The Wedding Escape (39 page)

“I told them to go into the kitchen,” muttered Harrison, exasperated. “Now I've got an even bigger crowd to contend with once I get outside.”

“If you keep me in front of you, they won't shoot,” the girl suggested.

“I'm not taking you with me—that idiot groomsman is liable to kill you in his attempt to save you.”

“I think he dropped his rifle.” She glanced around the door and saw the clumsy firearm lying abandoned on the carpet. “There, you see? He must have thrown it down after it went off.”

“It's Miss Kent, is it?” Harrison's tone was bland.

“It's Charlotte, actually. Miss Kent always sounds so terribly formal—”

“It may surprise you to learn, Miss Kent, that I'm not in the habit of abducting helpless women and using them as a shield. I don't intend to start now.” A dull throbbing started to pound at the base of Harrison's skull. He was beginning to wish he had stayed home that night.

“You're not actually abducting me—I'm offering to help you,” Charlotte pointed out. “Unless you are prepared to be arrested and spend the rest of your days in a prison cell, you have to let me help you get out of here.”

Her eyes were large and earnest. It was impossible to determine their color in the soft veil of light spilling into the room, but it struck Harrison that they were unlike any he had ever seen. There was a singular strength emanating from the strange young woman standing before him, a unique resolve that was as bewildering as it was captivating.

“Are you carrying a pistol?” she demanded.

“No.”

She frowned. “What about a dirk?”

Reluctantly, he nodded. “I have a dagger in my boot.”

“A dagger is fine for threatening to cut my throat,” she allowed matter-of-factly, “but if someone decides to try to wrestle it from your hand, we're going to have a problem.”

He didn't know what to make of her. Any normal gentle-born woman would have been drowning in tears by now, begging him to release her unharmed. Instead this strange girl was scanning the room, apparently trying to come up with another weapon for him. He went to the window and glanced at the crowd still gathered on the street below. The hammering in his head was spreading now, sending deep tentacles of pain streaking across his forehead and into his temples.

“I know!” she exclaimed suddenly. “You can hold Lady Chadwick's hairbrush in your pocket and press it against my ribs as we go out, giving everyone the impression that you have a firearm.”

She grabbed a heavy silver brush from the bureau and held it out to him. As if she actually believed he was a man of great daring, who was easily capable of outwitting an irate mob on the strength of a mere hairbrush. For some strange reason, he was loath to disillusion her. When was the last time a woman had looked at him with such pure, untainted trust in her eyes? he wondered bleakly. The pain in his head was getting worse now. He knew in a few minutes it would be excruciating, and then he would be unable to think at all. If there was any chance of escape, however small, this was his only moment to grasp it.

“And what do we do when we get outside?” he asked.

“Don't you have a carriage waiting for you?”

“No.”

She frowned again, as if she found it incomprehensible that a thief could attempt a robbery so poorly prepared. “Then we'll have to take mine,” she decided, moving toward the doorway.

“Are you hurt?”

She regarded him in confusion. “No—why?”

“Your leg—you seem to be having trouble walking.”

“It's nothing,” she assured him shortly. “I'm fine.”

Shoving Lady Chadwick's hairbrush into his coat, he wrapped his arm around her.

“I don't need your help to walk,” she protested, trying to push him away. “I'm quite capable of—”

“I'm only doing as you suggested and pretending that I am using you as a shield.”

“Oh.” She stopped fighting him, but her body was rigid beneath his arm. It was obvious he had touched a raw nerve when he mentioned her leg.

“Once we are outside, if anyone decides to overtake me, I want you to get the hell away from me so you are out of harm's way.” Harrison regarded her seriously. “Is that clear?”

She shook her head. “No one is going to attack you as long as I stay in front—”

“Is that clear?”

“If I move away from you, someone might shoot you.”

“We're not leaving, Miss Kent, until you say yes.”

She sighed, reluctant. “Yes.”

“Fine then. Let's go.”

They moved awkwardly down the staircase together. By the time they had reached the main floor, his accomplice was breathing heavily, and despite her assurances that she was fine, Harrison knew her gait was painfully stiff. He had little time to reflect upon this, however, as they stepped up to the front door and into the view of the crowd awaiting them outside.

“Everyone move back,” Harrison commanded, holding fast to his partner, “and send Miss Kent's carriage over.”

The terrified horde obediently took a few steps backward. The carriage, however, was not forthcoming.

“Send Miss Kent's carriage over,” repeated Harrison heatedly. “
Now
!”

“I heard ye the first time, ye soddin' piece o' scum,” barked a furious voice. “An' if ye so much as bend a wee hair on the lass's head while I'm bringin' it to ye, I'll be scapin' yer cowardly flesh from yer thievin' bones and choppin' it fine afore I grind ye into haggis!”

Harrison watched in astonishment as an ancient little man scuttled as fast as his skinny legs would carry him toward the line of carriages on the street. Displaying a remarkable agility for his advanced years, he hauled himself up into the driver's seat of one vehicle, snapped his reins against the horse's hindquarters and sent it lurching forward.

“That's Oliver,” Charlotte whispered to Harrison as the carriage barreled toward them. “He is very protective of me.”

“Wonderful,” drawled Harrison.

The carriage clattered to a stop directly in front of the entrance. Oliver cast Harrison a murderous look before regarding Charlotte with concern. “Are ye hurt, lass?”

“No, Oliver,” Charlotte assured him gently. “I'm fine.”

“Ye'd best make sure she stays that way, ye spineless cur,” he warned Harrison, “if ye're thinkin' ye'd like to keep yerself in one fine piece.”

The idea of the wiry little Scotsman fighting him was preposterous. But Harrison recognized the old man's overwhelming fear for the girl pinned against him, and he knew better than to trifle with the elder's emotions.

He had learned that strength born of fear and frustration could be far more dangerous than that of mere youth and muscle.

“I give you my word that Miss Kent will not come to any harm as long as you do exactly as I say,” he told him.

Oliver snorted in disgust. “Canna trust the word of a rogue who'd snatch a helpless young lass an' push a pistol to her ribs,” he spat contemptuously. “Ye thieves today have nae honor, an' that's the sad truth o' the matter. Now in my day, ye'd nae see me wavin' a gun about—”

“Please, Oliver,” interrupted Charlotte. “We have to go
now
.”

Oliver glowered at Harrison. “All right then, ye wicked rascal, see if ye've enough manners in ye to help Miss Charlotte into the carriage, an' we'll be off.”

Relaxing his hold upon her slightly, Harrison reached up to open the carriage door.

“
No
!” cried Charlotte suddenly.

Harrison turned just in time to see a nattily attired gentleman clutching a pistol in front of the doorway from which he and Miss Kent had just emerged. One of Lord Chadwick's guests had not abandoned the house after all, he realized numbly. Instead he had hidden inside, waiting for the perfect moment to race out and shoot the infamous Dark Shadow in the back. The man's beefy hands were trembling visibly, his brow jeweled with perspiration as he leveled the pistol at Harrison.

Harrison wrapped himself around Charlotte, enveloping her in the hard shield of his body just as the weapon exploded. Fire ripped into him, burning a path through flesh and bone. Holding Charlotte fast, he jerked open the carriage door.

“Stop, thief!” roared his assailant. “I have another pistol!”

Harrison whipped around, shoving Charlotte behind his back. He brandished Lady Chadwick's hairbrush menacingly through the fabric of his coat. “Throw it down or I'll shoot your bloody—”

Another shot exploded through the darkness.

Harrison froze, knowing if he flinched the bullet would strike his prospective young charge instead.

For a moment no one moved, anxiously waiting to see if the infamous Dark Shadow had been killed.

“Thomas!” screamed a woman suddenly. “Oh, dear God—Thomas!”

Confused, Harrison raised his gaze to the front doorway.

The fashionably attired guest lay sprawled upon the stairs, his arms and legs spread out upon the polished stone steps. At first it looked as if he had merely slipped and fallen. But something was leaking across the pale surface of the step beneath him and weeping onto the next in a grotesque river of crimson.

“Saint Columba—ye've killed him, ye filthy swine!” blazed Oliver, appalled.

Harrison stared in bewilderment at the limp, bleeding form of the man on the stairs, his hand still gripping Lady Chadwick's hairbrush.

“Get in the carriage!” hissed Charlotte. “Now!”

“I'm nae takin' him anywhere,” Oliver raged, “the bastartin devil! He can bloody well hang—”

“He didn't do it!” Charlotte was trying desperately to get Harrison to move. “He couldn't have, Oliver—he doesn't have a pistol!”

Oliver scowled, confused. “He doesn't?”

“Please, you can't stay here!” Charlotte pulled hard on Harrison's arm, trying to get him into the carriage.

The night was filled with screams now. Men and women were running away, disappearing down laneways and into neighboring mansions, wildly trying to escape the murdering Dark Shadow. There was nothing he could do for the poor bastard bleeding on Lord Chadwick's steps, Harrison realized bleakly. Surrendering to Miss Kent's pleas, he helped her into the carriage. Then he hauled himself up and banged the door shut as the vehicle flew forward.

Pain was everywhere now—blinding in ferocity. Its talons had sunk deep into his brain and eyes and ears, while the fire streaking through his shoulder was radiating to the tips of his fingers. His coat sleeve was sodden with blood, and his mouth was nauseatingly dry. He was alive, and so was the strange young woman who had interrupted his disastrous escapade.

Everything else was lost.

Also by Karyn Monk

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URRENDER TO A
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EBEL AND THE
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EDCOAT

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ITCH AND THE
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FOOTNOTES

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THE WEDDING ESCAPE

A Bantam Book / March 2003

Published by

Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2003 by Karyn Monk

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: Bantam Books, New York, New York.

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