Ripe for Scandal (5 page)

Gareth grinned. Get him to stop, give her swain a chance to catch up, give her a chance to slip away and run back to him.
Cunning, conniving, and unstoppable. That was Beau. “Not just yet, brat. I’d like a bit more distance between us and them
before I do.”

“Agreed, but my busk broke when he kicked me, and it hurts like the devil. Monty’s jostling is killing me.”

He straightened in the saddle, stiffening his seat, and Monty planted his hooves and skidded to a halt. “He what?”

Gareth swung his leg over Monty’s neck and took them both down to the ground in a single motion. That didn’t sound like one
of her tricks, and the thought of it brought the red haze back to the edge of his vision.

“What do you mean he kicked you?”

Beau swayed unsteadily as she got her feet beneath her. Gareth gripped her shoulders and looked her over. Her hair was a tumbled
riot, and there was what looked like a bruise waxing across one cheekbone. She looked exhausted. The hollows beneath her eyes
were deep and shadowed, the skin almost papery.

“He didn’t take it at all kindly when I hit him with a chamber pot.” Her fingers popped the hooks that held her jacket closed.
“Now help me, please.”

Gareth sucked in a breath and did as directed. That
might have been the first
please
he’d ever had from her. He tugged off her jacket, stripping the damp silk from her with difficulty. She dragged her trailing
hair over one shoulder, and he jerked loose the knot that held her stays laced tightly shut.

“Are you telling me I should have shot him?”

“Yes!”

The venom in that single word took him aback. “My apologies, bantling. Next time I’ll try to do better.”

He took a deep breath and whipped the cord free with sharp, deliberate movements, trying not to think about the fact that
Lady Boudicea Vaughn was about to stand before him, one damp layer from naked. Trying not to compare the reality of it to
the daydreams he so often used to while away the time.

Damnation. The reality was so much better… and infinitely worse. The cord swung free of the last hole and she ripped her stays
away from her body, flinging them to the ground as though she despised them as much as she did her abductor.

Her head was bent forward, exposing the nape of her neck, the visible trail of her spine leading downward into her shift.
He traced it with his finger, stopping only when he reached the tie that held her petticoats in place.

Gareth stared at her back, at the sheer linen clinging damply to her skin, at the ties to her petticoats, lying quiescent
beneath his fingertips.

Heaven help him.

She shivered and stepped away, and he told himself firmly that it was just the rain. That shiver hadn’t been for him, because
of him.

She retrieved her jacket from where he’d laid it across the saddle and turned to face him, fabric clutched to her chest. “You
said rescuing me from myself.” Her brow furrowed. “You thought I was eloping?” Anger and annoyance flared in her voice, bringing
it down an octave.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

She blinked, drawing a clearly affronted breath. “Leo wouldn’t have told you that. Never.”

“I was with him when your father came to fetch him. It was impossible not to put the facts together and come to the obvious
conclusion.”

She set her mouth in a mulish line and shoved her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. “Well, you put it together as badly
then as you did just now. I have
never
eloped.”

Abducted. The flash of rage returned. That any man should presume to touch her, to force her. “You’re right. I should have
shot the bastard.”

He stooped to retrieve her stays, his brain clearly picturing the sway of her breasts, the rosy shadow of her nipples, the
way that the damp fabric clung to every luscious curve.

It was so clear in his mind that he might as well have looked his fill. Instead, he rolled the stays tightly and bound them
with their cord and then jammed them into his saddlebag. When he turned back, she was nearly done refastening her jacket,
though it gapped and pulled across the swell of her unrestrained breasts.

Chivalry withered in his chest, burnt to a crisp by the flare of desire, of lust and covetousness. He really was no better
than the men who’d taken her. Or if he was, it was only because her brother was his friend. That single
fact was the only thing allowing him to cling to honor even now.

“I think you’ve missed a few hooks, but you’ll do.” He remounted and held out his hand. She took it, and using his foot as
her stirrup, leveraged herself into his lap.

Gareth unbuttoned his greatcoat and pulled her inside it, warding off as much of the rain as he could. She sat stiffly in
the circle of his arms, clearly still affronted.

Rescuer or fellow villain, which was he? Which did he want to be? He’d told himself all these years he was a good man, but
with every passing second it felt more and more like a lie.

CHAPTER 5

P
adrig Nowlin watched the rump of the highwayman’s gray mount disappear into the rain and the mist with horror and sickening
disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. They’d planned everything so carefully.
He’d
planned everything so carefully.

Whoever heard of a highwayman acting as this one had? And what kind of woman threw herself into the arms of an unknown criminal?
She hadn’t done it because she was scared of him either. Lady Boudicea had proved to be everything he’d been warned she was:
fickle, fast with her favors, and too cunning by far. A lady in name only. Not that it mattered. Padrig would have served
up the Virgin herself if it meant saving his sister.

Panic welled up, flooding his chest, freezing his limbs. This couldn’t be happening. She’d stranded him in the middle of nowhere
with no means of paying the coachman or returning to London. The queasy feeling deepened, threatening to bring his lunch back
up.

All he’d been asked to do was deliver Lady Boudicea
Vaughn to Gretna. One simple thing. One simple damn thing and his debts would be cleared. He’d have the title to his family’s
estate back in his possession, and his little sister would never hear from Mr. George Granby again. The world would never
learn that Maeve had spent the better part of three months as Mr. Granby’s mistress in London in some ill-conceived plan of
her own to clear Padrig’s debts.

Padrig had just wanted Granby gone. Him and all the trouble he’d brought. And if someone had to pay the price, better it was
a stranger than Maeve. A duke would have the means to sugarcoat his daughter’s disgrace. Padrig didn’t have any such luxury,
and neither did his sister.

What the hell was he going to do now?

CHAPTER 6

B
eau eyed the façade of The Pig and Whistle with trepidation. The sign swung in the wind, threatening to come free of its mooring
at any second. The half-timbered walls appeared to be slowly sagging out from under the thatched roof, spreading like a warm
pudding freshly loosed from the mould.

“They won’t ask questions, and that’s all that matters.” Sandison’s breath caressed her ear. His jaw brushed hers, the abrasive
touch racing through her, making her tighten and pulse.

It was indecent the way he made her feel. The gossips could label her wanton, and they’d be right. Oh, so very right… She’d
been all too aware of him since she’d turned and found him watching her like she was a Boxing Day feast.

He’d been calling her brat and bantling, as though she were still a child, but he certainly wasn’t looking at her as if she
were one. Finally. She’d wanted him to look at her in exactly that manner for nearly as long as she could
remember, since before she’d even really comprehended what it meant… and now that he had, she had no idea what to do next.

Or rather, she had a very good idea—she had a sister-in-law who had been a courtesan, after all—but the odds of her brother’s
friend doing anything as suicidal as seducing her were nil. Only he didn’t know the truth. She was already ruined. Nothing
he did from this point forward could hurt her.

But it could hurt him.

She breathed in the scent of him: sandalwood and amber. He swung her down from the saddle, and her eyes pricked with heat.
She could see her path out, her chance to stay in England with her family, to avoid exile, to salvage something of the life
that she’d planned and wanted. But it was only possible if she sacrificed Sandison. And it would leave her at his mercy after
she’d done so.

He leapt from the saddle, the skirt of his greatcoat flying out, shedding water like a bird’s wing. Together they led Monty
into what passed for the Pig and Whistle’s stable. Sandison rousted the stable boy with his foot and handed over the gelding’s
reins.

“There’ll be a shilling for you in the morning if he’s seen to properly. Rub him down, give him fresh water, and feed him.”

Sandison tossed his saddlebags over his shoulder and led her into the inn. Beau’s knees nearly gave out as they mounted the
steps. She was really going to do this. There was no other choice. Sandison propped her up and pushed her forward into the
nearly empty taproom.

A greasy man in a leather apron rounded the bar.
“A room,” Sandison said, a hand nestled at her waist as though it belonged there. Heat pulsed through the wet fabric, radiating
into her skin. “And dinner. Whatever the ordinary is will be fine, so long as it’s hot and it’s served in our room.”

“Of course, sir. Such a nasty night to be out. Would you be wanting ale or wine with supper?”

“Wine if it’s drinkable. Ale if the wine’s going to strip my innards raw and leave me crying for my mother.”

The innkeeper nodded. “Martha will show you to your room. Martha!” A stumpy girl appeared, wiping her hands on her drab skirts.
She motioned to them and headed up the stairs without looking back.

Beau clutched her sopping wet petticoats in both hands and followed the girl up the dank staircase. The room they were led
to was as dark and cold as the stairs, but Martha lit the coal that lay waiting in the grate and the candle stubs that sat
upon the mantle.