BRIGHTON BEAUTY (6 page)

"So," his eyes narrowed with fury, "don't tell me nothing, then." He jammed the portrait back into his pocket. "But, be forewarned, missy, I have no intention of abandoning my plan. And, don't think to cheat me out of the bounty neither. I come a long way for this and I don't mean to leave empty-handed."

Flinging a last contemptible look at her, he crawled out of the coach and slammed the door shut behind him.

Chelsea's heart sank. If she were not to be let out of the carriage for even a second, how could she possibly engineer an escape?

As the long hours of afternoon dragged by, she grew increasingly uneasy. What if these wretched men had indeed killed Lord Rathbone? What would she tell Alayna, and Lady Rathbone? And what did the killers intend to do with her?

Near nightfall, they stopped again to change horses, and after proclaiming a dire need to use the necessary, Chelsea was, at last, permitted to leave the coach. Both the false Rathbone and his man waited outside the privy door and quickly ushered her back to the coach. She was thrust inside and given a wedge of stale bread to eat. She wished now she had been able to eat more of her breakfast. As it was, she was so frightened she could barely swallow the morsel of dry bread in her mouth.

As the great coach skimmed over the countryside, an ominous veil of darkness seemed to settle about her. Apparently they would not be stopping at an inn for the night. She only hoped that once they reached London, she would be set free . . . that is, once she had . . . agreed to the wretched man's plan to marry.

Suddenly, she was startled by a deafening explosion ripping through the crisp night air. Sitting bolt upright on the bench, Chelsea peered wide-eyed from the coach window, but in the darkness could make out nothing. When another blast rang out, the huge carriage lurched forward at an even faster pace.

Twisting about on the bench, Chelsea tried to see through the small pane of glass at her back. What she saw from this vantage point made her gasp with alarm. Five, maybe six, men on horseback were chasing the large coach.
Highwaymen! They were being chased by highwaymen!
The flash of moonlight gleaming on the barrels of their upraised pistols sent her heart plummeting to her feet.

When Chelsea heard yet a third shot ring out and then the thud of a body being toppled from the coachman's platform to the ground, she screamed with terror and threw herself onto the floor of the coach, grasping for something,
anything
to hold onto.

"No!" she cried, as the huge, driverless coach began to careen dangerously across open countryside. Suddenly, she knew exactly how her mother and father had felt those last horrifying moments of their lives. "Help!" she screamed. "Somebody, please help!"

Tossing to and fro on the floor between the benches, Chelsea's bonnet toppled askew and she felt her long golden hair come tumbling down around her shoulders. Upon hearing the shouts of upraised voices, she stiffened with fear. Was she now to be robbed, or
killed,
by the highwaymen?

A second jolt of the carriage told Chelsea someone had leapt to the platform and in seconds, the run-away coach was brought to a somewhat shaky standstill.

Chelsea's eyes were wide as she raised herself to her knees, wondering what would happen next. She gasped when suddenly the carriage door flew open from the outside. Silhouetted in the bright shaft of moonlight that spilled into the coach, she found herself gazing into the dark eyes of yet another tall, dark-haired man, only this time, the man's face was full of concern as he looked in upon her.

"Thank God, you are unhurt, Alayna!" At once, the stranger reached to pull her close to him, his strong arms folding her trembling body to his hard chest.

"Oh, sir! You have saved my life!" Chelsea cried, pressing herself against him, her sobs of relief muffled against the man's massive shoulder.

"Do you not recognize me, little one?" the man breathed, his deep voice just above a whisper, his warm cheek nestled in the soft cloud of her hair. "It is I, Rutherford."

Far too overset to have heard the gentleman's words, Chelsea, at last, drew away. Her breath was still coming in fits and starts when she felt his gloved finger gently brush away a tear that lingered still on her lashes. Raising grateful eyes to his, she murmured, "F-forgive me, sir . . . I . . . "

"Alayna, darling, it is I. Rutherford."

"Oh!"
Horror-struck, Chelsea sprang from him.

The gentleman's lips pressed tightly together. "Well," his tone became brusque, "I am pleased to see you, as well, Cousin." He turned to call over his shoulder. "Miss Marchmont is safe. I need a driver here. We are off for Castle Rathbone."

With that, the powerful man climbed into the coach and settled his large frame on the seat next to Chelsea. She snatched up her bonnet from the floor and hurriedly secured the ribbons beneath her chin. Though she felt vastly indebted to this man for saving her life, discovering that he was the
real
Lord Rathbone suddenly made the idea of being set upon by highwaymen a less frightening prospect than she'd first thought it would be.

F
eeling exhaustion about to overtake him, Rutherford Campbell fell back against the squabs. Three days of chasing Sully's tail had left him bone-weary and irritable. He hadn't wanted to come to England, hadn't even planned to be here for his own wedding, but after learning of his former overseer's plot to steal his inheritance, he'd had no choice but to drop everything and make the arduous journey to England at once.

The sea voyage from Honduras had been long and treacherous. High winds and stormy conditions had plagued the passengers and crew the entire way. But, at last they reached shore, and once near Bristol, Lord Rathbone came near to overtaking Sully and his men, only to lose them again when another storm blew up and dashed all hopes of capture.

Feeling certain that Sully was on his way to the castle, Lord Rathbone had sent a message to the authorities in Chester asking that the constable there alert his mother and betrothed to the danger they were in, but either the warning had come too late or word had never reached them.

Exhaling a weary sigh, Lord Rathbone turned a sidelong gaze on his cousin. Thank God, he had arrived when he did. He had no doubt that before Sully was done, he would have ruined her.

"Are you certain you are all right, Alayna?" he asked, his voice full of concern.

By the dim moonlight engulfing the carriage, he watched the young lady at his side lower her golden head, her still-frightened eyes refusing to meet his. An odd tightness caught in Lord Rathbone's chest. Alayna was more delicate and fragile than he remembered. In fact . . . a sweeping gaze took in her flushed cheeks, the small tilted nose and trembling full lips, she was as near to perfection as any woman could be. Suddenly, the memory of her throwing herself into his arms a moment ago beset him. With it came an unwelcome longing that the steel-hearted Rathbone had not been prepared to feel. Not for Alayna. Not for any woman.

Swallowing tightly, he turned away.

Theirs was to be a marriage of convenience, a contract between two agreeable parties that would benefit them both. After the ceremony, Alayna would join him in Honduras, of course. She was to be his wife, but even that arrangement was calculated merely to fulfill the second part of the agreement, to beget him an heir. Beyond that, he expected nothing from her, that is, not in the way of sentiment. As a planter's wife, she would have certain duties, but Rathbone was rather looking forward to the fact that neither of them would be bothered with the complication of falling in love with one another.

Rathbone was perfectly content with the life he had carved out for himself across the sea. Ten years ago, he had left England and, completely on his own, had created a mahogany empire that was second to none. The release of his inheritance now would enable him to increase his already vast holdings, to build better homes for his workers, and schools for their children. Rathbone took pride in what he had accomplished and in the fact that he was a man of vision, whose noble thoughts and honest deeds placed him head and shoulders above many Englishmen of his time. For the most part, he did not miss his homeland. He was a self-sufficient and self-contained man, and beyond the satisfying of his own normal sexual appetites with women who were more than willing to accommodate him, he had wasted no time in pandering to the fairer sex.

He glanced again at his cousin. Having a wife would not change that, he vowed. Not even a wife as beautiful as Alayna.

"Are you quite certain you are unharmed?" he asked again, finding it somewhat difficult to speak around the odd tightness in his throat.

When she refused still to look at him, he knew a prick of disappointment, but with decision, thrust it aside.

Finally, the young lady said, "I am fine," but her gaze remained fixed on her lap.

"And Mother?" Rathbone persisted. "Was she as fortunate as you? Sully did not harm her, I trust?"

Watching his companion closely, he noted her eyes, beneath unbelievably long lashes, cut round to the corners, but still she did not look at him.

What had happened? Five minutes ago she had flung herself into his arms!

"Good God, Alayna!" he exploded. "Can you not even look at me?"

When she at last directed a tremulous gaze upward, the abject fright Rathbone perceived in the depths of her dark eyes caused him to regret his outburst. "Forgive me, Alayna. I should not have shouted. I have not slept in days and I admit I am exhausted from sheer lack of rest." He paused. "I should merely like to know if Mother is well, or not. Surely you can put my mind at ease on that score."

A pause followed, then, "She is . . . well enough, sir, or, at least, she was when last I saw her."

The young lady had deigned to lift her chin, and for the space of a second, their gazes locked. Suddenly, Rathbone was near to overcome by a compelling urge to gather his betrothed into his arms again and hold her close.

He swallowed. "I expect this ordeal has overset you beyond endurance, Alayna," he murmured. Unable to quell the unsettling urge completely, he did stretch an arm across the back of the seat and gently laid a hand on his cousin's shoulder to urge her toward him. But, at once, he felt her stiffen beneath his touch.

His jaws pressed together with disgust. "It was not my intent to molest you, Alayna. I merely sought to offer comfort."

With that, he withdrew his arm, and folding them both across his chest, he slid down on the bench in order to rest his own head against the squabs. "I should like to sleep a bit. I've been days, nay weeks, chasing Sully's tail and I am near fagged to death."

He closed his eyes, but was startled into awareness a second later when Alayna said, "You are . . . acquainted with the man?"

Rathbone opened one eye. "Sully? Of course I am acquainted with him! He has been my overseer these past eight years, until he grew so lazy and insolent I was obliged to release him. Surely you recall my writing to you about it. At length, as I recall."

Another pause followed. When it became apparent that no response was forthcoming, Lord Rathbone lifted his head to look at his cousin. "Am I to infer from this that you have
not
been reading my letters, Alayna?"

He watched her twist her small hands together in her lap. "O-of course, I have been reading your letters, sir, it's just that . . . h-how was I to know that
he
was Sully?"

"He had no trouble identifying you."

He noted she seemed to experience some difficulty drawing breath. Finally, she said, "But . . . he carries m-my miniature in his waistcoat pocket. The . . . the portrait I sent to you following our . . . b-betrothal."

"Hummph." Rathbone slid down onto the bench. "I never saw it."

"You . . . never saw it?"

Rathbone's eyes closed again. "Sully has been intercepting my letters. Must have been in the last packet. The man is an unprincipled scoundrel with no regard for anything decent. I shall see him hanged for this treachery."

"Hanged?"

Lord Rathbone's head jerked up. "Surely you can have no objection to that, Alayna?"

"But . . . sir.” Her eyes were especially large and round. "No harm was done. Lady, I-I mean, Aunt Millicent was unharmed, and, as you can see, I am . . . I am . . ."

"What are you babbling about, Alayna?" Rathbone snorted his impatience. "Sully is vile and contemptible. Despite the fact that he has not yet killed a man, I would still insist he hang. Apparently you have forgotten that deception is the one thing I cannot forgive!" With that, he pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes, the action signaling the end of the discussion.

Beside him, Chelsea tried to still the rapid pounding of her heart. Deception!
Hanged!
Oh! she had never felt so distressed in all her life! If she were to divulge her true identity to Lord Rathbone now, he would think her one of Sully's accomplices and have her hanged, as well! Most especially when neither of them could produce the
real
Miss Marchmont! Oh! This horrid coil was becoming far too complicated to bear, let alone unravel. If only she could think what to do.

After spending what seemed like hours reviewing her options, which weren't many, she decided that whether she liked it or not, she had no choice but to continue playing her part in the taradiddle. When Alayna returned to the castle, she could explain the whole silly business to her aunt and cousin. In the meantime, it was to Chelsea's advantage that Lord Rathbone had
not
seen the portrait of Alayna, and that, thus far, he seemed to accept that she was, indeed, his betrothed. But, what would happen when the incriminating miniature turned up? She dared not think about that.

* * * *

R
usset fingers of light had begun to stretch across the early morning sky when the dusty black Marchmont coach lumbered onto the rickety-wooden bridge spanning the castle moat. The jostling of the heavy carriage awakened Lord Rathbone from a deep slumber.