An Unexpected Earl

by Anna Harrington

  But the waterman rowed harder now, putting his back into each deep stroke of the oars as he steered them around the hulks and ships anchored in the middle of the swift river, speeding them downstream toward London Bridge.

  Fourteen

  “Can you still swim?” Pearce asked her.

  Amelia stared at the dark bridge as it rapidly grew closer, her hands clutching the side of the narrow skiff so tightly that Pearce could almost see her white knuckles in the darkness.

  “Amelia.” He took her chin and made her tear her eyes away from the river to look at him. Terror gleamed in their depths. “I taught you to swim when we were children. Can you still do it?”

  She nodded jerkily. “I–I think so.”

  That answer didn’t instill confidence in him. So he grabbed up her skirt and ripped it with his hands, tearing off a strip of fabric about six inches wide, all the way around her hem.

  She gasped in surprise but thankfully didn’t try to stop him. “What are you doing?”

  He tied one end of the black cloth around his wrist as tightly as he could. Then he dipped it into the inch of water lining the bottom of the boat and yanked on it again to fuse the knot.

  “Tying us together,” he answered. He grabbed her hand, and in seconds, he’d tied the other end of the cloth strip around her wrist. “This way we won’t be separated if the boat overturns.”

  Or smashed to bits against the stone starlings. Pearce couldn’t bring himself to utter that aloud. He was putting their lives at risk, he knew that. But he wouldn’t let those men catch her. If they did, she’d be dead for certain. He was gambling that they would make it through the churning water beneath the bridge and that the men chasing after them wouldn’t dare follow.

  Wide-eyed and stunned into silence, Amelia glanced between him and her tied wrist as she held it up in front of her. She flexed and unflexed her fist, as if she couldn’t believe the tie was real.

  The bridge loomed closer. Pearce cupped her face between his hands to make certain she was paying attention. “If we turn over, we’ll swim to the north bank, understand? Don’t fight the current. Let it sweep us downriver, and we’ll use it to make our way to the quayside. There are all kinds of ladders and steps there that we can use to climb out. All right?”

  But when she nodded, the hard swallow he felt undulate down her throat told him that she wasn’t all right. Not at all.

  “I’ll be with you at every stroke you swim.” He rested his forehead against hers. “Just like we did in the River Tame, remember? That summer when I showed you how to swim? I knew someday that you’d need to know how. This is why I taught you.”

  “No, you taught me because when the water soaked through my clothes, it plastered them to my skin. Everywhere.” She bravely forced a weak smile. “I saw how you looked at me. It wasn’t because you wanted to teach me to swim.”

  True enough. He flashed her a rakish grin. “Why do you think I tied us together tonight? So I get first glimpse of you all wet.”

  But his teasing did little to alleviate her growing fear or stop her shaking.

  The bridge was coming on quickly, now less than a hundred yards away.

  “Sit in the bottom of the boat.” He helped her off the wooden seat and down against the hull. She flinched at the cold water soaking into her stockings and skirt. Before this was all over, though, at the very least she’d be drenched. “And hang on tight.”

  He sat on the seat behind her and wrapped his legs around her waist to hold her down in the boat.

  The man nodded knowingly at Pearce’s preparations. “Ye’ve shot the bridge before, then?”

  “No,” he answered, keeping his gaze straight ahead at the oncoming starlings and the swirling water funneling through them. His hands tightened their grip on the sides of the narrow boat. “Just charged French cannon at Waterloo.”

  The waterman put one oar into the skiff and lifted the other from its pin to drag it behind the rear of the speeding boat like a rudder. He turned the oar and pointed the boat toward the center arch, lining it up right between the stone piers.

  “There will be rapids when we reach the arches, and a drop of several feet when we come out the other side,” Pearce warned her as the bridge sped toward them. “But hang on tight to the boat, and everything will be fine.” Ten, nine, eight… They barreled at top speed toward the stone starlings. “I’ll protect you.” Five, four, three… “I’ll always protect you.”

  She glanced back at him. Only for a moment, but in that pause, he felt the unbreakable connection between them. It was still there, even after twelve years apart, as tangible as the strip of cloth now binding them together.

  The skiff hit the rapids beneath the arch and dropped, slamming against the river’s churning surface.

  Amelia screamed as the tumbling water tossed them ferociously. The skiff rose and fell like a bucking horse. Each plunge lifted them several inches from their seats, only to be slammed down when the hull slapped onto the surface. Water splashed over the sides in great ice-cold waves that drenched them through to their skin. They floated helplessly, tossed by the tide and churning black water like a leaf in a gale.

  “Look out!” the waterman shouted as the skiff spun off course and smacked into the stone starling. Crack! The boat bounced away, shoved back into the tide by the racing current.

  The waterman put his full weight against the oar with a screaming groan of exertion that pointed the boat back toward the middle of the arch.

  “Hang on!” Pearce yelled, tightening his legs around her like a vise.

  Propelled by the tidal current, the boat shot out from beneath the arch. The little bow plunged away as the skiff dropped over the six-foot-high waterfall created by the water rushing through the narrow arches. For a breathless moment, they were suspended in the air. Then the boat slammed onto the water, throwing them so hard that Amelia nearly bounced out of the boat and the waterman tumbled down into the bottom behind Pearce. The swirling eddies caught the skiff and sent it whirling toward the bank.

  Pearce grabbed the spare oar and shoved it into the water to stop the spinning. His back muscles strained as he dragged the paddle deep into the rushing current to pull them back straight and pointed downriver.

  “I got ’er!” The waterman took the oar from Pearce and regained his seat. A few expert strokes had them headed smoothly for the north bank.

  Amelia lay on the bottom of the boat, still gripping the sides for dear life and shuddering in the layer of cold river water sloshing around her.

  Pearce gently lifted her onto the seat next to him. He pulled her against him, cradling her in his arms. She clung to him as she fought to gain back the breath that the wild ride had stripped from her.

  “It’s all right,” he murmured reassuringly. She buried her face against his shoulder but never sobbed with fear the way any other Mayfair lady would have. Not his Amelia. She was far too brave for that. “We’re safe now.”

  She nodded against his waistcoat, her hands clutching at his lapels.

  “Congratulations, Amelia Howard.” He smiled against her wet hair. “You just shot London Bridge and lived to tell about it.”

  “Barely,” she rasped out hoarsely.

  Despite her attempt at humor, concern tightened his chest. He glanced behind them at the bridge and the black, churning water beneath.

  They’d lost the men who were chasing them. Thank God. But those men were also smart enough to know that the waterman would have to pull up onto one of the steps just past the bridge. The men might still come looking for them tonight. And Pearce needed to have Amelia well out of sight if they did.

  “Take us to the Pelican Steps,” Pearce ordered the waterman, who had fully regained control of the boat and was using the tide to his advantage now rather than fighting it.

  “Aye, sir.”

  As Pearce worked loose t
he strip of her hem that tied them together, the waterman guided the boat gradually toward the north bank as they drifted downstream, following the current as the river turned gently at Wapping and curved away toward Greenwich on the opposite bank. Slowly, he guided them across the dark ribbon of water to the set of stone stairs tucked up beside the old Prospect of Whitby tavern.

  The boat smoothly slid to a stop at the stone steps, and the waterman grabbed for the piling post to hold the boat in place while Pearce carefully helped Amelia onto the small landing, then climbed out after her. Pools of water formed beneath their feet from their soaked clothes. Amelia wrapped her arms around herself, unable to stop her shivering as the unseasonably cold air engulfed them and chilled them through to the bone.

  Pearce knelt down to hand the waterman his promised sovereign.

  “Thank ye, sir.” The man shook his head. “Wish I could say I enjoyed th’ fare.”

  Pearce held up a second coin. “You didn’t see us, and you didn’t shoot the bridge. You’ve been working this side of the bridge all night because you’d heard there was a boxing match set for midnight in the old warehouse on High Street. You know the one I mean.” He placed the coin onto the man’s palm, which was callused like a piece of leather from years spent working the oars. “Understand?”

  “What bridge?” the waterman asked dryly, slipping the coins into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. “Been workin’ Wapping all night. Gave no ride to no gentleman an’ his lady friend.”

  Pearce slapped the piling post as he pulled back up to his full height. “My gratitude to you.”

  “Waterloo, huh?” The waterman shoved the boat away from the steps. “My gratitude to you, sir.” He gave a small salute. Then he was gone, slipping away into the darkness of the river.

  Pearce took Amelia’s arm and felt her shivering violently. Guilt gripped him. He needed to get her warm and dry before she froze.

  He led her carefully up the steep steps that lined the stone wall of the Prospect of Whitby and toward the street. The old tavern had perched here above the river for three hundred years if the stories the tavern keeper and bar wenches liked to tell were true. Although tonight, judging from the noise coming from inside and the lamplight spilling out through the wide rows of windows, the man and his maids were too busy to tell any tales at all. Good. Exactly what Pearce had hoped for. The best place to be lost was in a crowd.

  “Your lady friend?” Amelia repeated through chattering teeth with a backward glance at the river. “He thinks that I’m—” She lowered her voice despite no one else being in sight. “That I’m your lover.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Oh?” She let him help her over the last step and onto the narrow road above. The welcomed gravel of solid ground crunched beneath their feet, but he didn’t ease his hold on her arm. He didn’t trust that they were yet safe.

  “He thinks you’re a prostitute I’ve hired for the evening.”

  “He’s thinks I’m a—” Amelia halted, coming to a dead stop in midstep. Her mouth fell open as she stared at him. “You didn’t correct him!”

  “With what, the truth?” Pearce led her toward the tavern’s front door. “That we were being chased because your corrupt brother is involved with a criminal organization?”

  Her shoulders sagged, and she muttered, “When you put it like that, perhaps the truth isn’t such a good idea.”

  With a grin, he opened the door to the tavern and guided her inside with a hand to the small of her back.

  Amelia froze in the doorway as every pair of eyes in the crowded room turned toward them, then raked over her, down her ruined gown and wet hair to her sopping slippers. The room exploded in a series of whistles, lewd cheers, and shouts.

  She spun around to flee—

  Pearce’s hand clamped over her wrist, keeping her in place.

  Despite the icy-cold water that dripped onto the floor around her feet, her face flushed with heated embarrassment. “I’ve changed my mind. I’d rather face the truth.”

  Pearce arched a brow. “That you’re the unmarried sister of an MP who stumbled into a Wapping riverside tavern after midnight with a former soldier?”

  “Stop making the truth sound like that!”

  He slid her a sideways glance. “You mean like the truth?”

  The glare she gave him was murderous.

  “We don’t have a choice. We have to get off the streets so we won’t be seen, and you’re freezing cold. This is the best place to—”

  She yanked her arm away and spun on her heel.

  Oh no. That little hellcat was going nowhere!

  He grabbed her around the waist, lifted her off her feet, and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. He carried her inside the tavern and through the crowded room, where the men nearly fell over themselves with laughter. Fists pounded in amusement on the tables, so hard that tankards of ale and pewter plates bounced on the planks.

  Startled, Amelia gave a gasping cry. “Put me down!”

  “No.”

  “This instant!” She began to kick her legs and hit her tiny fists against him as she dangled down his back.

  “Stop that.” Pearce slapped her bottom to make her behave, which sent up a new round of laughs from the crowd, and carried her across the room to the bar that guarded the stairs leading to the rooms above. “A private room, if you please.”

  The barkeeper tossed him a key. Pearce caught it in one hand and slapped her on the bottom with the other when she started to kick again.

  “Send a messenger boy up to the room immediately,” he ordered. Then he fell easily into the local East End city cant he’d come to know since he’d begun to haunt the Tower Hamlets by adding, “Hot splash and good, plenty of both. Toss in a gold watch.”

  “Aye.” Not bothering to hide his laughter at the sight the two of them made, the barkeeper gestured for the bar wenches to jump to it and fetch what Pearce had ordered.

  He carried her up the stairs, ignoring the slaps of her hands against his buttocks and clamping an arm around her legs to keep her from kicking him in the stomach. But a well-placed elbow to his left kidney caught him off guard.

  “Damnation, woman! Stop that.”

  “Then put me down!”

  “Very well,” he muttered, kicking open the door. He strode inside and tossed her onto the bed.

  She landed with a stunned bounce, her mouth falling open. “That was not what I meant!”

  He shot her a look that told her he’d brook no argument. He was long past the point of tolerance. He yanked at his wet silk cravat to tear the thing away from his neck before it choked him. Then he tossed the black cloth to the floor and peeled off his wet jacket.

  Her eyes grew wide. “What are you doing?”

  “Undressing.” He dropped the jacket away and began to work at his cuffs. “And so are you.”

  “No, I’m not—and stop that!” She waved a hand at his discarded jacket. “Put that back on!”

  His last thread of patience snapped. “Take off that dress, Amelia,” he ordered, “or I’ll strip it off you myself.”

  Fifteen

  Amelia blinked. He wanted her to—

  “No!” she blurted out and clamped her arms over her bosom. “Absolutely not.”

  Through gritted teeth, Pearce offered up a curse so fierce that she flinched. “Why the hell not?”

  “Why the hell should I?” she shot back, refusing to be cowed. If he thought she would simply take off her clothes and let him have his way—

  But of course he thought that. For heaven’s sake, she’d done nearly exactly that at the ball.

  He pointed at her skirt where the wet material wrapped around her legs like a second skin. “Because you’re soaked through to the bone and freezing. I didn’t save you from those men tonight just to have you die of fever.”
<
br />   She fought back a grimace. He’d had no intention of removing her clothes to seduce her. Oh, she felt like an utter goose!

  Gathering what little pride she still possessed, she lifted her chin. “I’m not cold.”

  He arched a brow. “I can hear your teeth chattering all the way over here.”

  Damn those shivers! She sniffed dismissively. “You are mistaken.”

  Answering that obvious lie with a sharp glance of chastisement, he squatted onto his heels at the fireplace and set to starting a fire.

  “You don’t need to worry about me, Pearce. I’m not your concern.”

  “I told you before.” He chucked in several logs and stuffed a handful of kindling beneath them, then struck a spark with the tinderbox. Carefully, he coaxed out a flame until it caught on the kindling and bit hold onto the wood, then turned to look at her over his shoulder. “I’m in the business of rescuing women.”

  What she wouldn’t have given to allow him to do just that—to give herself over to him to be protected, to be held safe and sound in his arms.

  But she knew better. Because it wouldn’t stop with simply being held in his arms.

  “And I told you,” she reminded him, “that I don’t need to be rescued.”

  Laughing at that, he jabbed at the fire with the iron poker to stir up the flames. “Amelia, I’ve rarely seen a woman in more need of rescue than you.”

  She scowled. “I am quite capable of taking care of myself.” She shoved herself off the bed. “I’m not some silly girl or one of those society misses who suffers from the vapors and faints at the drop of a hat. I’m nothing at all like those women who are part of your world now.”

  “Believe me,” he murmured with conviction, “I certainly realize that.”

  The heated look he sent her seared over her. He returned the poker to its holder, then pulled up to his full height as he turned to face her.

  “But right now, you’re soaked through and freezing because of me. I can’t stop you from putting yourself unnecessarily at risk the way you did at the masquerade and tonight at Devonshire House when you eavesdropped on your brother.” When she opened her mouth to protest that, he cut her off. “But I can save you from catching your death of cold.” He put his hands on his hips in a commanding pose that showed him as the no-nonsense brigadier he’d become. “Now, take off that dress.”