Anne Barbour (29 page)

At least Jack had taken that filthy rag from her mouth. She had no doubt that he would carry out his threat to render her unconscious again were she to call out. But... if she could just put herself out of his reach once they reached a village.  Perhaps ...

She gave an experimental tug on the rope that bound her wrists, and her heart leapt. In his haste, Jack—or his surly young cohort—had not tied them very securely. Trying to keep her movement to a minimum in order to avoid notice, she began to work her hands back and forth. At first her efforts met with little success, but after a small eternity she began to feel a loosening of the rope. At one point, Jack pulled the rug back, and Alison immediately slumped forward, her head drooping to one side as though she were on the verge of fainting.

“Jack, please ...” she whimpered, and her captor shrugged an apology.

“I’m truly sorry, Alison—” he paused, his mouth twisting in a grimace, “I do seem to say that to you fairly frequently, don’t I? If only you had not been so recalcitrant. You’ll see, Alison, that I have only your best interests at heart. Life in London as a wealthy woman will suit you much better than mouldering away in Bath at the beck and call of a crotchety old woman.”

Alison, unable to give vent to even one of the furious responses this ingenuous speech provoked, contented herself with a contemptuous glare. Unheeding, Jack continued. “We won’t have to keep this up for too much longer, my dear. Tomorrow, you may sit on the seat beside me, for there will be no one looking for us then. Felcher, of course, will see that you do not do anything foolish.” With what he no doubt considered a reassuring wink, he tossed the rug over her once more.

Another reason she must escape before they reached tonight’s destination, Alison thought grimly, working in silent fury at the ropes. To her vast relief, it was not long before she was able to slip one of the coils over her wrists, and the rest soon followed. Thank God! Now, all she needed to do was wait until the curricle slowed for a village—or better yet, a tollgate—and she could—

Her racing thoughts were interrupted by a startled cry from Jack. He cursed fluently, and the curricle swerved violently before picking up speed. Cautiously, her hands still held behind her, Alison wriggled enough so that the rug fell away from her head. Jack’s attention was wholly centered on the road ahead, as was that of Felcher, although both glanced frequently over their shoulders.

Risking further movement, Alison twisted so that she, too, could see the road behind the curricle. She discerned a vehicle some distance behind them that seemed to be traveling at a great rate of speed. Was it Blickling? Or—her pulse quickened—could it be March? Jack evidently thought this an all-too-real possibility, for he urged his horses on to breakneck speed. His face was contorted with fear, and he did not so much as glance at Alison as she fought free of the rug.

Behind them, the pursuing vehicle grew closer and closer, until...

“March!” The cry sprang involuntarily from Alison’s lips, bringing her immediately to Jack’s notice. He raised a hand to strike her, but she twisted away from him. Bringing both hands up, she grabbed at Jack’s wrists, thrusting them into an upward position that caused the horses to break stride.

With a snarled curse, Jack swung at her, knocking her back to the floor. Alison was dimly aware that behind her, Felcher was moving toward her and she cowered defensively. The next moment, however, to her astonishment. Jack jerked viciously on the reins.

When the vehicle had stopped, he turned to her and, with a savage growl, struck her once more, nearly rendering her unconscious. Felcher loomed over her as well, with fist upraised.

“No!” Jack’s voice cut harshly into the fuzzy haze that surged at the edges of her mind. He reached to shake her shoulder. “Get out!” he snapped.

“What?” she blurted, echoed by Felcher.

“I said get out,” repeated Jack in a high scream. To Felcher, he shouted, “The game’s up, you fool! We can’t outrun Marchford, but if we give him the girl, he’ll give up the chase.”

So saying, he shook her again and jerked her upright with a vicious tug. Still momentarily disoriented, she gaped at him before struggling to do his bidding. She did not move quickly enough to suit Felcher, however, and grasping her with both hands, the burly tiger literally threw her from her seat to the side of the road. Without a second look at her, Jack set the curricle once more into violent motion, and within moments was nearly out of sight.

Alison did not watch his progress, but leapt to her feet to fly along the road toward March. The earl, bringing his vehicle to a shuddering halt, ran to her, and the next instant, she found herself caught in his arms. Pressing against the wonderfully solid, safe length of him, she could only repeat his name over and over, murmuring unintelligible endearments into his waistcoat. She wrapped her arms around him, trying to pull herself even closer, as though she might somehow be absorbed into him.

For a moment, March was content just to hold her, exulting in the fact that he had her safe. He drew his hands over the dusty disarray of her hair and down over her shoulders. He pulled back for an instant to look into her face.

“Alison, my dearest girl. Are you all right?” He stiffened as he observed the bruise discoloring her cheek. “My God! Did that bastard—?”

Shuddering, she nodded, luxuriating in his concern. “But please,” she cried as she felt his muscles bunch beneath her hands, “don’t go after him!” She could not bear to leave his embrace.

He laughed mirthlessly. “No, I shan’t do that—at least for the present. I believe he’s plunging helter-skelter toward a punishment more fitting than any I could contrive for him. There will be some very ugly, angry persons awaiting his return to London.”

Drawing her into his arms again, March led her toward his curricle and assisted her into a seat beside him. Toby, moving to help, beamed a reassuring smile that sat oddly on his elfin features.

“His lordship’s been in a real swivet, ma’am, but we’ve got you safe now, so all’s right and tight.”

Right and tight, indeed, Alison thought muzzily, reveling in the warmth of March’s smile. In the recesses of her mind, she was aware that his daring rescue was merely an indication of his affection for his aunt—in addition, of course, to his famous sense of duty—but she did not want to consider that right now. It was enough for the moment to know that she was safe and to bathe in March’s golden gaze.

March remained oddly silent for the next few miles. Then, straightening as though he had come to a decision, he turned to her. “I believe we will stop at the next inn. You will want to repair yourself before we reach Bath.”

Startled, Alison put a hand to her hair. Gracious, it felt like a rat’s nest! Glancing down at herself, she realized the same might be said of her clothing, which was torn in some places and incredibly dirty.

“Dear me!” she said, blushing. “You are very right. I don’t suppose I can do much for my gown, but if we can procure a clean comb, my hair would benefit, I am sure.”

March grinned at her, but the expression in his eyes was very odd. She could have sworn she beheld a certain possessiveness in their tawny depths, but she must be mistaken. Or, perhaps it was simply the male mentality at work. Rescuing a damsel in distress inevitably granted the rescuer certain prerogatives in arranging the rescuee’s life, she supposed. At any rate, when he turned the curricle into the stable yard of the Five Swans at the top of Bower Hill, she gratefully accepted the offer of a bedchamber where she could put herself to rights. Having accomplished as much as she could in this direction, she betook herself downstairs, where she found the earl waiting for her in a private parlor.

She was a little startled at this circumstance, since she had expected March would want them to be on their way as soon as she was presentable. Her brows lifted in mute question as she entered the room.

March rose to greet her, his eyes drinking in the sight of her. Back in the curricle, with her hair straggling down her back and a bruise on her cheek, she had still managed to look breathtakingly beautiful. Now, her appearance only marginally improved, and with her hair swept into a makeshift knot atop her head, she looked like a princess in disguise. He noted the grace with which she moved toward him and the smile that shone in the depths of her blue eyes, and he swallowed spasmodically.

He took a deep breath. The notion that had struck him on the road had seemed brilliant in its clarity and simplicity at the time, and he had made an instant decision to act on it. There had been only a few moments to consider his next move, and now he was uncertain of his wisdom in proceeding. He knew only that if he were to miss this opportunity, he would regret it bitterly for the rest of his life.

“Do sit down, Alison,” he said briskly, indicating a chair near a curtained window. “May I pour you some wine?” He indicated a tray on a nearby table. “Or perhaps some lemonade?”

Alison was finding his demeanor curious in the extreme. If she did not know better, she would have said he was nervous. The Earl of Marchford nervous? How perfectly ludicrous, she thought.

“Should we not be getting home?” she asked hesitantly.

“Yes, in due time, but I thought this would be a good time to make our plans before facing my aunt and the rest of Bath society.”

“Plans?”

“Yes, for our wedding.” He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, and for a moment, Alison thought she could not have heard him aright. Either that, or she was going mad.

“I—I beg your pardon?” she gasped.

“For our wedding,” he repeated slowly. “I think it best we decide very soon when and where the ceremony should be held.” He cocked his head to one side, putting her very much in mind of a large, expectant cat. “Don’t you?”

“Don’t I what?” she asked dazedly.

March reached out to cover her hand with his own. “I know this must be somewhat confusing to you, my dear, but—

She snatched her hand away. “Confusing! My lord, I think it is you who are all about in your head. You—you spoke of marriage!”

“Yes. Now, do you prefer Bath or London? Or perhaps you would like to be married in Ridstowe.”

“My lord!”

“We must be married, you know—and, by the way, I do think it’s time you dropped that ridiculous *my lord. You must realize that you are utterly compromised.”

Alison’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh! Oh, but...”

“You were thought to have run off with Crawford this morning, and that unspeakable Bumshot female will have brayed the tale all over Bath by this afternoon. Whatever possessed you, by the way, to leave a note for Aunt Edith saying you were eloping with Crawford? And, of course, here you are, completely alone with still another man.”

Alison had by now gone perfectly white, and March ached to gather her into his arms. “I did
not
say I was ... Oh.” Comprehension flooded her face. “I did not want to mention Meg’s name for fear of worrying Lady Edith,” she finished lamely. “Anyway, you are being perfectly ridiculous!” she cried. “Do you think I care for what Mrs. Binsham”—she pronounced the name with great precision—”will say? I know I did nothing wrong, and that is all that counts.”

“Really? What about Aunt Edith? Of course, she will stand by you, but at what cost? How many of her friends will be coming to her dinner parties from now on? How many cuts direct do you suppose she will suffer at the Upper Rooms?”

“Oh, dear God,” said Alison, stricken. She rose abruptly to pace the floor before whirling to him once more. “But to suggest that you are obliged to marry me ... You cannot be serious!”

March, too, rose, and stood before her. He placed his hands on her shoulders and drew her toward him. “I have never been more serious in my life.”

“But—” Her eyes, as she gazed up at him, were like forget-me-nots, fresh from the heart of the forest. “You cannot
wish to
marry me.”

“Of course not,” he said gravely, bending his head to hers. “Why should I want to be leg-shackled to a lovely woman whose wit and intelligence warms me and whose smile turns me to jelly.”

The thought flashed through Alison’s mind that she must somehow save March from himself. It was, she told herself with great firmness, his stupid, single-minded sense of responsibility talking. She must make it clear that she had no intention of accepting his very kind offer. Indeed, she thought, just before his lips came down on hers, the idea of a marriage of convenience between herself and the Earl of Marchford was unthinkable. Dear God, if only she didn’t love him so, were the fast words her brain was able to form as she lost herself in the dazzling wonder of his kiss. If only his mouth weren’t so warm and firm; if only his touch did not send her into a spiral of wanting.

Breathless, she wrenched herself away from him. “My lord,” she said in a completely unsuccessful assumption of authority, “the idea of a marriage of convenience is not at all to my taste. It is very kind of you to offer ... but, I fear we would not suit.”

“Kind! Is that what you are thinking? Do you really think I would offer for you out of a misguided sense of duly?” His gaze bored into hers. “Are you saying that you do not care for me?”

“R-really, my lord,” she stammered, “I am sure I have never given you cause to believe—”

“To believe that your heart is not untouched? I must admit, my very dearest love, that is what I thought until a little while ago. Do you recall your words not an hour hence when you— well, not to put too fine a point on it—you flung yourself into my arms?”

The pallor of Alison’s cheeks was replaced by a painful flush, as she put her hands to her face. “Oh! Oh, noo-oo,” she wailed. “You heard? I did not think—that is...” She backed away from him. “It is not gentlemanly to throw words spoken in—in distress in my face.”

March’s laughter was gentle as he gathered her into his arms once more. “No, it is not, my very dearest love, but I have grown so tired of being the perfect gentleman.” He paused to gaze down into her face, and his own grew serious. “Alison, I have wasted a great deal of time in my vengeful pursuit of one I considered a heartless vixen. Now, I have discovered that a vixen—one with midnight hair and eyes the color of heaven—is precisely what I need in my life.” Alison shivered as she beheld the gold fire in his eyes. “Oh, Alison, I have contrived probably the most idiotic proposal in the history of mankind, but I have not been thinking clearly of late, and desperation does call for strong measures. I have allowed myself to hope that you love me ... but, in truth, I will not force you. If you wish to proceed to Bath unbetrothed, I will stand with you against the world. But, oh, my love, I would so much rather stand with you before the world as your husband.”