Authors: Leigh Greenwood
Her future! The only acceptable future for a girl like her was to marry a substantial gentleman, bear his children, and manage his household. Martin had seen to it she had no dowry, had met few eligible men, and now bore a dishonored name. No man in his right mind would marry her; not even her beauty could compensate for such grave shortcomings.
She fought against the tears welling up in her eyes, determined not to cry, certainly not in front of this brusque man who was so uninterested in her destiny that he had fallen asleep, but that only caused the tears to well up even faster until large drops streamed down her face like spring rain down a windowpane. She made no attempt to wipe them away, just closed her eyes and let them fall.
Brett changed his position, and for a moment Kate held her breath, unable to stop crying, but after a brief pause, she could hear his steady breathing once more. She was furious at herself for feeling embarrassed about crying in front of him and called herself some harsh names as she searched for a handkerchief. Brett would have one, she thought, but she would let the tearstains dry on her cheeks before she would ask him, even if he
had
been awake.
She finally found the lace-trimmed square and began to dab at her face. Why did women have to cry anyway? It never solved anything; it just made them look ridiculous and invariably made men angry. Why couldn’t she curse and challenge people to fistfights and foolish duels? She was tired of being bound by an outmoded code of behavior.
She tidied her face and gave herself a mental shake. Feeling sorry for herself was not going to produce any answers. She knew she would have to discuss her plans with the sleeping hulk across from her, but she intended to have her thoughts in order before she did. She might as well be done with crying and start to rack her brain for ideas; it was obvious Brett wasn’t going to do it for her.
She sniffed her annoyance. Brett Westbrook, the pride of English society, the darling of drawing rooms from London to Paris, lay slumped down in the corner of his coach looking very much like an ordinary man. Famed for his intrigues with titled women and feared for the haughty correctness of his polished manner, he now was sprawled over the seat, his face unshaved, his clothes rumpled, and his hair in disarray. She felt like laughing. He might be the most handsome man in the world—she had to admit she couldn’t suppress a thrill of excitement at being with him—but she wasn’t going to fall for a man who had already seduced half the women in London.
But immediately her attitude toward him softened. He
had
come to her rescue. She had been so shocked and upset when Martin dragged her into that room she hadn’t felt the delicious tingle of pleasure she later experienced when she remembered how he knocked Martin down, the pleasure any woman feels when two men,
any
two men, fight over her. It made her feel beautiful in a way her mirror never could, and even the memory of the driving cloak held tightly around her nearly nude body could not rob the moment of its satisfaction.
A lock of Brett’s hair fell across his forehead, and she had to resist an impulse to reach out and brush it back with her fingers. She trembled with excitement at the thought of actually
touching
him—the anticipation was delicious, but she was terrified of what would happen if he woke up. He was quiet now, but there was a kind of ferocious energy about him that frightened her a little, an energy that could reach out and ensnare anyone within its reach, and energy which could draw its victims into a maelstrom far beyond their understanding. Leaving Ryehill had already taken Kate beyond her experience, and she wanted to consider her next step carefully.
She scrutinized Brett more closely, admitted to a tug of attraction which seemed to grow stronger with every passing hour, and became aware of the feeling that with such a man at her side, things could never be very wrong. But almost at once she closed her eyes and laid her head back on the cushions trying to stave off the tears that threatened to overwhelm her once again. He was not her man, and he was not standing by her side.
Martin charged back into the library, his mind consumed with hatred for everyone who had helped bring about his disgrace. He ground his teeth in rage when he remembered Edward’s snide and belittling remarks and how that damned puppy Feathers had turned on him in his own house; however, it was on Kate and Brett’s shoulders that Martin placed the blame for his whirlwind of troubles, and he intended to take his revenge in the most ruthless manner he could devise.
He could easily deal with Kate once he had her back at the castle. She was probably looking at Brett with sheep’s eyes right now, thinking he would protect her. The slut! It would give him great pleasure to destroy that illusion.
He would have to kill Brett. He knew he couldn’t do it in a fair fight, but he wasn’t going to be held back by some outmoded code of chivalry; he would kill him if he had to stab him in the back.
But first he had to do something about Kate, and just getting her back wasn’t enough; there must be some way to do it that would discredit Brett. In his frustration he uttered a loud oath, and his spaniel, once again lying near his chair and thinking he was talking to her, lifted her head. When Martin continued to pace, she settled her head back on her paws, but her eyes followed him as he moved erratically about the room.
By now Martin had drunk so much brandy his head felt like a lead weight and his thoughts refused to come into focus without a tremendous effort of will. He leaned his head against the cool marble of the fireplace hoping it would help to clear his mind. He stood quietly for so long the dog forsook her vigil and closed her eyes.
Suddenly Martin’s head jerked upright, and his eyes focused intently as his mind worked frantically to grasp the elusive idea before it could slip away. Tenaciously he held on, becoming more and more alert as the plan took shape in his fevered brain.
“I’ve got the goddamned bastard at last!” Martin laughed wildly, and tossed off the last of the brandy. Now he could rest; there would be time enough later. In fact, it would be better if they were farther along the road, better still if they had spent the night at some inn.
The spaniel had come to her feet at Martin’s shout, teeth bared and hackles raised. She quieted down when she found no one else in the room but remained on the alert. Something in his laughter triggered a primitive instinct deep within her brain; there was danger in that room, an evil she could not trust. She left by the open window, and from that moment she would not come into his presence without uttering a low growl and removing herself to the farthest corner.
The afternoon sun scattered its last feeble rays across the barren fields and retired early to rest; by five o’clock a heavy twilight had fallen over the desolate countryside. The trees, some still stubbornly clinging to dried and useless leaves, grew closer to the road and branches brushed the side of the coach. To Kate, it seemed like a dark and endless tunnel to the ends of the earth, and unconsciously she drew her rug more closely about her. She withdrew her gaze from the window and lay back against the cushions, considerably comforted by the sight of Brett’s broad shoulders so close by, even if he was sound sleep.
Abruptly the quiet of the wintry evening was rudely shattered by two pistol shots close to the coach. Kate sat up, staring with eyes starting from their sockets at four horsemen who appeared like magic from nowhere, their guns drawn and their horses in a lather. Before she could recover from her shock sufficiently to wake Brett, a hand was thrust through the window sending a shower of glass over the floor, and a gun pointed straight at Brett’s head. Kate clamped her hand over her mouth to muffle a shriek.
The gun was held by a husky ruffian in a long, heavy coat, a dilapidated knit cap, and a stocking mask over his face. A second man, also with gun in hand, was at the other door. What did they want? How could they get away? She supposed Brett had money, but Martin had never given her any, and if there were any family jewels, they had either been locked up by the trustees or sold for cash. All she had were some valueless beads and some mother-of-pearl earrings.
Brett continued to sleep, his rhythmic breathing never missing a beat. Provoking man! Just when she needed him most.
The man at the broken window spoke first. “We got us a looker this time, Sam. With a face like that, she ought to be dripping in sparklers.” His eyes glowed in anticipation. “It’s about time, too. Pickings haven’t been too good lately.”
“Shut up, Joe,” Sam growled. “You talk too much. Just get on with it and don’t forget the gentleman’s strongbox. Sparklers are good in their own way, but nothing spends like yellow boys.”
The man called Joe stuck his head in the window. “Don’t you go getting upset, ma’am. We don’t want to hurt you or your husband. Just give us your money and jewels and we’ll let you go peaceable-like.”
“Knock off the pretty speeches, Joe,” Sam barked impatiently.
“You never did know how to treat a lady,” Joe responded with a superior air.
An authoritative voice broke in on the flaring tempers. “You boys give over your arguing, or I’ll take a pistol butt to the both of you.”
“Hand over the valuables, ma’am,” Joe said with none of his previous politeness. “We can’t spend all day on this roadside.”
If it had been up to Kate, she would have handed over any money Brett had in his pocket without even waking him. He was too rich to feel the loss of such a small sum.
“I know this will sound untruthful, but I don’t have any money or jewels, or anything else of value. I’m a very poor woman. This gentleman is escorting me to London where I hope to find a position.”
Kate had no difficulty reading the disbelief in their faces, and she struggled to overcome her revulsion at having to divulge her personal history to highwaymen. “You must believe me. Would I be dressed like this if I were rich?” She threw back her fur robe to show them her plain clothes and bare throat. “I’d give you anything I had rather than get myself shot.”
Joe didn’t know what to do next. He could see Kate wore no jewelry, and her clothes were certainly extremely plain. She didn’t even have a maid. Yet she
was
riding in a luxurious coach, and the man was expensively clothed.
“They all say the same thing,” Sam warned. “If she won’t give over peaceably, we’ll have her out of the coach and search her. We’ll find her jewels if we have to strip every stitch off the both of them.”
“Hurry it up back there,” came the impatient voice. “Is the simple task of robbing a girl and a sleeping man too much for you?”
Kate turned white. “But I don’t have any money, I tell you. Not even a shilling.” She dug frantically under the sheepskin. “Here, search my reticule.” She flung it through the broken window at Joe just as Sam leaned out of his saddle to open the other door.
Things happened so quickly after that, Kate was never quite sure she remembered her part in the drama. Joe was caught off guard by the purse flung at him so unexpectedly, and he grabbed at it belatedly, trying to catch it before it could fall to the ground. His horse, startled by an object being thrown at its head, reared and shied to one side. For a few crucial seconds, Joe was fully occupied with trying to keep his grip on the purse, regain his balance, stay in the saddle, and calm his horse, time enough for Kate to snatch the loaded pistol from its place on the wall above her head and fire a shot straight into his chest. She cringed before Joe’s look of startled surprise as he crumpled and fell heavily to the ground. His frightened horse wheeled and galloped off down the road.
In the same moment Kate threw her purse, Brett sprang to life. In a movement almost too rapid to be seen, he grasped the door with both hands and slammed it into Sam’s skull with a loud crack. Almost as a reflex, Brett whipped a small pistol out of his coat pocket and placed a ball neatly between Sam’s eyes. His horse followed Joe’s down the road.
Stunned by the swift and unforeseen turn of events, the leader of the gang momentarily withdrew his attention from the box where the coachman and Charles sat under his harsh glare. Charles had been forced to throw his blunderbuss into the road, but he reached for a second gun hidden in the boot and blew the third thief out of his saddle. A fourth rogue holding the horses took to his heels before Charles had time to reload.
Almost as suddenly as it had started, it was over.
Kate had acted on impulse, and she blinked unbelievingly at the smoking pistol in her hands as the realization that she had killed a man flooded over her. She dropped the pistol like it was a coiled snake. It landed with a thud at her feet and she started to shake; she was too weak and dumbfounded to move.
“Very neatly done, Miss Vareyan.” The sound of Brett’s voice penetrated the layers of horror that hammered at Kate’s consciousness, threatening to suffocate all reason. “I was particularly impressed by your quickness,” he continued in a more friendly voice. “I didn’t know how I was going to get one of those ruffians off guard long enough to put a bullet through the other. Throwing your purse in his face was about the neatest trick I’ve ever seen.”
At last he seemed to realize Kate was in shock, he leaned across, took her hands in his, and held them tightly. “Easy, my girl. You’ve had a nasty jolt, but you’ll get over it a lot quicker if you try not to think about it. We’ll be stopping soon, and you’ll feel much better once you’ve had a bit of rest and a good dinner.”