Читать книгу Reprobate Lord, Runaway Lady - Isabelle Goddard - Страница 8

She allowed herself to be led up the area steps and away from the house. Instead of letting her go once they reached the pavement, her rescuer kept a tight grip on her arm as if to prevent any flight. She noticed that his hands were strong and shapely, but tanned as though they were used to outdoor work. He appeared an enigma, a gentleman, presumably, but one acquainted with manual labour. His earlier nonchalance had disappeared and with it his good humour. Glancing up at him from beneath her eyelashes, she saw that his expression had grown forbidding. A black mood seemed to have descended on him as he strode rapidly along the street, pulling her along in his wake. His chin jutted aggressively and his black hair fell across his brow. When he finally turned to her, his eyes were blue steel.

‘Why are you dawdling?’ he demanded brusquely. ‘I thought you were desperate to escape.’

‘I am,’ she countered indignantly. ‘I’m walking as fast as I can and you’re hurting my arm. I’m not a sack to be dragged along the street.’

Ignoring her complaint, he continued to tow her along the road at breakneck speed. ‘Come on, Amelia—that was your name?—try harder. We need to move more quickly.’

He must be drunker than I supposed, she thought ruefully. His voice was cultured and his clothes, though shabby, were genteel. But his conduct was erratic. One minute he appeared to find her situation a source of laughter, the next he behaved in this surly fashion. He thought she was a maidservant and had doubtless helped her to escape because of her pretty face. But he’d hardly glanced at her since that unfortunate moment when she’d landed in his arms and now he was sweeping her away from the house as if his life depended on it, propelling her along the pavement until she was breathless.

Incensed by this treatment, she came to an abrupt halt, almost tripping him up. ‘Perhaps you didn’t hear what I said. I cannot walk any faster than I’m doing already. And,’ she added coldly, ‘my name is Amelie, not Amelia.’

‘However fancy your name, you’re still a fugitive,’ he responded drily, ‘and a fugitive under my command. And my command is to make haste.’

‘I will certainly make haste, but at a more seemly rate.’

‘Seemly—that’s a strange word for a girl who escapes through windows.’

She looked mutinous, but was too tired to argue any further and submitted again to being led at a spanking pace through a maze of streets until they came across a hackney carriage waiting for business.

‘In you go,’ her persecutor said shortly and pushed her into the ill-smelling interior. He uttered a few words to the jarvey and they were off.

Keeping company with a drunken man, who looked as though he’d known better days, was not part of her plans, but she decided that she would not try to escape just yet. She would stay with this Mr Wendover while it suited her purpose. He’d been useful so far and if he could deliver her to the White Horse Inn, then she would be set for her journey to Bath. Once in the inn’s courtyard, it should be easy to give him the slip and hide away until the stage departed.

They sat opposite in the dingy cab, silently weighing each other up. It was the first time she’d been able fully to see her rescuer. He was a powerfully built man, carelessly dressed, but exuding strength. She was acutely conscious of his form as he lay back against the worn swabs. She had no idea who he was, other than the name he’d given, and he was evidently not going to volunteer further information. Instead, he sat silently, gazing at her, assessing her almost as though she were a piece of merchandise he’d just purchased, she thought wrathfully. But he would discover that she had other plans; she would leave him as soon as she was able. Doubtless he would start to drink again at the inn and, once fuddled, would not care what happened to her.

In this she was wrong. Despite his dazed state, Gareth had been watching her closely and had seen her recoil as she sat down on the stained seat of the cab. A trifle fastidious for a maidservant, he thought. The hood of her cloak obscured much of her face, but what he could see was very beautiful, from the glinting chestnut curls to the fine cheekbones and flawless complexion. A strange maidservant, indeed, and a strange situation.

As the brandy fumes began to dissolve, he was left with an aching head and a confused mind. What on earth was he doing miles from his hotel, his solicitor and legal papers all but forgotten? How had he embarked on this mad adventure with a woman he didn’t know and one who could well be a thief? Perhaps the hue and cry to apprehend her had already started. And he’d been the one to make sure she escaped pursuit, rushing her along the streets away from any possible danger. He must be very drunk. He would need to keep her close until he worked out what to do. In the meantime there must be a few hours before the Bristol stage left, and he would remind her of her promise. She’d provide a pleasant interlude.

The hackney bounced over the cobbles at considerable speed. There was little traffic at this time of the morning and they were soon at the White Horse. He helped her down with one hand while paying the jarvey with the other. No escape, she reflected. Never mind, her opportunity would come, she would just have to be a little cleverer.

‘I suggest we repair indoors and find some breakfast.A private parlour should give us some respite from this din.’

He had to bend down and speak directly into her ear, the noise coming from the inn courtyard was so great. She could hardly believe how many people were gathered into such a small space. There was luggage scattered everywhere: trunks, cloak bags, sacks of produce, bird cages heaped up pell-mell. Ostlers ran back and forth leading out teams of fresh horses, coachmen took final draughts of their beer before blowing the horn for departure. Everywhere people shouted instructions and were not heard. It was bedlam, and the relative quiet of the inn taproom seemed like sanctuary.

The landlord came bustling out, rubbing his hands with pleasure as there was normally little hope of trade at this time of the morning. All anyone usually bought was a quick cup of scalding coffee. But here was a gentleman and his companion, surely more substantial customers, even if the man did look a little the worse for wear and the woman kept her face shrouded.

‘A beautiful morning.’ The landlord beamed ingratiatingly. ‘And how can I help you, sir?’

Gareth frowned. ‘Prepare a private parlour for myself and the lady,’ he said curtly. ‘We leave on the Bristol coach, but wish to take some breakfast first.’

‘Of course, sir. Right away. If you would care to come with me.’

The room the landlord led them to was small and poky with a low window that looked out over the back garden, but it was mercifully quiet. The curtains were grimy and the furniture looked faded and uninviting. Amelie plumped one of the chair cushions and sent up a cloud of dust. Her rescuer glanced across at her, his expression mocking. ‘The housekeeping can wait.’

She glared at him. ‘If you don’t mind, Mr Wendover, I would prefer to be outside.’

‘I’m sure you would, but here we’ll stay. I can keep an eye on you and we can eat breakfast together. Won’t that be companionable?’

His voice was light and his tone ironic, but somehow he made the phrase sound like a caress. Yet the look on his face was calculating. Weighing me up again, she thought, deciding whether or not he made a good bargain when he rescued me. She was beginning to feel unusually vulnerable, confined to this isolated room with an unknown and unpredictable man. But indignation at her imprisonment gave her courage.

‘I’m unsure what you mean by companionable, Mr Wendover. I certainly thank you for the service you’ve rendered me this morning, but I’ve no need of food and would prefer to wait for my coach in the courtyard. If you allow me to pass, you may enjoy your meal undisturbed.’

‘Not so fast. I have no wish to be left undisturbed. On the contrary, I very much desire to be disturbed.’

He smiled derisively as he spoke, but his eyes were hard and measuring. ‘You are mighty proud for a maidservant, are you not?’ he asked. ‘But then a challenge is always welcome.’

She made no reply, for the first time conscious of a shadowy fear. The ancient clock in the corner of the room ticked out the minutes loudly in the gulf of silence that stretched between them. She felt bruised by his scrutiny. Then, without warning, he began to walk slowly towards her, his dark blue eyes intent. He no longer seemed a harmless reveller. She was very aware of his close physical presence and the way he was looking at her was disquieting. His hard gaze seemed to drink her in. She was angry that he dared to stare at her so, but at the same time the pit of her stomach fluttered uncomfortably.

Desperately she strove to exert control over the situation. ‘I don’t understand what exactly you want of me.’ Even to her ears, she sounded faint and foolish.

‘Really? I’m surprised. Do they make maidservants that innocent these days? Perhaps I should remind you that we had a bargain. I helped you from your predicament and you promised to stay with me until your—sorry, our—coach left the inn.’

‘But why?’

‘Come, you can’t be that naive. Why would any man want a beautiful young woman to stay with him?’

She stepped back hurriedly and collided with the threadbare sofa. ‘You surely cannot pretend any feelings for me.’ Her voice was hoarse with alarm. ‘You know nothing of me.’

‘True, but do I have to? You’ll be a charming diversion just when I need one. Here, pull your hood back.’

Before she could stop him, Gareth had flung her cloak back to reveal her face fully. He looked at her wonderingly. A tangle of silken curls tumbled down around her shoulders. Her eyes, the colour of autumn, were wide and frightened and the soft cream of her cheeks delicately flushed. It seemed an age that he stood looking at her.

When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with desire. ‘You are beautiful,’ he said. She flinched and wrapped her cloak more tightly around her body.

‘There’s no need to be scared,’ he murmured smoothly. ‘I’m sure we’ll deal well together.’

‘Indeed, no, sir, we will not,’ she protested. ‘I’m an honest woman and you shall not touch me.’

‘Honest,’ he mused. ‘An interesting word. Honest women hardly choose to escape from their homes at four in the morning. Nor do they come away with men they don’t know. Don’t play your tricks off on me. Instead, let’s be truthful with each other. I’m in need of amusement and you, I imagine, are a little adventuress who will take whatever comes her way.’

He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards him. In a moment his arms were round her waist, a gesture shocking in its intimacy. She shrank from him, but his nearness was making her senses falter. He pressed closer and she felt her body begin to tingle. For a moment they stayed body to body, then quickly she sprang away.

Her face was pink with vexation. ‘How dare you touch me!’

‘Very easily, I’ll think you’ll find. Women are made for pleasure and you’ll provide it amply.’

He made as if to recapture her in his arms, but was interrupted by the door opening. The landlord arrived bearing a ham, eggs, some devilled kidneys and toast. A servant followed with a large pot of steaming coffee.

‘There we are, sir,’ the innkeeper sang out, determinedly ignoring what he had seen as he came in the door. ‘Just the job for a chilly May morning. But good travelling weather, I’ll be bound.’ He continued to spill out words while Amelie retreated to a corner of the room, trying hard to quell her jumping heart.

When the landlord had left, Gareth sat down at the table and began calmly to carve slices of ham and place them carefully on the two plates.

‘Come to the table, Amelie, you must eat,’ he coaxed. ‘No point in starving yourself—you have a long road ahead.’

The glorious sense of irresponsibility that he’d known earlier had gone, but he was still enjoying himself. He had no idea who he was with or what would happen. But this beautiful girl had felt warm and tremulous when he pulled her close and he looked forward to repeating the sensation. It was escape that he needed right now and she had literally dropped into his arms, ready to furnish it.

Amelie resolutely refused even to look at the food.

‘Come to the table!’ His tone was now peremptory.

She remained sitting in the corner of the room. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she said in a freezing voice.

‘Don’t be silly. Of course you’re hungry. Come, I wish to eat the ham, not you. Sit down—or I’ll make you.’

Alarmed at any further physical contact, she abandoned her station and went with as much dignity as she could muster towards the table. Perching at the corner, as far away as possible, she nibbled at the ham and a slice of bread. The coffee was mercifully strong and hot and she gratefully downed two cups. He ate more leisurely as though he had the entire morning to finish his breakfast. And when he’s eaten his fill, she thought, I’ll be next on the menu.

She was going to have to make her getaway fast if she were to avoid another dreadful scene. She couldn’t rely on the landlord to come in so opportunely again. Indeed, he’d had an unpleasantly knowing look in his eye as he’d laid the food down in front of his patron. He would do nothing to help her; she would have to save herself.

She cleared her throat. ‘Why do you wish to go to Bristol, Mr Wendover?’

‘Why should that concern you?’

‘If we are to be travelling companions today, it might be sensible to get to know each other a little.’ She wondered anxiously if he would take the bait and relax his guard.

‘A change of tune? When I tried to get to know you, you weren’t too keen,’ Gareth said caustically.

‘I’m sorry for that, but I find this room a little overheated and when you pulled me towards you …’ her voice wavered at the thought ‘.I felt faint.’

‘Ah, that’s how it was. Well, I certainly don’t want a fainting woman on my hands, so I’ll open this window a little and then we can be comfortable. Come here, Amelie, and let me look at my prize.’

Steeling herself, she walked slowly towards him. He stood up, facing her, and smiled. She realised with a jolt that when he smiled, his whole face was transformed from a threatening harshness to engaging warmth. His blue eyes had lost their steeliness and smiled, too, suggesting humour and good nature. His white teeth were even and his lips full. She stared at him, enjoying the picture he presented.

‘I’m not surprised you’ve had trouble from your employers,’ he broke into her rapt contemplation. ‘You’re far too lovely ever to be let near the average young man.’ He laughed softly. ‘But I’m hardly the average man, so we need have no fears on that score.’

She woke abruptly from her dreamlike state and realised the danger she was in. Picking up her reticule, she fanned herself energetically. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I’m still very warm in here. And I wonder if the ham was all it should be?’

‘And what exactly do you mean by that?’ he exploded. The moment was gone.

‘Just that the ham had a slight taint, I thought. But ham never really agrees with me, so perhaps it was fine.’

‘If it doesn’t agree with you, what the devil do you mean by eating it?’

‘You insisted, Mr Wendover. I was scared of you, so I ate it. But now I don’t feel at all well.’ She pressed her handkerchief artistically to her mouth and closed her eyes. ‘I think I might really faint this time.’

Gareth cursed under his breath and shouted for the landlord, who came suspiciously quickly. She was sure the salacious old man had been lurking outside the door, waiting to see what would occur.

‘My companion is unwell, landlord, your ham seems to be to blame,’ Gareth said tersely.

‘That can’t be right, sir, the ham was freshly cured. Mrs Fawley would be very upset to think that aspersions had been cast on her ham. It’s the best in the city. You won’t get better anywhere.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Gareth irascibly, ‘that’s as may be. My friend here is feeling ill and needs to lie down. Do you have a bedchamber where she can be accommodated?’

‘Yes, sir, of course, I’ll call my wife immediately.’

Mrs Fawley soon appeared on the doorstep with a martial look in her eyes. It was obvious she had overheard the conversation and was ready to defend her ham. But when she saw Amelie, small and white, and looking decidedly unwell, she took pity on her.

‘I’ve got my own opinion as to what’s made the young miss faint,’ she sniffed, and escorted Amelie to a small but clean bedchamber on the next floor, overlooking the courtyard.

Once on her own, she locked the door and laid herself on the bed. She was exhausted by the morning’s adventures. It seemed that she’d thwarted one persecutor only to fall into the hands of another; she’d only very narrowly eluded her would-be ravisher. It was second nature for her to mistrust any man and she wondered at her stupidity in imagining that Gareth Wendover would be no threat to her.

When she’d first seen him he’d appeared no more harmful than a lively reveller returning from a night of pleasure—untidy and unfashionable and probably a little the worse for drink—but for some reason she’d trusted him. Only after he’d used her so roughly, dragging her along the street, throwing her into the hackney and then—certainly best forgotten—pulling her into his arms, had she realised what a foolish mistake she’d made.

And yet even then, she admitted shamefacedly, there’d been temptation to remain in his embrace, to let those strong arms encircle her. Of course that was simply a reaction to the alarms of the last few days, but thank goodness the landlord had come in when he had. And now her pretence of illness had saved her again, although for a short while only. She was sure that Gareth would be knocking on the door very soon and demanding admittance. And a bedchamber was an even worse place to meet him than the parlour downstairs. She had to be gone by the time he arrived.

She quickly washed her hands and face and tidied her hair in the tarnished mirror, which hung lopsidedly on one wall. She’d noticed as the landlady escorted her up to this floor that there was a second stairway leading downwards. It was much smaller and far less grand, obviously the stair used by the servants. She was sure it would lead out to the garden; if she could reach that, she would easily be able to creep unnoticed to the front courtyard.

She glanced at the clock and could hardly believe the time. The coach for Bath left in just five minutes. Carefully, she unlocked the door and peered out. All was quiet and she tiptoed as swiftly as she could to the head of the small staircase and listened again. The only noise wafting up to her was the convivial banter from the taproom. No strong footsteps mounted towards her door. Gareth Wendover thought she was travelling to Bristol and would not know the Bath stage was about to leave. This was her chance.

Regretfully, she would have to leave her cloak bag behind in the parlour below, but at least she had her reticule and in it the precious ticket. In a minute she was down the stairs and lifting the latch on the door leading to the garden. A woman servant suddenly appeared from the kitchen quarters and stared at her uncomprehendingly. Amelie whisked through the door and quickly took the path to the front of the inn.

The scene was a little less chaotic than when she’d arrived in the hackney as many of the morning coaches had already departed. She was easily able to identify the coach to Bath, and once she’d shown her ticket to the guard, she was helped aboard. She chose one of the middle seats of the bank of four that lined either side. It was likely to be the most uncomfortable, but it would shield her from anyone looking in from outside. A large burly farmer sat to one side and a rotund country woman with an enormous basket on her lap on the other. There was very little room, but she could almost disappear between them.

It seemed a lifetime before the guard blew the signal to leave and the coach was pulling out of the yard. There was no sign of her tormentor. By now he was sure to have begun drinking again and would hardly miss her absence. Strangely, she didn’t feel as elated at her escape as she should. It was ridiculous, but she almost fancied that she’d let him down in some way. After all, he’d shown some care for her. If it weren’t for him, she would still be dangling on the rope of sheets or, even worse, impaled on the front railings. He’d helped her down, found a cab and escorted her to the inn. He’d offered her shelter and refreshment. He’d pulled her into his arms. He’d held her in a crushing embrace. Her mind stopped. That was an image she must be sure to leave behind.

They were already passing through Belgravia and turning out on to the highway that ran westwards. She hoped her family had no idea yet that she was gone. Fanny would be worrying frantically and the sooner she could let her maidservant know that all was well, the better. And all was well, she convinced herself. She’d had a gruelling experience, but she’d achieved her aim. She would not be there to greet Rufus Glyde this morning. Instead, she was on her way to her grandmother’s and to safety.

Gareth drained the last of the coffee pot and decided to go in search of his reluctant travelling companion.He’d been unsure whether she was telling the truth about the ham, but she’d certainly begun to look very white and he’d not wanted to risk any unpleasantness. Truth to tell, she’d looked so small and vulnerable he’d felt a wish to protect her rather than pursue her. He shook his head at his stupidity. She was as mercenary as the rest of the world, no doubt. Her story about escaping from an importuning son probably had a grain of truth in it, given her undeniable beauty, but he was quite sure there was another tale to tell. Perhaps she really was a thief. Perhaps she’d allowed the son too much licence and was now scared to tell her mistress of the inevitable result.

Thanks to the very strong coffee, he’d sobered up completely in the hour that she’d been gone. He still didn’t know what had possessed him to get involved with the girl. A sense of the ridiculous, perhaps? Or a whiff of intrigue—a maid with a French name, finicky manners and a keenness to hide her face. He felt too weary to puzzle any further. Two sleepless nights had begun to take their toll and he was now eager to wash his hands of her. He would simply put her on the Bristol coach and go back to his hotel. It had been stupid of him to think that he could flee his obligations. Tomorrow he would send a message to the solicitor and sign whatever papers that worthy presented.

He glanced at the cloak bag Amelie had left on the bench. He’d better restore it to its owner and assure her that she had nothing further to fear from him. He made his way upstairs to the front bedchamber, but it was empty. Thinking he’d got the wrong room, he looked into another and surprised the chambermaid who was making up the bed.

‘I’m looking for a young lady,’ he excused himself, ‘she was feeling unwell and came up to rest.’

The maid looked at him blankly. ‘She’s not ‘ere.’

‘I can see she’s not here,’ Gareth returned shortly, ‘but have you seen her?’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’ The maid continued smoothing out the bedspread with a bored expression on her face. ‘Not many people come up ‘ere.’ She paused and looked vacantly out of the window. ‘There wus a stranger on the stairs a while ago.’

‘A young woman?’

‘I couldn’t rightly say.’

‘Why ever not?’ he asked impatiently.

“Cos of the cloak.’

‘A black velvet cloak?’ The maid nodded absently.

‘That’s her. Where is she?’

‘How would I know? She went down the stairs and out the door.’

‘What door?’ Gareth was suddenly alert.

‘The back door, of course.’ The maid shook her head at his obtuseness. “Appen she’s in the garden taking the air,’ she said helpfully.

He swore softly to himself and ran down the stairs two at a time. The garden was empty as he knew it would be, but he saw the path that led around the inn and followed it into the courtyard. The yard was also nearly empty. The last coach of the morning had departed and the inn servants were clearing up the mess the passengers and drivers had left behind.

He accosted a thin, gangling youth who was mournfully sweeping the last of the straw from the cobbles.

‘The stage to Bristol?’ he enquired curtly.

‘There ain’t no stages to Bristol today,’ the boy confided happily, leaning on his broom and glad for an excuse to stop work. ‘Bath now, mebbe. And you can allus go on from Bath.’

‘Where’s the stage to Bath?’

‘Where? Somewhere near ‘Ounslow, I reckon.’ The boy grinned cheekily. ‘What d’you think, Jem?’

Jem staggered to a halt, bent double under the weight of the saddle he was carrying. ‘With ole Tranter driving, probably not yet clear of Kensington,’ he jeered.

The other men stopped their work and joined in a chorus of raucous laughter. An elderly ostler leaned lazily against the inn wall and chewed a straw. He smiled widely, enjoying Gareth’s discomfort.

‘Next one’s tomorrow, sir. That’s if you don’t mind a little wait,’ he sniggered.

‘Move yourself and get me a horse immediately,’ Gareth snapped in response and ran back into the inn. He threw money onto the table in payment and snatched up Amelie’s cloak bag. He’d been willing to let her go when he could play the benefactor. But how dare she play him false? A bargain was a bargain and he was going to make her pay.

He stormed back into the inn courtyard and tapped his foot impatiently.

It took nearly fifteen minutes to make the horse ready and by that time he was in a towering rage. He threw the cloak bag across the saddle, then leapt onto the horse’s back and wheeled her round to face the courtyard entrance.

“Appen you might catch ‘em up,’ opined the old ostler, still chewing his straw vigorously, ‘but I ain’t anyways too sure on it.’

Gareth’s reply was to spur his mount forwards and out of the courtyard in one bound.