Chapter Four

Julia widened her stance, transferring a steady gaze between each of the three boys. She’d stared down society matrons. Who did they think they could scare?

“I said, come with me.” Again, Jack grabbed for—and this time caught—her elbow. “I knew you weren’t no footman.”

Awry. The plan had definitely gone awry. She glanced between Jack’s grimy claw and his face. “Unhand me. Now.”

“Unhand me,” Goliath mimicked. “Who does he think he is, King George?”

The trio snickered.

She narrowed her eyes. “If you are going to insult me, Colossus, insult me to my face.”

“Who are you calling Cole-sis-sis?” the big boy growled.

She shrugged out of Jack’s grasp, picked Goliath, half-turned as if she were about to walk away, and, instead, lowered her shoulder and rammed his stomach.

Perhaps she had been just a wee bit overconfident.

Goliath was a brick wall. Still, he oomphed. She took pleasure in the sound for a hair’s breadth of a second. Then, all three were on her at once.

At least she’d had audible satisfaction before they set to pummeling her to death. And, heaven help her, she wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

She forgot the cold. She forgot her aching, jittering joints.

Using all the strength she had, she jumped back onto her feet. With one arm, she protected her face, and with the other, she landed any blow she could. She could barely see, but she kept striking.

She hadn’t had an older brother for nothing.

“Stop! Stop!”

Her neck snapped back as Jack’s fist landed on her jaw. With a growl, she hurled herself at him, landing a knee where it would hurt him most. Jack bent, and then she swung around to face the third boy, fist raised.

“When I said stop.” An unseen arm lifted her from the ground by the back of Markham’s oversized coat. “I meant you, too, footman.”

She struggled in his grasp, trying to keep her face hidden.

“Stanley,” Jack cut in. “Your footman’s name is Stanley.”

Her feet instantly returned to gravel. Then, Rayne clamped her against his chest and brushed his forearm across her bound breasts. He sucked in a breath, making a sound she could only describe as untamed.

The sound lingered, hot and sloppy in her stomach. By the time she regained her wits, Rayne had fastened her arms behind her back.

Good thing Markham hadn’t known that particular move, else he would have won every time.

Rayne sniffed the hair that had fallen from her cap and then uttered the most unrepeatable, beautiful oath Julia had ever heard—all teeth and hard-tongued consonants. By far the most invigorating word she’d collected yet.

Well, at least she’d gained something.

“He’s a thief,” Goliath said.

“She’s a runaway,” Rayne replied.

“A girl?!” the boys cried in unison.

She twisted in Rayne’s grasp and lifted her face. “Now how do you expect me to pretend to be your footman?”

“You.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “Don’t. Talk.”

If she couldn’t talk, how was she going to inform him he was being abducted?

Although, now was probably not the best time. Not when a long, jagged vein in Rayne’s forehead pulsed as if it might pop.

“Of all the bloody,” he spat, “foolish, harebrained schemes you could have come up with—”

“Looks like they’s acquainted, fellas.” Jack smacked his hands together as he wiped off the dust. “Our work is done.”

“You, there. Bring the valise up once the carriage is settled. At the moment, my hands are full.”

“Sure thing, guv,” Jack answered.

“Plenty respectful to him, are you, Jack?” she taunted. “But you’re all bluster and greed.”

“I said don’t talk,” Rayne gritted.

His breath in her ear caused striking sensations in her bound breasts.

“Ruffians,” she huffed under her breath. “All of you.”

Rayne yanked her back. His gaze traveled down her body, slow and hot, rather like the way a flame traveled over a lard-soaked wick. He made the untamed sound again. And then repeated the fascinating curse.

Even the skin behind her knees quivered.

“Go!” He pushed her toward the inn.

Her boot heels hollowed tiny trenches in the earth, but she gained no purchase. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“You,” he sneered, “are not in a position to ask me anything.”

“Well, if you think I am going to follow you meekly while you’re in this state—”

“You don’t have a choice,” he grunted. “Trust me, I’m your best option.”

Option?

She had options?

Well—she struggled to look over her shoulder—if her options were a choice between the dark, wet night, a couple of proprietorial, belligerent postilions, a tavern full of God-knows-what, and…and…

She stole a sideways glance.

Whatever that six feet of breathing beast formerly known as Rayne had become, she’d take the wet night, thank you very much.

She regained her footing. “You are not in charge.”

He bared his teeth, sending pinpricks down her spine.

She mustered her last shred of dignity. “Now that I reconsider, perhaps we should continue this discussion inside after all.”

He threw open the door to the inn. They vied for first as he hustled her across the empty tavern and into a stairwell beyond. There, he released her arms.

She rubbed her shoulders, urging the blood to return.

“Don’t…” His eyes glowed, terrifyingly focused as he backed her against the stairwell. “…Get too comfortable.”

She’d never seen an expression like his on anyone…except for maybe Goliath.

Her throat dried. “Are you planning to hit me?”

His gaze hollowed out. “No,” he croaked. “Of course not. Julia—”

“Stanley.”

He ran his hand though his hair. “Look, either you are going to agree to stay here, or I am going to fasten you to the railing. I’m not going to hurt you, but, believe me”—his menacing scowl returned—“I have no problem with trussing.”

Trussing?

“I’ll stay.” She wet her lips. “If you tell me what you’re planning to do.”

He snorted. “I’m planning to inform the innkeeper to expect another guest, to order some food, and then take you to a private place to”—he paused—“talk.”

Talking was acceptable…she thought.

“I’ll stay, thank you,” she said primly. “Do go on.”

He kept her trapped against the banister for another long, breathless minute. Then he winced, uttered the curse again, and was gone.

She inhaled. Good heavens. Taking a deep breath hurt.

Not because of Rayne—her arms were already recovered—but because of Jack and his friends.

She tested her aching jaw.

Open. Good. Now, close. Not broken, at least.

She pushed off the railing and then froze. Rayne had promised not to hurt her, but she didn’t want to find out if he’d been serious about the trussing. On the other hand, how could she weigh her risks if she hadn’t some idea what was going on?

Quietly, she placed her ear against the closed door. The exchange was muffled, but she thought the innkeeper said “not that kind of place.”

Rayne’s spoke again, then the innkeeper, and then two women’s voices joined the fray. Of course the women would take Rayne’s side.

A gust of wind rattled the plates in the window, and a torrent of raindrops against the glass followed. Suddenly, she was very, very aware that she was trapped in a near-empty inn, somewhere off the Great North Road, a ten-hour ride from anyone and everyone she knew. A ten-hour ride if the roads were passable by morning.

And, of all the situations she’d suggested to Farring, Rayne fastening her to a stairwell hadn’t made her list. He’d been rather quick with the suggestion, too.

She pursed her lips.

She’d gain the upper hand…somehow.

Though, to be honest, she wouldn’t mind another tussle. And not because her heart was still thudding with the thrill of a fight, but because—in an act of pure treachery—her heart was still thudding with the greater thrill of being clasped against Rayne’s chest.

Rayne returned to the stairwell, his face impossibly hard. He dangled a key from his hand as he pointed up the stairs.

“Up.”

“Stairwell again.” She hauled herself onto the first stair. “Ironic.” She held the rail as she climbed. “Or funny.”

“There is absolutely nothing amusing about this,” he replied. “Nothing whatsoever.”

“Well”—she glanced over her shoulder—“you must admit you have an unhealthy habit of pushing me upstairs.”

“Did I, or did I not, tell you to be quiet?”

“You quite clearly told me not to speak. On the other hand, you also said you were arranging a room for the express purpose of talking.”

“I will be doing the talking—questions, mostly. You will restrict yourself to answers.”

They came to the numbered door that matched the five inscribed on his key plate. He slipped the key into the lock, turned, and then opened the door.

She strode into the shadowy interior with a confident swing of her hips, as if all of this had been part of her plan.

“I’ll decide what questions I will answer and, for that matter, when and if I speak. If you are nice, I might change my mind about the pirates.”

He set down the lamp and adjusted the wick, and the room brightened.

“Nice? You think I should be—my god!” He grasped her chin in his fingers and tilted her face. He released her and leaned over. “Fuck.”

Thrill raised bumps on her arm. Again…that utterly delicious, terribly vulgar word. She smiled, winced, and then caught the former expression in the mirror. Her left jaw had started to swell. Well, that wasn’t going to be pretty in a few hours. And whether the bumps on her arm were the result of thrill or chill…she was no longer quite sure.

“Is your jaw broken?” he demanded. “Are your ribs?”

She shook her head. “Just bruised, I think.”

He hissed through his teeth. “What devil made you take on those three? And what devil made you think you could convince anyone you were a man? And, for that matter, what the hell were you doing on the back of my carriage?”

My, he commanded a colorful assortment of words.

“Boy,” she corrected. “And I was holding my own, before you blurted out the truth. Besides”—she folded her arms—“pretending to be a boy, or a man, for that matter, is easy enough—I just emptied my mind of thought and chose instead to believe myself superior to every living creature.”

He stared in silence. “Holding your own, were you?”

A knock startled them both. He tensed almost imperceptibly, while she placed her hand over her heart.

“Oh, yes.” He glanced to the ceiling. “You’ve absolutely mastered a man’s mannerisms.”

He yanked open the door. Jack’s hair bobbed as he attempted to see inside the room, but Rayne filled the crack between the door and jamb with his body. Not exactly difficult, muscled as he was.

“Yes?” Rayne demanded.

“I brought your bag, just like you asked.”

“Set it down and be gone,” Rayne replied.

The bag thudded ominously against the floor. For a fleeting second, she wondered if she’d be better off spending the night in the barn with the boys.

“I knew he was a she,” Jack said. “Ain’t ever seen a footman who had eyelashes like that.”

“Well”—Rayne handed the boy another coin—“you’re going to forget you ever saw those eyelashes. Repeat after me—I ain’t never seen anyone with the lodger at all.”

“Pardon?” Julia interrupted indignantly. “Just what are you going to do with me?”

“You”—Rayne didn’t turn—“be quiet, or I’ll consider a gag.”

“Oh.” Jack’s voice had a smile. “Is that how it is? Well, then. Came here alone, you did, Mr. Laithe. Me and the boys will swear it.”

Julia placed her hands on her hips. “Well, that’s a fine feather, Jack! The least you could do after nearly breaking a lady’s jaw is make certain she’s—”

Rayne’s heated glance sucked the word unmolested right out of her throat.

“What ya mean, there, Stanley?” Jack called from the corridor.

“Well.” She stiffened, looking Rayne in the eye. “What if this gentleman plans to abduct me?”

“Seems the other way around. You were the one hanging off the back of his carriage.”

Jack, at least, had properly judged the situation.

“And…” Jack chuckled. “If you’ll pardon, miss, he’s seen your right hook. Doubt he’ll take chances. I warn you, though, guv. It’s a good one…for a girl.”

Rayne’s gaze remained fixed to hers. “Hardly.”

She flexed her hand and curled it back into a fist. Rayne’s stare moved to her hand then back to her face. He actually had the gall to smile.

A very, very wicked smile.

“But now that I think, guv, I’m not sure it’d be right,” Jack reasoned, “leaving her here with you when she’s scared.”

“You”—Rayne turned back to Jack—“who were about to beat her to a pulp? Forgive me if I doubt your sudden concern. And she’s not scared. I’ve never once seen her scared. Especially when she should be.”

“What do you mean to do to her, anyway? And what’s she to you?”

“I intend, if you must know, to make sure she’s warm and dry. As to who she is… This is Mrs. Katerina van Heldt, widely understood to have been my cousin’s mistress.”

The bottom dropped out of Julia’s stomach.

“Now,” Rayne continued, “you mistook me for the earl, which is understandable. But he’s bigger and meaner than I am. Do you actually think I’d lay a hand on his mistress—especially one who had taken such trouble to trick me into taking her to him?”

“Bigger and meaner? Not if you was right in the head.”

“I trust I’ve settled your concerns and your curiosity. You may go.”

“Gone,” Jack replied. “And I ain’t seen nothing. Good luck getting back to your gent, miss.”

Rayne kicked the bag back into the room and then closed the door.

“Katerina is your mistress?!” Julia forced out.

He unbuckled the bag. “Widely understood doesn’t necessarily mean actually was.”

“But is she?”

“Is she?” He glanced up. “No.”

Her heart hadn’t slowed. “Was she?”

As in had Katerina been Rayne’s mistress when they’d kissed in Southford’s stairwell…when she’d announced to her family she loved him?

Rayne ran his fingers through his hair. “My past lovers aren’t any of your concern, are they, footman?”

Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades, Katerina had been his mistress. Which could only mean Farring had been dead wrong—Rayne never had any feelings for her at all.

A wave of heat flashed through her, followed by the sudden realization she was chilled. Desperately chilled.

And exhausted.

And starving.

And, above all, completely humiliated.

…

Had Rayne thought Julia a scourge when she was speaking? Her silence was worse. In silence, he read all the despicable things about himself he already knew to be true.

He’d used her.

Finally, she understood.

The bitter part was, Katerina hadn’t been his lover—ever. Allowing the ton to believe she was had been an aspect of one of the only generous, altruistic acts in which he’d ever participated.

Katerina had lost everything when France had invaded her home. She’d survived, for a time, as a French general’s mistress. Her life had intersected with Rayne’s when, following a battle, she’d managed to help a wounded English soldier and his wife escape imprisonment.

The soldier—who turned out to be Farring’s runaway oldest sibling and Rayne’s close friend—had directed Katerina to Rayne’s residence, and, though Rayne and Farring had hatched a plan to hide all three at Periwinkle Gate, Katerina’s former associations meant she’d be scrutinized, and scrutiny meant danger for the other people who had found refuge at the Gate.

However, for Katerina to take up residence in London, she needed a man powerful enough to provide good reason for the home office not to send her back to her war-torn country…a connection salacious enough to prevent deeper inquiry into the soldier and his fate.

In other words, she’d needed Diamonds.

Rayne pinched the bridge of his nose.

None of this was his story to tell—lives still depended on secrecy.

And if Julia believed without questioning what everyone else had taken for granted, so be it. She deserved to feel embarrassed.

She’d endangered him.

She’d endangered herself.

And he hadn’t any idea how he was going to get them both out of the mess she’d created. All he could do was focus on the next step—getting her out of her wet clothes before her chill brought on something worse.

A furious Julia would survive, kicking. But if she fell ill…

He tossed around his neatly folded clothes, looking for his nightshirt while cursing himself for not having a better option than something he wore to bed.

He might never be able to sleep in the thing again, but at least she’d be dry and covered.

“Why are you suddenly so quiet?” he asked. “And what did you mean ‘change your mind about the pirates’?”

She kept her eyes on the growing ring of wet droplets around her boots. “I—” Her voice wobbled just a touch. “I am deciding what I am going to do with you—if you attempt to prevent me from proceeding.”

“You’re trying to decide what to do with me?”

“Yes,” she gritted out. “I require your carriage. In the process, you may consider yourself tangentially abducted.”

Preposterous thing. Didn’t even make sense. “Abducted, am I?”

She closed one eye. “You—you might o-oblige me by appearing sufficiently frightened.”

He went back to sorting through his clothes. “I’m not.” He pushed apart the sides of the valise as far as they could go. “Strike that. I am frightened. Do you know what Bromton and Markham are going to do to me when they catch up with us?”

She snorted. “Don’t count on them to save you.”

Save him? More like string him up by his toenails. “They are probably hot on our heels as we speak. I wouldn’t be surprised if they break down that very door before dawn.”

“S-sorry to disappoint. B-Bromton is on his way back to London. M-Markham is on his w-wedding trip. T-they have no id-dea I’m not still in the village.”

He exhaled and closed his eyes. “If that’s true—and I don’t for a moment believe it is—at least that means I can have you back before anyone notices you’re gone.”

“N-n-no you w-w.” She stopped trying to speak.

“Since you can’t finish a sentence, you might as well admit defeat.” Finally! His shirt! He shook out the linen.

“You are j-j-just going to go to b-b-bed?” she demanded indignantly.

“No.” He held out his shirt. “You are going to change while I go down and get us something to eat.”

Her eyes went round. “You want m-me to put on that?”

“Did you bring anything else to wear?”

“No.”

“Well, then. Get out of those clothes before you catch your death.”

She snatched the shirt. He turned away, feeling her glare burning against his back.

He went into the corridor and shut the door behind him. Something heavy—likely her breeches—thudded against the floor.

Fuck. Those breeches.

One never could tell a woman’s true form. Now, because of those breeches, he no longer had to imagine the shape of her thighs.

He gritted his teeth and headed down the stairs.

He collected a bowl of stew and a bowl of bone broth from Mrs. White, declining her half-hearted offer of assistance.

Mrs. White’s distaste—her judgment—was written into the lines of her face. No matter. She’d proven herself mercenary, and he was used to disdain by now. There was no point in trying to convince her that nothing untoward was going to happen in that room tonight.

Which, of course, was true, if hard to believe.

Besides, the less Mrs. White saw of Julia, the better. Jack, Rayne trusted to keep his mouth shut—Jack wasn’t going to admit to getting duped. But Mrs. White?

Abductions ended two ways—a hushed-up marriage or an expensive, public prosecution. If the woman was of unblemished character—like Julia—the latter would cause her embarrassment and, perhaps, forced retirement to the country. The man, however, would be ruined. His word, good as mud.

He’d no doubt which path Markham would pursue. The last thing he needed was to people the witness box on Markham’s behalf. News of such a sensational trial would spread even to New York—obliterating his refuge.

For now, Mrs. White believed Julia was Katerina. And, if she were to spread the tale, Katerina would, no doubt, claim she’d been the one in his room. Apparently, his small role in her rescue resulted in Katerina’s continued belief he could do no wrong, despite all evidence to the contrary.

But if Julia convinced Mrs. White she was, as she asserted, abducting him with the intent of forcing him to wed, there was no telling what mayhem would follow.

He frowned as he ascended the stair.

Did Julia intend to force him to wed? She’d only asserted she was abducting him—of all the ridiculous things—but she’d also said something about requiring a carriage, hadn’t she?

He supposed he’d soon find out. He knocked on the door with his elbow.

She opened the door, the lamp setting her shape aglow from behind. He looked away from an accidental peek at her tempting silhouette.

“I hate you,” she said as he passed. “I-I’ve been trying to decide how I feel, and I’ve de-decided.”

“Well”—he set down the bowls—“that makes all this far more logical.”

He proceeded to collect the tinderbox and then blinked in surprise at the young but cheerful fire in the grate.

How many young ladies could light a fire with only a tinder box, some kindling, and a log? How many could have hung off the back of a coach for more than thirty damn miles?

He refused to be impressed.

“I-If you must know—”

He knelt down and laid another log onto the fire.

“—I am not after you!”

He snorted. “Of course not.”

“You arrogant ass.”

He lifted the poker and poked at the flames. At least her teeth had stopped chattering. “So, let’s hear this… Why were you abducting me?”

“I said,” she replied, closer behind him now. “I was after the traveling chariot… I…I require conveyance.”

“Conveyance.” He jabbed the coals.

“To the Scottish border. Where I p-plan to meet one Edmund Alistair Clarke, Lord Belhaven.”

Her voice softened as she spoke the name. His blood ran cold, though for what reason, he could not imagine.

He replaced the poker and stared into the growing flames.

So what if she wasn’t after him after all? This was a blessing. A bloody triumph. Only, who the devil was Edmund Alistair Clarke?

The name sounded vaguely familiar.

An older man, he thought. Lived in the next county over from the Grange, if Rayne was not mistaken. Then again, he’d been away a long time. And peers had the confusing habit of passing on their names to their children.

He repeated her explanation, just to be sure. “You are headed to the Scottish border.”

“Y-Yes.”

He braced himself on the mantle. “To meet Edmund Alistair whats-his-name.”

“It-t-t is,” she interrupted, teeth chattering once again, “a g-grand love s-s-story.”

The log cracked, and something within him fanned to flame. Something violent. He rose to his feet.

“You reckless little—” He swung around. “Good God!”

She’d turned blue. Blue.