The Bashful Bride

by Vanessa Riley

  A long sigh came from Bex. “Well, it seems a mistress or extramarital affairs have been ruled out. That would make our marriage very limiting, very dull, for a man of passion. What do you want, Ester Croome?”

  “Boring isn’t what I want, either.”

  His hand clasped hers. “Good answer. No one should want boring.”

  “Mr. Bex, you know I’m infatuated with your stage presence. I’ve watched you in so many plays—the ones my friends and I could attend.”

  “That is a profession. That’s not me.”

  She nodded, not that he could see. “I know. I want to know you. The true you.”

  “I could make a joke about biblically knowing, but I won’t. Your tone sounds too serious. My hope is that the true me is someone you like.”

  “I pretend a great deal, particularly when I’m frightened. I hope you get to know me, Bex.”

  “I like you, Ester Croome, but the question becomes: the more that you learn of the man as opposed to the actor, will you like what you see?”

  “It’s dark, Bex, but I can still see your character. I like you, Arthur Bex, well enough now.”

  “Well enough to allow a kiss the next time there is an opportunity?”

  So, she was right. He had wanted to kiss her before the racing carriage had reminded them how vulnerable they were on the side of the road.

  Her head screamed yes, but until today Ester had never been so bold. “I suppose you’ll have to wait and see.”

  “If we keep to this path, it should be interesting.”

  His tone was a mix of arrogance and promise. He surely knew she was vulnerable to his charms. That unsettled her. The gulf between their feelings seemed wide. Would he use it to his advantage?

  His hand slacked its hold. The abrasion on his knuckle scraped against her elbow. She should’ve changed her outfits, to be less sensitive to his touches. Ordering her thoughts to the mission of getting to Gretna without being caught, she focused on the road, which seemed to be narrowing. “I still can’t believe you chose to fight within hours of our elopement.”

  “Sometimes, the fight picks you. You don’t always have the luxury of choosing.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Miss Croome, I learned to box at an early age. It comes in handy—with drunks, theater critics, reporters.” He wriggled his head, his forehead finding that space between her ear and collarbone to perch. “It will come in handy for those who are rude to Mrs. Bex.”

  It warmed her heart that he was already protective her, but how would she fit into his world? “Bex,” she said in a voice she hoped was low and easy, “How will your friends take that you are married.”

  “Just fine. If I had any. Well, Jonesy did wish us well.”

  “Jonesy? Another actor?”

  “A stable boy.”

  No friends? “Bex, you are so wonderful on stage, larger than life. How can you not have friends? No one from childhood? No one from before you made a splash in London?”

  He bristled and turned further away. “It can happen. I like to be alone.”

  “With a preference for being alone—how exactly will that work for our marriage?”

  His restless turning made the seat squeal. “Another thing we’ll have to wait and see.”

  More distance separated them, and she instantly missed the heat of him and the smell of his soap. Maybe a spice?

  Up a hill and down the other side, she kept the phaeton moving. Taking a glance at him nodding off, Ester didn’t like the imbalance between them—she infatuated, him not so much. “Why were you answering newspaper advertisements for a wife?”

  Sigh. Snort-half whistle.

  “Thanks, Bex.”

  “Just.” His voice sounded weary, half audible. “Just felt…I just felt it was time.”

  It was a small, unsatisfying confession. Stewing, she concentrated on the horses, but couldn’t help looking over at him for better answers. He should use his melodious voice to set her at ease, to say that he saw something special in her other than desperation.

  Yet, each casual peek made the phaeton veer. She couldn’t resist.

  He stretched. “Miss Croome, you’re not driving smoothly. Pull over and let me take control.”

  Him taking control wasn’t what she wanted. “I haven’t driven that long. You need to rest. Won’t we be near a coaching inn soon?”

  His hand tightened on the leather strap. “In another hour. But I’d like to make it there unharmed. You’re swaying. Pull over to the side. I’ll drive.”

  “My friend, Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil, she says it’s not safe to stop on the road. Highwaymen or thieves could lurk in the shadows.”

  “Your friend is right, but her warning might be making you unduly nervous. Rest assured, you are safe with me. I’m a boxer, remember.”

  One glance and Ester knew she wasn’t safe. Not from his humor, his condescension, or the lightness his presence caused her stomach. “The loner boxer who now wants to be a husband. Should I be nervous or cautious?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the one driving backroads with a stranger. Again, I think you protest too much. It’s fine to be nervous. It’s lovely on a woman.”

  She should focus on the lovely part, but the condescending tone—that could have come from her father. “Fine. I’m stopping. I’m cold and I need to change.” Ester pulled to the side of the road. When the horses stopped, she flung the reins at Bex then jumped down.

  He lit and held up the lantern. “Miss Croome, where are you going?”

  She scooped up her bag and yanked out her carriage dress. “I’m going to put on this more sensible gown. It’s warmer, and I need a moment alone. You should understand that.”

  “Oh… Well, don’t take too long or wander too far. Dawn is breaking, and your friend’s highwaymen could be about. We could be their last run before going to bed.”

  Without a look back, Ester moved forward. She knew she was being ridiculous. She knew it, but the feeling that she could be marrying a man as patronizing as her father didn’t sit well.

  In fact, it burned her inners. She went into the edge of the brush guided by the hints of orange from the rising sun. Mama would be arising soon, inspecting Nineteen Fournier for damage from her guests—a scuffed floor, a broken glass, a missing daughter.

  Mama would be so hurt. Would this elopement cut her as badly as Papa’s love letters? When those notes had fallen from her mother’s fingers, there had been so much pain on her face.

  The poor woman had expected a present, only to be gifted with the truth of her husband’s failures. If Ester had known what the letters said, she’d never have given them to Mama, never hurt her so bad.

  But hadn’t Ester hurt her mother by eloping?

  Ester stumbled over a root, her breath sputtering as she lunged against a trunk. Her irritation at Bex had been replaced with guilt about her own treachery.

  She’d deprived Mama of a chance to fix things and the opportunity to throw a big wedding breakfast.

  And she’d find out at full light with the scuffed floor, the broken glass, the horribly ungrateful missing daughter.

  Ester was guilty.

  She folded her arms to keep her heart inside. She loved Mama but couldn’t trust that she’d fix things. And if Papa hadn’t forced Ester’s hand with this betrothal to Jordan, she wouldn’t have had to elope. She and Bex could’ve courted normally.

  But the elopement was Ester’s doing, not her parents. She’d chosen this path. She chose Bex. Whatever happened—getting caught, disgraced, or worse, a poor marriage betwixt strangers—the fault would be on her shoulders, hers alone.

  Things would work out. Maybe Mama could offer a celebration once things calmed. More hopeful, Ester stretched then wiggled one button at her neck open, then a second, and a third of the lace caressing her neck. Satisfied, she slid off her shawl and laid it on a branch, then she began her dance again, wriggling to loosen the outer gown’s lacings. The pretty overgown fell but caught on a
bush with thorns, a plant with spiky leathered leaves, emerald green like a hawthorn shrub, but taller. Ignoring the noises behind her, she picked her netting free, only being poked once. The bush found out she’d fight for what was hers.

  Bex wasn’t hers but there was an attraction between them. At this point, the actor was all she had. And he was her choice, not Josiah Croome’s.

  Scanning the trees behind her, she saw nothing and continued undressing. One shimmy and two shakes helped Ester climb out of the rest of her party gown. She was careful to save the brass pins that made the fit perfect. The pretty thing might make an excellent wedding gown, though she wondered how she’d ever get the pins in again without assistance. Bex wouldn’t help her into the gown but more so out of it, if she took his suggestive words seriously.

  Standing in her chemise and corset in the middle of the lush woods, with the sunlight starting to spread, she felt naked. She wasn’t, but the richness of her garbs was armor, built by being Josiah Croome’s daughter. Would being Mrs. Bex offer the same protection?

  Sighing, not crying, she slipped the carriage dress onto her shoulders, tugging until it fit properly at her bosom, covering it more discreetly than the sheer lace of the party gown.

  Done. Warm, covered, and matronly in one of her old gowns from their life above the warehouse, when they’d had no servant to help dress. Collecting her things, she started to walk back to the phaeton, but stopped and covered her mouth to hide a scream.

  Bex wasn’t alone. A man dressed in ebony held a gun to his head.

  Chapter Ten

  HIGHWAY ROBBERY

  Arthur stared at the end of the gun. It wasn’t the first time his nose had been so close to the smell of gunpowder, the feel of the cold iron, but this wasn’t merely his safety at risk. Now he had Miss Croome to keep from danger. “I’ve no more gold,” he said to the fiend. “I’ve given you all my guineas.”

  The bandit laughed. “There’s always more. Been trailing you since you stopped at the coaching inn. Your pace is too leisurely a speed for a poor man and the only man not in a hurry is a rich one.”

  Miss Croome hadn’t come from the bushes. Surely, she saw the robbery and would stay in hiding. Perhaps the shyness he’d seen in her would surface and keep her from jeopardy.

  Yet, something in his gut said that wouldn’t happen. He needed the fiend to flee before she took notice. “Look, you’ve taken what I had in my pockets. Be on your way. Surely, you’ve some other fool to rob.”

  “Where’s the woman?”

  The man had a handkerchief to his face, but it didn’t block the gravel in his voice. With Arthur’s lantern still aglow, he could identify him. This time, being a witness against evil might again cost the life he’d built. “She isn’t here. Go on.”

  “I decide when it’s time to leave.” The thief hoisted his gun and rummaged in the gig, but he’d find nothing of value—just Arthur’s clothes and the script he needed to memorize. “I saw a woman, and I smell lilac. You didn’t leave her at the inn. Where is she? She looked well-to-do. Scarves or lace can fetch a penny or more.”

  Arthur balled his fist behind his back, calculating when to strike to subdue the fool before Ester returned. “You need to leave my wife out of this. Go on—”

  Ester stood at the edge of the brush.

  He wanted to yell for her to leave, but that would alert the fiend, giving him more leverage. “Look, you have everything. Go on your way.”

  “Come out, little woman. I’ve your husband.” The bandit dumped Arthur’s bag on the ground. “So where is the little woman?” He cocked the hammer again and put it against Arthur’s temple. “She has to have a ring or a little jewelry. Here, little sweetheart. Come nigh and save your husband.”

  “Don’t hurt him, sir.” Ester’s voice sounded full of tears.

  The fiend slugged Arthur with the gun and knocked him to the ground. His vision was blurred, but he saw Miss Croome waving her arms like she was distraught. “Stay back. Let this man be on his way before you come close.”

  The rising sun shined upon her. She looked frail, helpless, and Arthur’s gut twisted. “Run, Ester.”

  The bandit kicked at him before turning to her. “A maid? No, a prostitute. There’s no wife. Oh, no wonder your driving was crazed. You’ve ditched the wife for a hot little piece. I hear her kind gets hot and bothered quite easily.”

  “You have all that was in my pockets.” He tried to rise, but the man’s boot pinned his leg. “Go now. We won’t follow.”

  “Of course, you wouldn’t. Your hands are far too full.” The bellicose laughter grew worse. “Come on over, little woman, and let me take a look at you.”

  She threw her head back, and in a voice that sounded calm said, “I’ll come if you lower that gun. Don’t hurt him.”

  “I don’t take orders, especially from the likes of you. Now come over here before I blow his face off.”

  The barrel was again at Arthur’s head. The smell of the gunpowder, the heft of the muzzle setting creases above his eye, reminded him of long ago, walking his uncle’s ship with the sailors who didn’t want the kid too near the cargo hold. “Don’t touch her. Leave her be.”

  “Mr. Bandit, sir, why don’t you come here?” Her voice sounded husky, not proper and prim or scared, as before. “I’d like a look at you.”

  That tone made both the bandit and Arthur stare in her direction.

  Her hands fluttered about her hair. Then her braid came down. She looked wild, almost savage with her chignon waving down her back as she swiveled her hips to music that only she heard.

  “Oh, I see why you took off with her, mate.” He pointed his gun at the phaeton. “Why don’t you go on and leave me and the maid to play hide-and-go-seek in the woods.”

  Arthur leaped to his feet and started for the man, but he again cocked his gun and pointed at him. “Go with your life. I’ll only tell you this once.”

  The bandit started for her. “I’m stealing your plaything. Come on, lil’ Wowski, or shall I say, Rapunzel. Let me play. If your kind is good enough for Prince William to bed, then you’ll do fine for me.”

  “Go, on love,” she said with a giggle, a nervous one. Your wife’s waiting around the bend. Let her know her maid won’t make it in today.” She fumbled with the top button of her dress. “Go on, lover boy.”

  That’s when he knew it was an act to distract the bandit. “Fine, I was tired of you anyway. The likes of you cost me four guineas.”

  He got into the phaeton and pushed it up the road a few paces and into the thicker grove around the bend, just far enough to pretend to leave. Arthur jumped to the ground, took a knife and rope from his seat storage and went back to save his brave bride-to-be.

  Huffing, he charged through the brush. When he saw his brave Ester, she’d slipped deeper into the woods, but the bandit was now halfway to her.

  “What game is this, lass? I’ve come this far, now you come out to me.”

  Hips swiveling, Ester continued her dance, edging more into the woods. “You know my kind will say anything. And I’d say anything to keep you from my man.”

  The sunlight wasn’t Arthur’s friend, but it slipped behind a cloud, giving him a little time to get closer to the woman who was risking her neck for him.

  The highwayman cussed, as if that kind of talk would convince a peach like Ester to come closer. “I’m done with the games, Wowski. I don’t pull guns out on women, but there is a first for everything.” He lifted his gun and took aim at her. “Come now and dance for me, close and easy.”

  No more space to go—Ester was against a tree. “Put down your gun and come get me.” She fingered the top button of her dress, popping it and one more. “’Less you’re scared of little old me?

  The air sucked out of Arthur. She was brazen and wild, but smart as a fox.

  “Sure, love. A little busty thing like you is no threat. We’ll play it your way, for now.” The fiend set his gun down but pulled a knife from his boot. He took the
final steps and dangled it in front of her wide eyes. “You like to tease.” He drew the knife point down her bosom. “But I think you won’t disappoint.”

  Dropping the rope, barely in control of the rage pumping through his veins, Arthur balled his knuckles and pounced. He leaped and knocked the knife, sending it far away. Then he punched the man, three blows for every one the highwayman could muster. He wasn’t going to let the thief have any part of her. “She hasn’t disappointed me ever.”

  One deep blow after the other, Arthur sent the bandit careening backward.

  “I’ll kill ye both.”

  But Arthur wasn’t done. He was back on Zhonda, his uncle’s ship, but he was finally big enough to pummel the first mate, the one leading the charge to toss the cargo overboard.

  Hands went up about Arthur’s neck, but he broke the choking hold. He beat the man below him until blood splatted his hands. All was silent below him, but Arthur fought against the sailors who kept him from reasoning with his uncle. If he didn’t stop the crew, the killings would continue. The cargo below wouldn’t be saved, all tossed into the ocean to drown.

  Arthur took his knife and put it to the first mates throat. “It’s over. No more will die.”

  The cock of the gun sounded, and again he smelled gunpowder. “Bex?”

  A soft palm touched his cheek. “He’s done-in, Bex. You don’t have to kill him. Look, you saved me.”

  Blinking, he came back to himself, stashed his knife in his pocket, then stood.

  She handed him the gun. His hand shook while he fisted his fingers about the barrel.

  “Bex?”

  He yanked off the highwayman’s scarf and wiped his hands clean, but couldn’t say anything to her. His mind hadn’t settled. It was still in the past, still haunted.

  With a better grip to the gun’s stock, he fought the temptation to blast holes in the highwayman, but that wouldn’t cleanse Arthur’s memories.

  “We are all right, Bex.”

  Lowering the gun, Arthur turned and snatched her about her waist and held her until his heart slowed. “You’re crazed. What if I were a lesser man?”