by Lisa Bingham
Crawford’s hands tightened around the head of his cane, his knuckles gleaming white in the darkness. The foreboding he felt intensified, growing so strong that he fought to breathe. In the past, he had fostered many important allies—allies closely connected to His Majesty himself. In doing so, he had also made many enemies. Enemies who would dearly love to see him publicly disgraced. How better than to take his daughter mere weeks before her own wedding, leaving him with a houseful of guests and a half-dozen prospective grooms waiting to bid for her dowry?
He whacked the cane against the coach wheel, causing his secretary to jump.
“Who else knew of our plans?” The query dripped with ice.
“N-no one, sir.”
“Damnit, someone must have known! Otherwise why would they have taken her?”
Mr. Humphreys blanched. “Surely you don’t think …”
Crawford scowled, lifting his walking stick and striking the tip against his secretary’s chest. “You once told me you were a religious man.” His eyes narrowed. “Pray, Mr. Humphreys,” he whispered fiercely. “Pray that my daughter hasn’t been taken for ransom. Or you, my friend, will pay dearly. Very dearly indeed.”
Either Aloise Crawford hadn’t remembered him, or she was the consummate actress.
Nearly an hour later, Slater crossed his heels and regarded the woman sprawled on the opposite seat of the coach. Try as he might, he couldn’t escape the nagging reminder. This girl had been his betrothed, had visited his home at least a half-dozen times, witnessed his downfall. Despite all that, she refused to show any signs of knowing him.
Damn her. How could she have forgotten? He knew the years had changed him, made him harder, more bitter, but she must have some inkling of his identity. She couldn’t have erased the night of her mother’s death from her memory so completely.
He glared at Aloise, willing her to awaken. She’d roused from her stupor when he’d joined her in the coach and seen to her wound. Despite the light of the lanterns, she’d shrunk away from his touch, then caught a glimpse of her own blood and wilted in his arms. In time, she’d even drifted into sleep.
After their encounter on the beach, Slater wasn’t positive that she truly slept. At any moment, he expected her to fly from her prone position, throw him into a stranglehold, and demand he let her loose. This woman had fire.
As well as damned sharp teeth.
She stirred, her brow knitting in pain, and Slater stoically resisted the impulse to draw her onto his lap and stroke her hair. Bloody hell, had he gone mad to think such a thing? This woman had betrayed him. She could have cleared Matthew Waterton years ago of all implications to Jeanne’s murder, but she’d chosen to remain silent, thereby giving credence to her father’s lies. She didn’t deserve his pity, only his condemnation.
Straightening, Slater forced his mind to other more important matters—such as what he planned to do now. He had to keep her with him long enough to see if she’d truly forgotten him or merely played some perverse game. Either way, the situation was fraught with hidden dangers. Until he discovered the extent of her perfidy, Aloise must be kept away from her father. Yet, this was no docile lamb he could lead by the nose. He would be wise to remember that fact and plan accordingly. She would kick and scream unless he could find a means to keep her with him of her own free will.
Her own free will …
His eyes narrowed, falling on the bundle of belongings which had tumbled from beneath the waist of her gown. When he’d first set eyes on the swell of her stomach, he’d never dreamed that it held little more than a change of clothing. He’d thought that she must have married, or become some man’s lover. It never entered his mind that such a shape was merely a clever ploy to unconsciously enlist people’s more tender emotions. A ploy that had fooled even him.
Ignoring the memory of the tightly corseted torso and wispy underthings Slater had encountered when he had loosened her stays, he focused instead on the contents. Her cache of belongings was paltry to say the least. Not at all what he would have expected of Crawford’s daughter. The clothing she’d brought with her was simple and unadorned. There were several books—a rather ribald novel and two travel journals—a satin bag filled with gold coins, and a locket.
He palmed the piece, opening the tiny hinges to reveal the painting inside. Jeanne. A knife seemed to turn in his chest. Jeanne had given both Slater and her daughter the miniature portraits the Christmas before she died.
Slater closed the piece with a determined snap. He’d suffered through too many emotional trials this evening. He didn’t need to wallow in memories. His first glimpse of Jeanne’s daughter had given him enough of a start, making him feel as if he’d come face-to-face with a ghost.
Thrusting the locket back into the bundle, he inadvertently bumped the haversack, causing something to spill free from the folds of her petticoat.
“Sweet heaven above,” he whispered as he reached out to touch the elaborate necklace, fingered the stunning design of animals fashioned in gold and the glowing rubies studding the tiger’s eyes, the peacock’s tail, the ostrich’s neck.
He glanced at Aloise, then back at the piece in his hand. Of course. Of course!
The coach drew to a halt, and shoving the rubies out of sight, Slater peered out of the window to see that they were at the crossroads. Curry urged his horse forward. “Which way?”
“Straight to my estates at Ashenleigh.”
Curry regarded him in astonishment. “Ashenleigh? But that’s only a few hours’ journey from here. We’ve been able to avoid Crawford by taking the back roads. Surely you don’t want to take a chance he might follow you!”
“Just get us there. As soon as possible. Meanwhile, have Clayton and Marco ride on to Crawford’s estates at Briarwood and see if we can’t develop a spy in his staff. I need to know when Crawford’s bridal guests are scheduled to arrive and which roads they intend to take. Send Hans ahead to inform Miss Nibbs of our schedule. I want him to prepare fresh horses and choose a housemaid of the same size and coloring as Miss Crawford. See that she dresses in a similar style and that Louis and Rudy are ready to ride by first light.”
“What exactly do you have in mind, Slater?”
“A bit of a jest,” he stated after a slight pause, refusing to comment further, but he did not completely disguise his own pleasure.
“Crawford will find our trail eventually; we’d be better off changing course and heading safely out of the area.”
“Ride to Ashenleigh.”
“But—”
Slater waved away his friend’s protests. “Aloise has lost a bit of blood. She needs a bed, a fire, and a good night’s sleep.”
Will stared at him in amazement. “She needs what?”
“You heard me.” He knocked on the roof of the phaeton and it jerked into action.
Slater heard the scrabble of his friend’s mount as he hurried to catch up. “Heard you, but didn’t believe you.”
“I am merely ensuring that she does not expire on us. She’s no good to us dead.”
Will snorted in disbelief.
“Ashenleigh, Will.”
“Yes, sir!” Curry saluted nicely and shouted instructions to the driver, but as he allowed his horse to drop in line with the other men, Slater couldn’t miss his parting shot. “Just see to it that you guard yourself well. She’s got a wicked aim with that knee, she does. I’d be seeing to the family jewels.”
The carriage rocked, rumbling into the rutted thoroughfare.
Family jewels. Curry’s remark might have been uttered in fun, but it brought another facet of his objective firmly to mind. The Bengal Rubies. The collection that Crawford extended so tantalizingly to Aloise’s prospective mates had belonged to Slater’s father. They had been presented to him as a gift for translating an ancient Hebrew script that George III had obtained in his youth. The king had been so pleased to discover mention of his ancestors’ role in the Crusades that he had or
dered that the most well-known jewels in all England be reset and given to a humble schoolmaster in Cornwall. Rubies said to have been blessed by Richard the Lionhearted to reward those who were honest and true, and curse those who were impure. The gift had stunned all those the king had allowed to know of such largesse as well as Elias Waterton.
Slater fought back a sigh of regret. His father had been so proud of that honor, so humbled. From the moment he’d been given the pieces, he’d declared that they would never leave his family’s possession. They would never be bartered, sold, or traded—no matter how dire the family’s finances. They would be protected with all the loyalty and honor the Waterton clan possessed.
Elias would have been devastated had he known the way Crawford had discovered the existence of the Bengal Rubies and claimed them as forfeit for his son’s supposed disgrace.
Slater’s fingers tightened over the necklace. Once he’d finished exacting retributions for past wrongs, Oliver Crawford would rue the day he decided to arrange the death of an innocent woman and destroy the Waterton name. Crawford would be exposed for the devil he was. To see such an objective fulfilled, Slater would steal the two things Crawford valued most.
The daughter he planned to use to obtain a title and an heir.
And the infamous Bengal Rubies.
Chapter 4
The rocking of the ship had developed an odd sort of intensity. No longer a gentle swaying, there was a distinct bounce, a jostle, a …
“I thought you’d never regain your wits, mistress.”
The deep, murmured remark melted from the stillness, stroking Aloise’s frayed nerves and urging her to awaken. She yawned and blinked, but rather than focusing on the rough linen sheets of her bunk, she encountered tufted velvet squabs.
“I don’t believe I’ve seen another woman faint with precisely the same talent you’ve displayed. Your fall proved to be quite graceful and so perfectly timed.”
A choked sound lodged in Aloise’s throat as the memory of her encounter on the beach rushed over her with the strength of the tide. “No!” Jerking into a sitting position, she flattened herself against the corner, sure her father waited nearby, his cane raised, his eyes malevolent.
The shadows revealed no such horrors. A single man sat opposite. The bearded stranger. Obscured by the ebony secrets of the night, his form could not be clearly discerned, but Aloise felt his presence as surely as the pulse that knocked at her ribs.
“It took you so long to awaken, I’d begun to fear you’d developed a brain fever of some sort … or cracked your head on a rock.”
Aloise’s breath came in sharp pants as he reached out, thinking he meant to strike her for some act of disobedience. He merely clasped her chin, forcing her to look at him, really look at him.
She didn’t flinch, didn’t falter. His eyes gleamed for a moment, willing a reaction she didn’t understand, then his expression became enigmatic and he shifted his hold. Aloise was stunned into inactivity when the blunt-tipped fingers skimmed her temples, her cheek. The caress was unexpected and startlingly gentle.
“Don’t.”
The word burst from her lips, but he ignored it. After several long moments, he returned to his seat. “Never fear, maiden. I mean you no harm.”
Aloise regarded him in patent disbelief. He was a man. As far as she was concerned, the gender had a talent for inflicting the most subtle kind of emotional and physical pain.
“I only wished to ascertain the extent of the damage,” he continued.
“I don’t want you to touch me. I don’t like to be touched.”
He watched her with black, black eyes. A distinct gleam of satisfaction entered their depths. “Then obviously, you’ve not been properly touched. Not yet, anyway.”
Aloise gasped. The words hung in the air, full of an unspoken meaning and a delicious forbidden expectancy. “A gentleman would never say such a thing to a lady.”
“Ahh, but I never claimed to be a gentleman. In fact, I have been known to take great delight in performing numerous deeds of wickedness.”
The hair prickled at the back of her neck.
“Who are you?”
Once again, he watched her intently. Like a spider watched a fly embroil itself in the stickiness of a web. “That depends on who you ask. Some claim I’m the devil himself.”
In that second Aloise became aware of the woolen cloak draped about her lap and the curious flatness of her stomach. She felt the spot even as her gaze leapt to the bundle lying next to the man’s thigh. The shawl she’d used as an outer covering for her belongings had been opened. The contents lay neatly within the center as if this man had done little more than untie the knot. However, Aloise knew he had searched each item quite thoroughly. She had no doubts he’d found her only extra chemise, the stockings, garters, and petticoats, the collapsible panniers, the gown, the books, the bag of gold, and the locket.
As if sensing her thoughts, he picked up the fragile necklace and opened the catch, revealing the painting inside. One brow lifted in silent query.
“My mother,” she supplied somewhat reluctantly.
“You look a great deal like her.”
She shrugged, refusing to let him see that such a remark secretly pleased her.
“You are journeying to see her? Was that why you were aboard the clipper I saw?”
Aloise could have lied, but something about the fierceness of his gaze forced her to speak the truth. “My mother died years ago.”
“How?”
The word came to her from a long distance, demanding a response. A dull ache settled deep in her brain.
“Some sort of accident.”
An odd breathless tension gathered in the limited space.
“Or so I’ve been told.” The words slipped unbidden from her tongue and could not be withdrawn.
“You don’t know?”
The query, said with just a touch of sardonic humor caused her to stammer, “I, well, yes. Of course. But she died when I was small.”
“I see,” he drawled.
Aloise clasped her arms and rubbed at the gooseflesh that pebbled her skin. As always, thoughts of her mother brought a brackishness to her tongue. An overwhelming sensation of panic. And the pain. The dull throbbing pain embedded in her temples.
“I have no memories of her at all.”
The man was silent for some time, then offered. “You must have been very young.”
She didn’t answer. How could she? How could she explain to this man, this stranger, that she had lost a whole portion of her childhood in a void of forgetfulness that refused to budge. Then again, why would she want to explain such a thing to him?
The man grew thoughtful, quiet. After some time, he dropped the locket and retrieved one of the bound travelogues, glancing at the title printed on the waterstained spine.
“Africa,” he said slowly. “An interesting choice of reading for one so young. One so beautiful.”
Aloise tipped her chin a little higher, refusing to allow him the satisfaction of seeing how he’d completely unsettled her. To find a woman prostrate at one’s feet demanded action—even in this day and age of letting people fend for themselves. Upon discovering she was not pregnant, but hiding a bundle beneath her gown, simple curiosity would demand an investigation. She was not surprised that such events had occurred, but she was disturbed. Disturbed by the way this man had obviously interpreted so much from her meager booty. That he had taken a peek at her belongings and had somehow been able to recognize parts of her soul she’d thought well hidden.
“Tell me … why the avid interest in such a savage land?”
“I thought I might go there someday.”
“What do you expect to find? Adventure? Wild beasts?”
“Peace.”
“You don’t seem the peaceful sort to me. I would peg you as a woman in search of—”
“Solitude.”
“—passion.”
>
“Hardly.”
“So young and yet so cynical.”
“I prefer to think of myself as world-wise.”
“Perhaps. But I would wager that you have much to learn.” He set the travel account back in its place, glanced briefly at the other reading materials and added, “Things that cannot be found in books. Things that can only be taught by experience, as well as by the … experienced.”
“Meaning you?” The words blurted free.
“I would never be so bold as to suggest such a thing to a woman whom I’ve only just met.”
A strange swirl of exhilaration and wariness settled inside her. Obviously, this man had no manners. His comments were shocking in their familiarity, completely and utterly improper. Yet, Aloise couldn’t find the words to discourage him. He twisted everything she said into some audacious double entendre.
Indeed, the entire situation was extraordinary. This man had whisked her away from her pursuers. He had ensconced her in his coach and removed her bundle from its intimate hiding place, touching her in places no man had dared. Far from apologizing for such liberties, he seemed pleased by the outcome.
A burst of reaction skittered through her at the very thought. In the faint gleam of moonshine that spilled over the window frame, she could see one of those hands resting against the aperture. The fingers were slender and well formed, blunt, and dusted ever so slightly with dark hair. Had they brushed against the linen of her underthings? Had they explored the line of her stays?
Lifting her gaze, she discovered that he still watched her.
“How long have we been traveling? An hour? Two?”
Her heart beat in her throat as she waited for his answer, knowing that the passage of time would give her the clue she needed as to the distance they’d traveled.
“Two hours have passed—”
She issued a silent sigh of relief.
“—since our encounter on the beach.”
Her cheeks flamed at the memory. The kiss. How she’d responded. “Who are you?” she demanded slowly. “What have you done with me?”
