Chapter Three

Julia supposed being the only boy in a group of six highly opinionated siblings had honed Farring’s evasive skills, but she never imagined him capable of the cunning he’d displayed as he helped her prepare to depart—spymaster brilliance with a sprinkle of smudged-glasses charm.

As the handle on the back of the duke’s traveling chariot jostled beneath her glove, she could hardly believe they had succeeded in fooling everyone.

Thus far.

No one undertaking such a complicated enterprise succeeded by underestimating future hurdles. And their present success did owe a great deal to distraction. Markham had naturally been anxious to be alone with Clarissa. Bromton had been attentive to the needs of her pregnant sister, his wife. Consumed with their own preparations for departure, no one else had bothered to inquire.

And so, when the caravan had headed for London, everyone inside the three well-sprung carriages had been secure in the belief that, until Markham and Clarissa returned from their wedding trip, Julia would be safely ensconced with Miss Watson.

Which is how it came to be that, late in the afternoon, breasts bound, hair tucked up beneath a cap, and wearing a hodgepodge of clothing, including the livery Farring had provided, Julia made her way to the local inn and coaching stable, The Pillar of Salt. She quietly stabled her horse as previously agreed—Miss Watson had no barn, and the inn was far closer to her lodgings than Southford—and then, she waited.

When Lizzy, the innkeeper, announced that the traveling chariot was ready, Julia went into position. Teddy, the smallest of the local postilions, guided the compact, glossy carriage away from the Pillar, and then Julia swung up onto the back rail.

She had no words for the thrill of embarking on such an adventure. In fact, for the first hour, she existed on exhilaration alone.

The wind tickled her cheeks, the anticipation livened her blood, and any outcome she imagined seemed possible, from Rayne finally declaring his love to, well, the opposite. Of course, in the former case, she vowed to make him grovel. If he chose to deny what was between them and run away again, this time she’d happily help him on his way.

There must be a pirate or two off the coast of Northern England somewhere. She rolled her neck. If not, she’d drop him off with smugglers. Or Nordic traders. Or a press gang. Or maybe even one of those infamous one-way fishing boats to Newfoundland.

At mile six, just before Teddy stopped to water the horses, she quietly dismounted the slowing coach and disappeared into a copse.

Just in time, too.

Luckily, she was small…and quick. Quick enough to dodge Rayne when he emerged from the coach to stretch his legs.

He lifted himself onto the back rail and yanked on the straps securing the luggage.

Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades, those hands. Large, but elegant. And oh, how he moved, his long limbs latent with power. Just looking at him melted her female parts. Why such a reaction?

She wasn’t sure.

Katherine had promised to explain…but not before Julia was safely engaged.

And, anyway, why she was tingling need not be answered for her to admire Rayne’s thighs. Surely he’d grown more muscular since he’d left. In fact, his upper leg appeared to have a greater circumference than her waist. She lifted her own, small hands, squinting to see if they could span—

Rayne turned sharply toward the trees.

She ducked.

“Ready, guv!” Tommy called.

Rayne frowned in her direction, and then, shaking his head, he made his way back around to the carriage door.

She exhaled, long and slow. That had been close.

The carriage jerked as the great wooden wheels squeaked into a roll. She ran to catch up, hopped back up onto the rail, and grinned like a child who’d pocketed a secret sweet.

As for what she’d do with Rayne, once she had him—intimate exploration of those thighs had obliterated delivery to pirates.

At mile twelve, just before the chariot reached the next coaching inn, Julia repeated her winning strategy—hop off, hide, run to catch up, swing back on, and hold tight.

It took a little bit longer to catch her breath this time, but no matter.

She’d made it to the first change of postilions. Meaning there was little chance this postilion—whomever he was—would recognize her. Two, maybe three more stops, and they’d be far enough away for her to execute her next step.

Only, over the next three postilion changes the skies gradually darkened and the already-cool air turned frigid. Cloaked in complete darkness, her optimism frayed.

Perhaps Farring’s enthusiasm had made her overlook a few potential difficulties.

She’d known Rayne would ride through the night.

She’d realized holding on to the back of the carriage would challenge her stamina.

The real problem, however, proved to be the cold. She’d fully dressed for December, but none of her preparations proved impervious.

Underneath the livery, she’d donned a thick flannel shirt borrowed from a Southford stable boy. Extra padding in the form of bindings secured her breasts. Markham’s old greatcoat hung heavy off her shoulders. She’d doubled up socks beneath her boots. And even her breeches had breeches, for goodness’ sake.

Still, cold frosted between her wet lashes.

Cold froze her wind-burned cheeks.

Cold wove like smoke through her supposedly impenetrable layers, lapping up against her skin.

And that was before it began to rain.

Between two and three in the morning—she’d lost all perception of time—a fine sheen coated her clothes, her face, and her gloves. So, when they stopped to water, hiding in wet trees was not an option. If she didn’t move, she’d freeze.

She had to do something and quick.

To her relief, Rayne failed to emerge from the coach. Which meant she could make herself known—useful—and, in the process, warm up.

She approached the front of the traveling chariot, sparing the briefest of glances for the drawn curtains covering the window. She imagined Rayne fast asleep on the cushioned bench within, happily huddled beneath a thick, soft blanket.

Forget his thighs.

Pirates were what he deserved. Definitely pirates.

She rubbed her hands together and bounced as she quickened her steps, consoling herself with the thought that Rayne had no idea he was being abducted. And wouldn’t, if she could help it. Not until she was good and ready.

Then she’d fling open the door and announce…

Then she’d stand arms akimbo, legs spread wide, and demand…

Then she’d…

Then she’d…

Well, she’d figure out the perfect reveal. She’d always been good at finding solutions.

Taking a deep breath, she adopted what she hoped was a footman’s proud saunter and walked straight up to the postilion.

She forced her voice into the lowest register she could manage. “Need help?”

“Oi!” The postilion jumped. He peered over her shoulder to the carriage. “Where did you come from?”

“Been with the carriage all along,” she answered with more bravado than she felt, looping her thumbs into her pockets as Farring sometimes did and sending the postilion a practiced sneer. “I’m his lordship’s footman, of course. You don’t pay much attention, do you?”

The postilion eyed her with suspicion. “You sure you been there the whole time?”

“Daft as well as blind, I see.” She opened her coat, flashing the bright red livery as proof. Not that the postilion could see much in the faint glow of the carriage lamps. “Why else would I be out here in the middle of the night?”

The postilion squinted as he deliberated. “All right, then,” he finally decided. “If you’re his lordship’s footman, you can help me brush old Branson here down. But if you run off with me things, you’ll pay. Won’t get far, you understand. I know everyone in these parts. And we don’t like strangers.”

She caught his tossed brush, glancing down at the worn wood and spare bristles. If she needed to “borrow” a brush, she’d pick a better one than this.

She spoke low and soothingly to the horse as she smoothed his soft hair. When she was finished, the beast snuggled at her neck.

The boy turned back from the lead horse and snorted. “Don’t usually like fellers. Does that to my sister, Carol, all the time, though.”

She cleared her throat. “Lucky me.”

He folded his arms. “What did you say your name was?”

She hadn’t. Curse the details. “Stanley.”

The postilion snorted. “Took you a long second.”

“A second is a second,” she quipped. “Not one of them longer than any other. What’s your name, anyway…s?” She added the s a beat too late.

“Jack. You see? Jack. Didn’t have to stop and think about it, Stanley.”

“Here’s your brush, Jack.” She whacked the wood against his palm when he finally held out his hand. “Next time, I won’t offer to help.”

She turned on her heel and headed back to the rail. Even in the darkness, she could see raindrops clinging to the bottom of the handle. Summoning all her determination, she took hold of the cold metal and hefted herself back up onto the rail.

Only now she knew the cold and the wet weren’t her only problems. She’d inadvertently uncovered yet another unfortunate flaw to Farring’s plan.

She could bind her breasts. She could lower her voice. She could even throw a swift punch if she must—she’d grown up sparring with Markham, after all. But despite having collected a dictionary of vile male words she occasionally, silently uttered, she had no idea how men interacted when they were alone.

And even less idea how a footman should interact with a postilion.

Her own groom was quiet and gentle. And Samuel Coachman was a prince in livery. But she imagined they related quite differently to each other when she was not around.

Then again, really, how hard could it be to pass muster? Jack had eventually accepted her tale. No sense borrowing trouble, Stanley.

One postilion at a time.

She passed the next mile huddling as close as possible to the shiny black paint. Yet, by mile two, all the work-stored warmth had melted out of her clothes. And, if anything, the winter bit harder than before her exertions—her first layer was damp with sweat.

She pressed her face directly against the wood, willing the wind to pass her by. She closed her eyes, imagining the wonder of fire—part light and the rest, blessed, blessed heat.

Behind her lids, fire’s many forms danced.

Candles…

Tallow, beeswax, fat-coated thrush—she’d take any form of light.

Fires…

Coal, wood, brush, leaves—she’d take any form of warmth, too.

A low-hanging branch caught the top of Rayne’s trunk, and the mother tree delivered an additional deluge, which gathered into an unforgiving stream that snaked beneath her hat and onto her neck before leaving a slug-like trail against her spine.

Silently, she whimpered.

By the time they reached the inn, she’d be soaked through. And she hadn’t any extra clothes. She had money, of course. She’d planned to buy whatever she needed on the way. But she hadn’t anticipated needing to change so soon.

Damn Farring.

And damn herself for listening to him.

This wasn’t adventure.

This was foolishness of the highest order.

Dear heavens, if he found out, Markham was going to be so angry.

And Bromton? Well, forget pirates! Bromton Castle had dungeons down below. Left to the men in her family, she might never see the sun again.

As for the women, Clarissa was the only one who might be slightly amused. But Katherine…?

Katherine would be deeply disappointed. And, if Julia ended up frozen or ruined or worse—Katherine would be heartbroken, too. Katherine had worked hard to be the mother Julia had never known. Now, Katherine should be free to think of her own children.

Julia winced away the sudden wave of guilt.

Wet or not, she couldn’t change course now. All she could do was dream of a warm, cheerful fire. Or, at the very least, a roof.

She sighed.

A cup of tea would be nice, too. And a steaming, meat-filled pastry.

Just imagining the smell turned her arms to jelly. Her foot slipped off the rail. She banged her knee while righting herself and swallowed a yelp of pain.

Heavens.

Her vivid mental pictures were not helping. She set aside thoughts of castigation and comfort. Right now, she needed to hold to triumph—Rayne, on his knees, begging her to forgive him.

Her cheeks ached, but she purposefully spread her lips into a smile. She might not know how, exactly, but his humbling would come to pass. She would force him to see how wrong he’d been. About everything.

Her fingers tightened around the handle. She leaned to the side and opened her eyes into the wind. Faint light shimmered in the distance.

Not far now—maybe a half mile off. That was how she was going to survive this. One postilion at a time. One mile at a time. One stop at a time.

She would survive. She—as Bromton often said—was an incurable firebrand. Which meant her heat came from within.

The carriage slowed, and she quietly stepped down into the shadows, careful to remain out of sight.

Outside.

In the rain.

Trying with all her might not to collapse into convulsing shivers.

…

Rayne lifted himself onto the back rail of the carriage, searching for the source of the gentle knocking that had roused him from a much-deserved, I-escaped-Southford-without-doing-anything-stupid slumber.

If he’d employed outriders or a footman, he wouldn’t have given the sound a second thought. Like any good sailor learned to roll with the waves, a seasoned traveler heard bumps, rattles, and knocks as music of the road. If anything, he was an expert traveler.

A dammed rolling stone—both by calling and by choice.

And nothing could convince him the sound that roused him from sleep had been one that belonged. The light knock had been persistent, as if a hand or a leg were repeatedly thumping against the back of the carriage.

To test, he knocked his knee against the coach. Yes. That was the sound, all right.

He’d opened his eyes to complete darkness—becoming aware first of the carriage’s gentle rocking, then of the rain and horse’s hooves, and then of the banging.

Staring into the night, he weighed how much time he’d lose if he called out to the postilion to stop. He remained silent. A strap had come loose, or a branch had gotten caught in the rail. Regardless, stopping before he’d traveled far enough away from Southford to be fully safe would be a bad idea.

Now he regretted that decision.

The straps were fastened, and no stray tree parts lodged in the rail or around his trunk.

Strange.

He hopped back down from the back of the coach, frowning. Something was off…he just couldn’t put his finger on what.

Another glow joined the shining reflection of his raised lamp.

“Lord Rayne, is it?” a woman asked.

“No.” His answer came instinctively. “That’s the crest, of course, but I’m his—er—cousin,” he said, though he didn’t have one. “Graham Laithe.”

Probably should have come up with a false name. Apparently, whatever had disturbed his slumber caused sluggish thinking, too.

The woman made a humphing sound. “Jack said you was the earl himself. Well, no matter. Coin’s coin. All the same to me. Might I tempt you with a room, Mr. Laithe?”

“Afraid not, madam…?”

“Mrs. White,” she said. “Mr. White’s the owner of the inn. My son, Jack, runs the stables, though he takes a fare himself, now and again, just to keep sharp. My daughter, Carol, works the tavern. Allow me to at least send you on your way with a pint? Winter’s come on fast—you’ll be glad for some sustenance as the night drags on.”

The night had become menacing cold and wet. In his short time outside, chill had seeped into his bones. “What do you have on the stove?”

“Lamb stew—a finer one you’ll never taste,” Mrs. White said proudly.

His stomach sent him a disgruntled reminder he hadn’t eaten much at the wedding breakfast. Couldn’t have kept anything down, then.

He gazed through the window into the tavern room of the small inn. Were it not for the weather and the time of year, doubtless the place would be full. Instead, a single man sat hunched over his tankard.

Mrs. White’s eyes lit, sensing prey. “The roads are mighty muddied—and you wouldn’t want to get stuck. Not in this weather. The road follows the river for miles. Did I mention a lad brought back a report of a dam straining not more than a few hours north?”

Well, that settled the question. He didn’t exactly fancy being stuck. If a quarter hour inspecting the carriage had left him shivering, what would a—wait.

“Mud,” he said aloud, turning back to the carriage.

“Mud?” Mrs. White echoed.

“The wheels and the sides of the carriage are covered with mud.”

“Of course they are.”

“Yes…but look here, the back of the carriage is nearly clean.”

“Well.” She snorted. “Hate to see your footman’s coat, then.”

He frowned. A man on the back of the rail would be an explanation. Only, again, he didn’t have a footman.

“So? How about that room?”

“You have a lodger.” He called over his shoulder. “I’ll be in as soon as I’ve had a word with Jack.”

“Praise be and thank you! I’ll have your bed and your dinner ready by the time you’re done.”

The door to the inn closed behind Mrs. White. He studied the splatter patterns. If someone had been clinging to the rail, it must have been another postilion—the blank spot was too small to have been a man.

“Oi!” Jack rounded the back of the carriage. “There’s one postilion that’s willing to continue north if you insist.” He rocked back and forth on his feet. “But I say, if you do, you’re fool as he is.”

“I’ve changed my mind and taken a room,” he said, meting out payment.

Jack slipped the coins into his pocket. “By the by, that upstart footman of yours looks ill, if you don’t mind my sayin’. He’s kinda small, too. Not much substance for traveling through the night.”

“Did you say”—Rayne leaned forward—“my footman?”

“Ya.” The boy scrunched up his features as if Rayne was daft. “Your footman. The same one’s been riding on the back since your last stop.” He nodded toward the carriage. “You know, the scrawny thing that helped me brush down the horses when we watered?”

Rayne’s gaze moved from the boy to the carriage and then back to the boy.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” The boy whistled. “I knew it. Had the right livery, though. Your crest stitched in gold. Still, I knew, I tell you. I knew.” A wicked gleam entered his eye. “Don’t you worry.” He turned back toward the stables. “Me and the boys’ll take care of him.”

Livery? His nonexistent footman had on his livery?

“Wait.” Rayne laid a hand on Jack’s arm. “You may send my footman to me.”

“What? He ain’t your footman. Plannin’ to thieve from you, too, I bet. Got a beating due him for it.” The boy cracked his knuckles. “Come, now. He don’t deserve your pity. Let me and the boys have some fun.”

“While I, er, thank you for your protection.” He wedged his hand into his pocket, pulled out an extra coin, and tossed it into the air. “Of course he’s my footman…” He cleared his throat. “I was just surprised he got himself sick.”

The boy pocketed the coin with narrowed eyes, reluctant to give up the bigger prize. “Suit yourself. I’ll send him over.”

Rayne’s gaze followed Jack to the stables.

Farring.

Rayne quelled his unease.

Farring must have hired someone to watch out for him. That was the only explanation as to how a footman wearing his livery had crossed more than thirty miles without him knowing.

Inside the open barn, Jack yanked a short figure into the light of a hanging lamp.

A low, heated exchange followed. Two more boys flanked Jack, one on either side—fight formation if Rayne ever saw one.

The footman hurtled his small body at the largest of the three. Then, the boys tackled him to the ground.

Rayne broke into a run as the biggest boy pulled back a booted foot.

“Stop!” he yelled, wondering why his stomach had given out.