Raven's Ransom (19 page)

“You might have wished it so, my lord.”

“Foolish girl! I went directly over to Raven Place and formally acquired permission to court you.”

There was a moment where the wind blew into the carriage and the horses whinnied, but Primrose heard none of these things. She stared, instead, at Gareth, Lord Rochester, and asked herself quietly whether she was dreaming. She thought not, for the man was regarding her with such a smug smile upon his distinguished countenance that she felt ready to throttle him. One did not wish to throttle in dreams.

“Permission to court? From Grandfather Raven?”

“The very same.”

She digested this news in silence. “How did you tell him we’d met?”

Gareth’s eyes gleamed a little. “I did not. It infuriated him mightily.”

Now Miss Chartley was pleased to chuckle, for it seemed to her that Lord Rochester was more formidable by day then he was by night. She had a taste, she found, for formidable men, especially ones that were wickedly handsome and glanced at her as though at any moment she might expect to find herself bedded. She flushed furiously at the thought.

How the mighty had fallen that she, Miss Primrose Adelaide Chartley, fabled for her common sense and prosaic character, should have come to this. She disentangled herself from his grasp and sat up.

“Did he curse you?”

“I believe so.”

“Did he throw a pitcher of barley water at you?”

“No, but I believe, at one time, he threatened to.”

Primrose sighed in satisfaction. “Then it is well. He must like you exceedingly.”

My lord smiled and would have proceeded with the delightful task he had set himself—poor Simon by the river would have had a long wait—but for a sudden urgency in Primrose’s eyes.

“We must set off at once!”

“Whatever for?”

“Barrymore still has Lily in his clutches. Nothing has changed.”

“Oh, but it has. It was
you,
you see, that I thought he had set his sights on.”

“What matter it? One of us is still at risk.”

“Only of being wedded out of hand. Barrymore warned me he might do such a thing. I thought he was speaking of you and nearly split him with my own dueling sword.” Rochester’s tone grew suddenly grim and Primrose could not help smiling.

“Yes. Laugh, but I tell you it was a close-run thing for him. But for the fact that he is a rather beguiling character that I actually quite admire, I would probably even now be up before the assizes.”

“For his murder? Come, come, you exaggerate. But pray, don’t let me stop you. Continue with this fascinating tale at once!” Primrose’s heart was now brimful of joy, for she knew that Rochester would not dally thus if there was true cause for alarm.

“Being a civilized soul, I merely agreed to invest a fortune in his coal mines and assist in whatever way I could with the design and implementation of a steam-based rail engine. Primrose, we shall be pioneers of a new era, for I believe that very soon there will be a railroad across the length and breadth of the country. Imagine that—what will it mean for our postal systems, for our ability to travel without changing horses, without . . .”

“Intriguing, my lord, and one of my pet interests, as I think I may have informed you the other night. However, if you can just veer, possibly, more to the point . . .”

“Shrew!”

Primrose allowed herself a small smile. “So instead of running him through with a sword . . . ?”

“... I gritted my very fine teeth and rather icily informed him to withdraw his claim. I also mentioned that you were all removing, shortly, to my town residence, there to be sponsored by my mother.”

“Thus increasing his haste! My lord, are you sure it is wedding he intends?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“For his stab at the Raven’s Ransom?”

“Very possibly.”

“Then let us make haste at once!”

Rochester cleared his throat. “I can tell you, however, that whether or not he is influenced by the ransom, I believe him to be wholly in love. Therein lies his salvation, for I had it in me to pity him. I know what it is like to love a Chartley sister.”

“But not the same one.”

“Not the same one.”

Primrose sighed. “A lifetime ago it was Lily I thought you loved.”

“A lifetime ago? Only a carriage ride ago, you silly girl.”

“It felt like a lifetime.”

“Is that why you did not reveal the truth to me?”

Primrose nodded.

“My poor girl! You nearly got spanked for that.”

“Right properly, too, I warrant.”

“No, I have not the temerity.”

“Fustian! I was quaking in my boots. It is very thankful I am that you made me that promise. I shall hold you to your word.”

“I nearly always keep my promises. I believe I told you that several times this ride.”

“And very ominous it sounded to me, too! Now let us get going, sir, before I change my mind and select myself a meeker husband.”

So saying, my Lord Rochester moved forward and very gently, teasingly, did something to mistress Primrose that caused a blush to rise to her forehead and a soft “Oh!” to escape her lips.

“You prove your point, my lord. I hope you are not always so inventive in your arguments.”

“Oh, but I am.”

“Then we shall be arguing a lot when we are wed.”

Gareth stopped his rather seductive actions and grinned.

“Indeed, I
count
on it!”

“Very good. But for the moment, you shall meekly oblige me and get going!”

“Why?”

“Because I have a mind to see Lily wedded.”

“She is likely that already.”

“Then I have a mind to wish her happy.”

Gareth regarded her, for a moment, warmly. “We shall make haste, then, for I doubt Barrymore will be pleased to see us if we arrive toward nightfall.”

“It is not
comme il faut,
you mean, to break in on an abduction?”

“No, I believe that is perfectly acceptable so long as
you
do it politely. Etiquette, however, does
not
permit breaking in on ... pardon your blushes . . . postabduction seduction.”

“I see. How remiss of me not to have perceived that finer point for myself.”

“Yes, very remiss. Simon!” The marquis raised his voice.

“My lord?”

The voice came from a suitable distance.

“Make haste, if you please! We continue!”

Whilst the coachman leapt up to obey Lord Rochester’s command, Primrose tidied what she could of the jerkin and knee breeches and looked ruefully at her erstwhile captor.

“I never thought I would be so vain as to wish fervently for a gown. A gown, a gown, my kingdom for a gown!”

“Yes, well I don’t deny you look comelier in one!”

“Brute!”

“. . . But you
feel
infinitely better in knee breeches. I shall insist upon them in the bedroom.”

“You don’t try to spare my blushes, do you?”

“No, why should I? They are delightful.”

Primrose ignored him, though she felt a delicious happiness creep into her heart.

“Remember, to the coachman I am still a street urchin.”

“Very well, you whippersnapper! And what shall I tell Lily?”

“Oh, Lily will know at once! She will be in peals of laughter at this escapade, for she has always said that since I have ever been good and proper and commonsensical, I shall one day fall into the very
devil
of a scrape!”

“She was right, then.”

“Yes, she was right.” Smiling amicably, Primrose scanned the road for any sight of the inn.

 

 

“Damnation!” Sir Rory cursed as the team was brought to a sudden halt. It jarred Lily terribly, for the chaise was not well-enough sprung and she had pins and needles from sitting with her back rigid and her fingers clenched for a good half hour at the minimum.

Sir Rory paid her no notice, but descended from the chaise in acute annoyance.

“What is it?”

“Reckon as I don’t know, sir. The ’orses are sweatin’, like.”

“They’ll keep. They were fresh when I left London.”

“Mayhap they need water, like. We can turn back to the inn ...”

“Out of the question! Is that why you stopped, you blunder head?” Sir Rory Aldershot glared at his man, who stepped backward a pace.

“Not
me,
pleasin’ yer honor! The left beast is a might skittish, like. Took a stumble, I reckon.”

“Careless handling, then! Now get going!”

Sir Rory swung himself up again and eyed Lily with sharp dislike. He was just thankful he’d had the foresight to ply Barrymore with burgundy, for they were not making good time and he had no wish for any mishaps.

Lily could have kicked herself for not thinking of the weapon he’d carelessly left lying behind the cushions. Oh, if only she had retrieved it! She might never have the opportunity again. She could have almost moaned with dismay, but remembered, of course, to maintain her dignity. That was the only small satisfaction she
had
against this vile man!

The journey began again in silence, Aldershot more concerned about the time than about baiting her. The slower the progress, the more likelihood there was of being pursued. He called to the driver.

“This is not a country picnic, man, move it, I tell you!”

“I tell you, I
can’t,
pleasin’ yer ’onor! The team be not stable.”

“Nonsense! They are as well matched as can be. You are merely being specious.”

The driver, having no idea of the insult being thrust at him, defiantly continued, though his face was black with a scowl and his hand heavy. Of a sudden, the carriage swayed precariously. Lily was thrust to the side, her shoulder jammed against the door as the wheels ground to a screeching halt.

Aldershot cursed. His door was jammed so he leaned over Lily to try hers. She recoiled at the touch, but the man was too incensed to notice. The driver jumped down from his perch and went round to the front of the team. Aldershot followed, without a backward glance at his victim.

“God’s truth, you are a veritable cow hand! Have you no notion how to handle a team?” He glared at the driver, fuming.

“Don’t glare at
me,
sir! Reckon they’ve been pushed too hard, that’s wot.”

“Nonsense!”

“Then
you
drive ’em, me lor’! The left ’orse feels lame.”

“Impossible! You are just an addlepated gudgeon, for I inspected them myself this morning.”

“It is
lame,
I tell yer!” The coachman folded his arms and glared at his master. “Lame, lame, lame!”

“You are hysterical.” Aldershot cuffed him soundly and examined each bit.

Lily, finally, had her chance. Quick as lightning she changed seats and felt for the weapon. She prayed it was not a sword, for she had not the foggiest notion how to wield such a thing. Her hands touched cold steel. She breathed a sigh of sudden elation. A pistol!

Very carefully, she primed the thing, for had not Lord Raven insisted she know about such matters despite her earnest and youthful protests? Well, she never really had the hang of it, but by God, she would make shift now! Carefully, cursing her modish, delectably expensive morning gown and all its tiresome petticoats, she shifted her position and waited. When Aldershot returned, she would shoot him. She waited calmly as she heard raised voices at the front of the chaise. Good! They were out of sorts with one another, for it was a sad and undeniable fact that she was facing two men with only one pistol shot.

Fetlocks were being inspected. She peered out of the window and fiddled with the handle of the door. They were not so isolated as it would seem, for there was a crofter’s cottage nearby and evidence of a recent fire. She wondered whether she should scream and thought the better of it. Surprise—and a pistol—were her only true advantages. Screaming would make her forfeit one at least.

Now it was the hooves being examined. Eight in all ... her eyes wandered to the bundle of wood lying in neat bundles by the embers. Chopped so precisely with that ax ... she could see the wood splinters of each log, a dull yellow against the darker brown bark. Then suddenly her wits were about her.

She descended the chaise quickly, so the wheels creaked and the springs jerked. The horses stepped backward, too, so the surprise she so valued was no longer one of her advantages.

“Get back in.” Aldershot left off his arguing and advanced angrily toward Lily. In a split, hysterical second, Lily had an irreverent thought. “At least he did not call me passion flower.” And then she was all business.

Hands steady, she demanded that Aldershot stand back. And his man, too. Sir Rory saw his danger immediately.

“Don’t be so foolish. You do not know how to use that thing. Put it down.”

“Tell your coachman to stand next to you.”

“I shall do no such thing.”

“Then I shall shoot you.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” For an instant, Lily was sorely, sorely tempted. She would aim for his nose, not his heart, for surely that was the ugliest of his features.

Then she remembered herself and called his bluff. “The pistol is primed, you may note. I would have the greatest satisfaction shooting you, sir, but first, I require your coachman.”

The coachman needed no second telling. He left off fussing about the colts and stepped forward with speed. When he saw Lily, a splendid vision in the most delectable gown he had ever seen, he knew at once that Sir Rory had taste if not sense. When he said as much, with a little grin in Lily’s direction, she dimpled, though her hand remained firm.

“Was
it lame?”

“The
’orse,
ma’am ?” The coachman was very respectful to young ladies with pistols. Lily nodded.

“Oh, aye. It was the shoe. Musta slipped off on the road, like. Colt’s got a bloody big stone in ’is ’oof, saving the language, miss.”