Outrageous

“You’ve already said that. Several times, in fact.”

Lady Eva was sitting across from him, hugging herself tightly, her face a mask of fury.

“My father will kill you when he finds you.”

“He will shoot you and run you through with his sword.”

Godric chuckled. “A thorough, man, is he?”

She cut him a narrow-eyed look that pulsed with loathing. “He is one of the finest hands with a pistol or a sword in all of Britain. He will make short work of you.”

“I have no doubt he could vanquish me with either weapon. However, if he kills me, I can hardly take you off his hands, can I?” he asked sweetly.

Her delicate nostrils flared. “I shall never marry you. Never.”

“Oh come, my lady. How could you think this would end any other way? You’ve spent the last twenty-four hours or so with me—much of it alone together in this carriage. If you think Lord Exley wouldn’t hold a gun to my head if I didn’t marry you, then you are deluding yourself.” He shook his head, giving her his own hate-filled stare. “You’ve done for us both quite nicely: we are both firmly trussed up—together—just like a Christmas goose.”

Godric could see the truth of his words penetrating the thick wall of fury that surrounded her. And his words were most certainly true: she’d bound them together when she concocted this asinine caper. He shook his head, all but choked by angry despair as he contemplated the future she’d forced on both of them. He might have the war hysteria, as she’d accused, and now he would have a mad wife to keep him company. And if she wasn’t mad, she certainly behaved as if she was.

As if reading his mind she said, “Your grandfather will never allow you to marry me.”

“I am a grown man, my lady,” Godric said, putting enough cold disdain in his tone to freeze a small body of water. “The duke does not direct my actions.”

“But you are his heir. And if you marry me, then—” For once the little harridan could not give voice to her thoughts.

“I am his heir but there is an abundance of second and third cousins. I have plenty of male relations to inherit without making a copy of myself for the dukedom.” He cut her a cold look. “You may take comfort in the fact that I will never put a child inside you.”

Her beautiful ivory cheeks flared and she blinked rapidly. “You mean—”

“Yes, you shan’t have to do your wifely duty and produce an heir.” Godric saw no reason to tell her the real reason he’d not be begetting any children on her—or any other woman—because he didn’t have to tell her. The fact that a strain of madness ran in her family was a convenient—if cruel—excuse. Was it shameless and despicable of Godric to allow her to believe it was fear of her tainted blood that would keep him from breeding her? Yes, it most certainly was. If he had a heart—or a conscience—he might have been bothered by his lie.

For all that her face was usually an open book, Godric could not see what she thought of his words. Perhaps because she didn’t know, herself. She was, after all, an innocent girl, no matter how outrageously she behaved.

“How old are you?” he asked, even though he wasn’t sure that he wanted to know the answer.

“That is an impertinent question.”

“Eighteen?” He grimaced when she did not answer. “Good Lord. Seventeen?”

“I am nineteen,” she snapped. “Not that it is any of your concern.”

He didn’t bother telling her that his future wife’s age was very much his concern. Godric wouldn’t be surprised to learn she was lying. She seemed younger than nineteen, but perhaps that was her behavior. He had to admit he’d not come across a girl quite like her before, not that schoolroom chits were an area where he could claim any vast experience.

He pulled his gaze away and looked out the window. His sister Louisa would have been nineteen this year. She was as different from the firebrand across from him as two girls could be. She’d shared Godric’s fair coloring but her temperament had been gentle and sweet. Louisa was like a dove to Eva de Courtney’s hawk. Or perhaps his wife-to-be resembled a more clever bird like a raven or magpie; clever and mischievous and difficult to control.

“I can’t believe James would leave me in your clutches,” she groused.

Godric did not turn away from the rain-spattered window. “He did so for your own good.”

“How do you know that? You didn’t even talk to him.”

“I didn’t need to; he heard what I had to say and knew it was the truth—just as you would know if you’d take a moment to consider matters. The boy is no fool—for all that you have twisted him around your finger. He knew how this must end. Besides,” he added just because he could not resist poking her, “if you think he fancied the notion of tramping about the countryside playing nursemaid to a gently bred lady in—”

“I do not need anyone to play nursemaid for me,” she said through clenched teeth.

Godric watched as she struggled with her fury, all but glowing with rage at his words. How interesting: a girl who didn’t mind being called mad but became furious when you questioned her self-sufficiency? It demonstrated an unattractive and unfeminine tendency toward independence. But worse than that, it showed she was opinionated and tenacious and committed to getting her way.

Well, so was he: what a marriage they would have.

“Why are we having this argument, Lady Eva? What purpose does it serve? He is gone and you are with me. By tonight we will be in Doncaster. When we arrive I shall summon Sir Bertram. I will put you in a room, find you suitable clothing, and we shall continue our journey toward the border on the morrow.”

She bared her teeth and leaned forward. “You shall have to drag me to Scotland in chains.”

“It is all the same to me,” he said coolly. He’d be damned if he’d let the chit goad him into a shouting match.

Her face fell when she saw he could not be drawn. “Why? Why are you doing this?” she begged, her full lower lip quivering in a way that gave him wicked and highly inappropriate thoughts. “If you let me go now, nobody will ever know. You can go on with your life—I have seen you with The Kitten, I know you fancy her, you could marry her if you release me.”

Godric didn’t tell her that up until this morning—when he’d woken up in this bloody carriage—he’d had no intention of marrying anyone, ever. But what would be the point?

“I find this topic tedious, my lady.” He cut her a repressive look. “If you cannot come up with something more interesting to say, perhaps you might have done and give us both some desperately needed peace and quiet.”

He might as well have saved his breath.

“I shall be the worst wife ever.”

Godric did not doubt it for a moment.

“I shall run away at the first opportunity and I shall—”

His hands shot out and he grabbed her upper arms, pulling her close until their noses were almost touching. “What you shall do is take yourself and your emotions in hand. You are nineteen, not nine. If you think I will tolerate bad behavior—threats, wildness, vulgar language, or disrespect—you are sorely mistaken. You will begin behaving like a lady from this moment on or I will find inventive and uncomfortable methods to encourage you to do so. And if you should have occasion to feel sorry for yourself and your predicament, let me remind you that you are the one who began all this by kidnapping me. It is time you learned your actions have consequences.”

Her jaw hung open, her remarkable eyes went wide, and tangled masses of blue-black hair surrounded her heart-shaped face. Godric had the maddest urge to suck her plump lower lip into his mouth, pull her into his lap, and let his hands roam her small but exceedingly curvaceous and touchable body. She looked bloody delicious in her tight buckskins and miniature top boots. He could have her out of her breeches in the blink of an eye. His cock throbbed and he wondered if she liked to ride; he would certainly enjoy teaching her to ride him.

Godric flinched from his own thoughts in horror: What the hell was wrong with him? Good Lord, the last thing he needed to do was bed this hellion in a fit of anger. He thrust her back onto her seat. That was the last thing either of them needed. He would bed her when the time came, to make sure the marriage was legal, but that would be an end to it. He’d not been speaking in jest when he said he would not put a child in her.

Godric turned to stare out the window, forcing his thoughts to stop moving, breathing deeply and evenly, tricks he’d learned during the long years he fought in the war. Most people believed he’d led an active and exciting life. The truth was that war was boredom punctuated by unexpected moments of chaos and merciless violence. A person could go mad in such an environment unless they developed a method of coping.

Madness. He cut her a swift look. But she was gazing out the other window, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her features taut. Was she mad? Was he? He’d certainly felt a certain type of madness when he’d heard the news about his family in his hospital bed in Portugal.

“I am sorry, Colonel,” the King’s guardsman had said, “but I have some rather bad news.”

Yes, rather bad. Even now Godric couldn’t help his bitter smile: how like an Englishman to call losing most of one’s family rather bad news.

One moment he’d been pitying himself because his injury would not allow him to walk for longer than ten minutes at a time. The next, he was utterly without a family.

Yes, rather bad news, indeed.

Godric had learned one very, very, very important lesson that day. No matter how bad one’s life was, it could always become worse.

* * *

The King’s Arms was the busiest posting inn Eva had ever seen. Postilions appeared to be lurking in the hedges that bordered the road, awaiting incoming carriages and coaches. Another inn sat on the opposite side of the road and some sort of competition was raging between them. The scene was chaotic as the chaise rolled up to the crowded courtyard and stopped behind several others.

“We will wait in here,” Lord Visel said, his commanding tone making her bristle. “And if you have any thoughts of weaving creative tales of pirate kings or kidnappings or any other drivel, I advise you to forget it. The innkeeper knows me quite well, as I’ve ridden this way many times.” He gave her a mocking smile. “You see, this inn is on the way to my family’s country seat, Cross Hall.”

She ignored him.

They waited less than two minutes before the door opened.

A portly man dressed in the clothing of an innkeeper stood in the doorway, beaming as he lowered the steps himself.

“Ah, it is you, my Lord Visel. What a pleasure it is to see you again, sir.” His eyes flickered briefly to the earl’s unusual hair color, but of course the simpering sycophant made no mention of that.

“Thank you for your warm welcome, Mr. Johnson.” Visel’s pale, amused eyes landed on Eva. “I’m afraid I have a rather delicate situation.”

Mr. Johnson’s head bobbed up and down like an amorous pigeon’s. “Oh, yes, my lord. Young Oliver explained it all to me.”

Visel cut her an openly diverted look. “Oh, he did, did he?”

Eva narrowed her eyes at him.

“Yes,” the innkeeper said, “he told me you were engaged on a mission of, er, some delicacy.”

The earl laughed. “I suspected he was a wise boy. Did he mention summoning Sir Bertram?”

The innkeeper’s servile face flushed a dull red. “Well, as a matter of fact, sir, he did. But that was before I saw you with my own two eyes. Of course now that I know it is really you, I wouldn’t—”

“Please, do send for him. Tell him it is a matter of some importance. But, in the meantime, I would have your two best chambers and a private parlor.” His cold gaze flickered over Eva. “I believe we shall use your side entrance just now.”

Mr. Johnson had not stopped nodding. “Of course, my lord, right away.” His small eyes slid toward Eva and he recoiled at whatever he saw on her face, darting away without waiting for a response.

“You frightened him, my dear,” Visel said mildly.

Eva tried to catch Jemmy’s eye, but he flipped up the steps and closed the door with a quick snap, clearly too ashamed by his traitorous behavior to look her in the eye.

She tried to find something in Visel’s plan to complain about, but couldn’t. She was every bit as eager as he was to avoid notice. It would make everything easier after she escaped him and made her way to Lady Repton’s.

Once the carriage stopped, he exited first and offered her his hand. Eva ignored it and hopped down without any help from him.

The side door opened as they approached it. “Ah, yes, right in here my lord, my . . . er . . .” The rotund innkeeper blinked down at Eva, his round face shiny and red. “I beg your pardon, but if you’ll take these back stairs, you’ll be more private.”

Visel took her elbow in a firm, unbreakable grip as the innkeeper led them to the second floor.

“This is our nicest room, my lord.”

“This is yours,” Visel told her, before turning to the innkeeper. “Have a bath brought up for her ladyship, and I’d also like to engage a maid for her and—”

“I don’t need a maid. I can take care of myself. And I don’t want—”

“Would you excuse us a moment, Mr. Johnson?” the earl asked, not waiting for an answer before pulling her inside the room and shutting the door in the stunned innkeeper’s face.

Eva yanked her arm, but he would not release her.

“Listen to me.” It was an iron tone of command Eva recognized: Lord Visel sounded remarkably like her father. But he was not her father and she was under no obligation to obey him.

She glared up at him. “Let go of my arm.” She infused the words with all the venom she could muster, but his grip didn’t loosen.

“Do not argue with me every step of the way or it will become tedious for both of us.”

“Let me go and you won’t have to worry about me and my tedium.”

He walked her backward, until she was pressed against the wall, his tall, hard body not stopping until they were touching from shoulders to hips. He took her chin in strong, warm fingers and tilted her face to his, holding her immobile when she tried to pull away. This close to him she could see his irises were a dozen shades of blue intermixed with shards of white, the iris rimmed with pale, pale gold. The lines that fanned out from his eyes were myriad and distinct, and the grooves between his nose and mouth were etched deeply. Bits of gold glinted under the light of the wall sconce: his night beard. Something about seeing the tiny hairs scattered across his angular jaw and determined chin made her aware of her body, especially the region south of her belly and north of her knees: this was the face of a man, not a boy.

As Eva looked into his penetrating blue eyes, she knew manipulating him would not be easy; he was not the sort of man to bend to her will.

“If you behave like a child, I’ll treat you as one.” His body pressed against hers and the words rumbled like the threat of approaching thunder.

“How dare you speak to me this way? I am not your wife and have no intention of assuming that position, no matter what you say.”

His lips twitched. “Trust me, darling, you will assume any position I say when the time comes.” His smile disappeared. “You kidnapped me, hit me on the head, and dragged me halfway across the country. I dare a good deal at this point. I will not fight you every step of the way to Scotland. I will not argue in front of others. I will not be made a fool of. Do you understand me? I will punish you in private. I will put you over my knee and paddle you like the willful, wild, undisciplined, spoiled child you are.”

She gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

One side of his mouth pulled up, the action unveiling a dimple in his tanned cheek. “Oh, but I would. And I daresay my hand would enjoy meeting your bottom.” His eyes dropped to her mouth and his nostrils flared and for one dreadful moment she thought he was going to kiss her.

For one dreadful moment Eva wanted him to.

Instead, he thrust her away, strode to the door, flung it open and closed it ungently behind him, leaving her alone.

* * *

“Good Lord, Godric—this is remarkable.”

“So you’ve said, Bertie—at least a half dozen times already.” Godric topped up his friend’s glass and his own while he was about it.

The other man, shorter, plumper, and with considerably less hair than the last time Godric had seen him, took a deep pull and shook his head yet again. “I’ve never heard anything like it—a chit kidnapping a man right from a ton party. If you told her father this story, you could not rightly be expected to marry her.”

“If this story got out I would be the laughing stock of all England, Bertie. The great war hero Godric Fleming kidnapped by a girl barely out of the schoolroom? I think not. Besides, the chit would be ruined.”

“But isn’t she already ruined? I mean she is—”

Godric lifted his eyebrows at the other man and Bertie froze. “Have a care, Bertie. She is to be my wife.”

Bertie took a big swig from his glass before answering. “Yes, yes, of course, old chap.”

Godric forced himself to relax. “How are Amelia and the children?”

Bertie perked up. “She’s blooming. We’ve got seven now.”

“Seven! Good lord, Bertie—don’t you ever let the poor woman have a night’s rest?”

Bertie’s homely face flushed with pride. “Four boys and three girls. All strapping, fine youngsters who take after their mother in their looks.”

“That is worth raising a glass to.”

They toasted Bertie’s fine-looking children.

After that they drank several more toasts, becoming increasingly loose as the evening wore on. Godric had ordered a separate dinner for his betrothed and had not seen her since leaving her room. He’d been wise enough to lock her door but wouldn’t have been surprised to catch her crawling out the window, falling, and cracking her head open on the cobbles below. So he’d told Johnson to pay a man to stand in the back courtyard all night. The innkeeper had looked at him as if he were unhinged, but it was better than hieing across the country searching for her tomorrow morning.

The woman was bloody exhausting.

And you will get to spend the rest of your life with her. Mocking laughter echoed in his head.

Christ.

Bertie maundered on about some hunt or other while Godric tried to impose order on his mental chaos. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told the girl he’d not planned to marry The Kitten. What she didn’t know was that he’d not planned to remarry at all. It had been an enormous bone of contention between himself and his grandfather, the Duke of Tyndale.

From the moment Godric’s uncle—the present duke’s eldest surviving son—had been killed in a carriage accident, his grandfather had come after Godric with a singlemindedness that was dizzying, even going so far as to make a journey to the Continent to apply pressure on him to sell out and come home. When Godric had refused, the duke had pressured the Beau to speak to him.

When Wellington had summoned Godric to dinner, he’d been fairly certain why he was being honored. “You’ve done your duty to your country for fifteen years, Lord Visel.” The duke’s use of Godric’s courtesy title told him what was coming next. “Now it is time you do your duty to your family.” Wellington was one of the most powerful men in the world; he was also Godric’s commander. He could not disobey the Iron Duke, even if the man had only been making a suggestion.

So he’d sold out and come home. Tyndale had wanted to install him in the country estate that had always been occupied by the ducal heir, a rambling nightmare of a place where Godric would rattle around like a pea in a dried-out pod.

That had been the first of his grandfather’s orders that he’d ignored. He would live at Cross Hall, he told the duke. What he hadn’t told the other man—one of his few remaining relatives—was that he needed to live there. The death of his father, mother, two brothers and their wives and children, and his young sister, had only become real to him when he’d set foot in his childhood home. Never could he have imagined it so empty—so silent. Even with all the servants still occupying it, the house was like a tomb. A tomb without bodies. Because none of the bodies of his family had been recovered after their ship had been sunk by pirates.

“Godric?”

He looked up at the sound of his name and saw that Bertie was staring at him.

“Sorry, Bertie, I’m afraid I’m knackered and drifted a bit.”

“Quite so, quite so, old chap. Here I am rattling on.” Luckily Bertie was too good-natured to take offense at Godric’s inattention. “I was just saying I could send word to Samuel Porter, the local tailor. It’s late, but I know he’d work through the night if it meant kitting out a duke’s heir.”

“Yes, that would be excellent. I’ve only got this to wear.” He gestured to the rather battered clawhammer and buckskins he’d had on beneath his costume. “And I managed to lose my purse somewhere along the way, I’m afraid,” he said, not wanting to tell his friend that his bride-to-be had stolen his money and given it to her accomplice. “I shall need to dun you.”

“Of course, don’t give it another thought.” Bertie grinned, his eyes flickering to the top of Godric’s head. “I’m guessing you’ll want to wash that out as well.”

Godric squinted and then recalled what he’d done for the masquerade ball.

“What do you think, Bertie?” he jested tiredly. “Does it suit me?”

“I think that shade of black is not for you, old man. Besides, you wouldn’t want to hide your gold curls from your adoring flocks of women.” He stopped abruptly, his pudgy cheeks coloring. “Although I suppose those days might be behind you now that you’re getting shackled.”

Godric thought of his female companion stewing away a few doors down: his wife-to-be. He snorted and pushed away any questions of women, adoring or otherwise, and smiled at his friend.

“I suppose you’d better send a message to a dressmaker as well as a tailor.”