the pace of the mail or the stage coach to come upon him in time.
If he were even on one or the other.
She could only guess how he might choose to travel, and hope he would be trying to husband the money to pay off to the supposed creditors. If he hired a coach and four in one of the villages or towns on the way then he would be far beyond her reach.
She should be planning how she would find him in London. At least there was no link he knew of between their father and Black Jack. He would have no idea where to go to discover the man.
Did he know any of Father’s friends? Or Mr Beaseley? They were the most likely references for a young man trying to discover his father’s creditors; unless he meant to check with the merchants and shopkeepers to find out any unpaid bills.
The greater worry was if Black Jack had a network of informants who might recognise Peter. That in itself was unlikely, surely? For Peter would stay to the streets he knew, in the centre of the town. And Black Jack and his people must dwell in the slums and the stews.
She longed to believe Peter safe from threat. Yet remembering the intelligent malignance behind Black Jack’s face, she could not find it in her to be complacent. There was no reason to believe the man had given up the search for them.
London was the very last place either of them should be.
She had sacrificed so much to escape from it and from the threats of that evil man, and now here she was driving back into his territory. Her skin crawled at the thought. This was so wrong.
There was no point in blaming Peter. If he had known the truth he would still be safely in the village, working in someone’s garden. Keeping the secret had been an unwise decision, though made with the best intentions. She wanted to shield him from pain.
But he was a young man now, able to make his own choices. Too soon grown perhaps. Becoming orphans meant an enforced maturity and independence for both of them.
She fretted with the edge of her sleeve, drawing it up into tight pleats then releasing it, over and over. If only she had told Peter. Oh, not about how she had earned their escape money – never that! But about the debts, and about Black Jack. If she had enlisted his help in her mission to start a new life. Keeping him in the dark had led him to draw all the wrong sort of conclusions.
Hindsight was always perfect.
Yet it was such a surprise to have obedient, easily-led Peter act with such initiative. He was growing up indeed; at exactly the wrong time.
The silence between her and Mr Carstairs had stretched out for a long while. Maybe an hour, she guessed, when he pulled back on the reins and drew up the horses. When she looked enquiringly at him he nodded towards a threatening cloudbank, sweeping in on the fresh breeze.
“I shall put the cover up,” he said, then su
ited action to word, pulling the hood up over the carriage to protect them both. She felt the curricle rock slightly as he resumed his seat and took up his reins again from the spot where he had looped them.
Feeling immeasurably more confined in the shaded and small space under the hood, Melissa nibbled nervously on her lower lip. She had managed to ignore him thus far by focusing determinedly on Peter and her troubles with him. Yet the moment she stopped thinking about one problem, an awareness of the other assailed her.
Mr Carstairs broad, muscular thigh lay only inches from her own skirts. With the rush of air about her now reduced, she imagined she could feel his body heat radiating out from his large body, his pleasingly masculine scent in her nostrils.
She looked upwards and away, seeing the dark cloud come rolling in, fat drops of rain beginning to plash down on the footrest, only inches in front of her boots.
As the curtain of rain closed around them they were cocooned in privacy together. Melissa felt her heart start to thump. She had tried to ignore the subtle current of awareness that always charged the air between them. Now, alone, with no one knowing they were here except the widow and she now miles behind them, that same awareness was thick on her as syrup.
Her gaze flicked from his broad gloved hands grasping the reins to his fawn serge breeches, his finely chiselled profile, dark hair waving back from his high brow. She tried to keep her head facing forward, sitting back further in her seat so she could watch him from the corner of her eyes. She looked again at his hands, hidden in leather. She knew what they looked like bare.
Knew intimately – and she squirmed in her seat with the heated quiver that ran through her – what those hands felt like too. Gentle, knowing, the skin a little roughened with callus so they scraped lightly over her smoother skin.
Oh, she knew.
She felt her cheeks warm, certain her imaginings must be written on her face. Thank heavens he was absorbed in his own thoughts, his brows lowered towards the bridge of his nose in a slight frown. She watched his lips tighten, relax, pinch together again, and wondered what words he spoke in his mind.
