Captive (3 page)

The earl’s carriage reached the front door to Denbigh Castle a few moments before the riders. The earl had barely stepped down from the carriage, and had not yet helped Lady Frockman out, when the black brute nearly ran him down. The young man hauled back so hard on the reins the stallion reared, and Denbigh lurched backward to avoid being trampled. A moment later the rider was off the stallion and standing before him begging his pardon.

“I’m very sorry, sir. Mephistopheles doesn’t like to lose. Sometimes it’s difficult to make him realize when the race is over.”

Denbigh didn’t believe his ears. Or his eyes. What stood before him was not a young man, but a young lady. Her voice was husky, and it rasped over him, making his neck hairs stand on end. The hips—revealed by a pair of tight-fitting breeches—and
breasts—outlined by a thin lawn shirt whipped tight against her bosom by the sharp wind off the sea—were definitely female.

But she acted like no lady he had ever known.

She had been riding astride that huge brute of a stallion. She stood before him now with her hands on her hips, her legs widespread like a man, and looked him directly in the eye without a trace of embarrassment at her woefully indiscreet attire.

Her small nose was freckled. No wonder, riding in the sun without a hat. Her hair was golden and tied back in a queue that had hidden its length from him at first. Wispy blond tendrils framed a feminine, heart-shaped face. Green cat’s eyes stared at him with open, honest curiosity, and a square chin dared him to … to what? Say something? Anything?

He could not have spoken to save his life. He still could not quite believe his eyes. This had to be his ward. Maybe Mrs. Killington was not so crazy, after all.

His sister joined them, but she remained mounted sidesaddle on her mare, wearing a perfectly respectable frog-trimmed velvet riding habit. At least she had not been corrupted by this imp of Satan.

“Lion! We didn’t expect you,” Olivia said.

“Obviously not,” he replied. “I didn’t know you had taken up riding again, Olivia.”

She flushed. “Oh. Well. Charlie said she didn’t see any reason why I couldn’t. She said I shouldn’t let my fears keep me earthbound, so to speak. So I tried it, and I can,” she said, shrugging as though to make light of what she had accomplished.

Lion raised a disdainful brow. “Charlie?”

“Lady Charlotte,” Olivia quickly amended. “I sent you a letter when she arrived here, Lion. You must have gotten it.”

“I did.”
Four months ago
. He had been appointed as guardian for the girl until she married or reached the age of one and twenty, whichever came first. He had ignored this unwelcome responsibility as long as possible. Obviously, it—she—could no longer be ignored.

Lion stared down at the pixielike urchin standing across from him who had convinced his sister—who had taken such a terrible spill during a hunt eight years ago that it had left her with an awkward limp—to get back on a horse. Not only to get back on, but to gallop neck-or-nothing as she had when she was a carefree girl. It was nothing short of a miracle.

“As happy as I am for you, Olivia, I must ask what you two ladies were doing out riding without a chaperon.”

“We only went to the village and back,” Olivia said.

“Good lord,” Denbigh said.

“It appears things are every bit as bad as Mrs. Killington suggested,” Lady Frockman interjected with a laugh.

“A few changes will be necessary,” Denbigh agreed. “Olivia, take your horse to the stable, then go to your room.”

“Yes, Lion,” she said dutifully.

His new ward started to follow her, but Denbigh said, “Not you. I have a few more things to say to you first.”

The girl’s head cocked like a small bird’s as she eyed him speculatively. “Since you’re Livy’s brother, I suppose you must be my guardian,” she said. “You don’t look as old as I thought you would, sir. I mean, for a man of your age. Twenty-nine is practically ancient.”

Denbigh’s jaw tightened at her impertinence.

“She’s delightfully frank, Lion,” Lady Frockman said with a laugh. “And right, of course.”

Denbigh gave Claudia an icy look that silenced her. He turned back to the girl and said, “My age is not at issue here. And you may address me as ‘Lord Denbigh’ or ‘my lord.’ ”

“My friends call me Charlie,” the girl replied with a smile that was as guileless as it was enchanting.

“Charlie is a boy’s name,” he said in his most
disapproving voice. “I will address you as ‘Lady Charlotte.’ ”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” she said, the smile replaced by a frown that made him feel like a churl. “I’m not an English lady. I’m an American.”

“Your father was Lord Edgerton, was he not?”

“I suppose he was. But that was a long time ago, before he moved to New Orleans, before he married my mother, before I was born. There aren’t any lords and ladies in America, only common folk. Couldn’t you just call me Charlie?”

“No female ward of mine is going to be called
Charlie
in public or in private,” he said in a withering voice.

“Good!” she retorted. “Because I don’t want to be your ward. You can put me on the next ship back to America and make us both happy.” She turned and threw herself onto the stallion’s back in a movement of strength and grace that so astonished him he didn’t even try to stop her.

She looked down at him and said, “I’m glad you finally came, so you could see I don’t belong here. I have friends in America who would be delighted to let me live with them. Please leave enough money with your steward to pay my passage back to New Orleans. You can keep the rest of my fortune until I’m ready for it.”

He realized she was turning her horse to leave without waiting to be excused by him. Nowhere in
her speech had there been a single “Lord Denbigh” or “my lord.” In fact, she had forgone the “sir,” as well. He was irritated at having been forced to make the trip to Sussex from London in the first place, worried at finding his sister out riding the countryside unchaperoned, and appalled at the sight of his ward attired in breeches. Being dismissed by her as though she were the one in charge was the last straw.

“Stop right there, Lady Charlotte,” he commanded.

To his amazement, the chit jabbed her booted heels into the stallion’s sides. If Lion’s reflexes hadn’t been quick, she would have been gone before he could stop her. If he hadn’t been as strong as he was, the stallion would have run him down, instead of being yanked to an abrupt halt by his lightning quick grasp of the bridle.

The stallion curvetted and crowhopped, neighing his fury at the contradictory signals being given by the rider and the man on the ground. Denbigh was sure the girl would be bucked off, but she kept her seat, crooning to the animal until he stood docile at last.

“That was a terrible thing to do to Mephistopheles!” she accused.

“You shouldn’t have tried to leave without my permission,” Denbigh retorted.

“I don’t need your permission to ride my horse.”

“From now on you need my permission to do anything and everything you do.”

“That’s monstrous!”

Denbigh had been called a lot of things over the past year and had fought several duels as a consequence. He didn’t have to listen to this spoiled American brat call him names.

He reached up and wrapped an arm around her waist, hauled her down from the saddle, and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of mangel-wurzels. Then he called to the coachman, “Take the reins, Henry, and return Lady Charlotte’s mount to the stable. Make sure he’s cooled down before you put him away.”

“Yes, milord,” Henry answered, eyeing the big black beast askance.

Of course, Lion said all this over the shrieks of the slender girl, who was kicking and wriggling and yelling like a banshee. He gave an inward sigh. The girl had a temper, and she wasn’t afraid to display it. She was a far cry from the demure young lady he had expected to find. He experienced a sinking feeling as he realized no English gentleman would willingly pay court to such a hellion. He was likely going to be stuck with her for—God help him!—the next four years.

“What are you going to do with her, now that
you’ve got her?” Lady Frockman asked with an amused smile.

“Take her to her room, of course. Excuse me, Lady Frockman. Make yourself comfortable in the salon. I will join you shortly.”

“I won’t stay in my room!” the girl cried. “You can’t make me obey you. I’ll run away!”

Denbigh ignored her—insofar as that was possible—as he marched up the front steps.

Samuels, the butler, had apparently heard the commotion, because he opened the front door even before Denbigh reached it to knock.

“Thank you, Samuels,” Lion said as he entered the massive tiled hallway. It opened onto a double set of curving marble stairs, each leading to a separate wing of the house.

“It’s good to have you home, milord.”

“Which is Lady Charlotte’s room?” he asked.

“The Blue Room, milord,” Samuels answered.

Denbigh headed up the left set of stairs, his boots muffled by the Persian carpet that covered them. The Blue Room had belonged to his mother. He was surprised that his housekeeper, Mrs. Tinsworthy, had allowed this American troublemaker to occupy it.

He realized, with chagrin, that if he slept in his father’s room, as he usually did, she would be right next door. He hoped she did not plan to keep up her caterwauling all night. He had plans later in the
evening for Lady Frockman that he did not want disturbed.

The girl wriggled so much that he nearly dropped her on the stairs. “Be still!” he roared.

She fell limp so suddenly he thought she had fainted. When he loosened his grasp to shift her in his arms, she jerked herself free. Before he could catch her, she tumbled head over heels down the carpeted stairs.

He took the stairs two at a time and caught her just as she reached the bottom. “Are you all right?” he asked as he turned her over.

Her green eyes looked dazed, and a knot was already growing on her forehead. He felt guilty about her injury, but angry, as well. If she had not been resisting him, she would not have been hurt in the first place.

“Are you all right?” he repeated, gently brushing what turned out to be incredibly silky blond curls from her brow. Her bowed lips pouted in a way that made her look half her age, but her square chin was outthrust enough that it could have belonged to a grande dame of the
ton
.

She slapped at his hand. “I’m fine,” she said, gulping back a sob. “Leave me alone.”

“I say there, Charlie—”

Denbigh glanced up to see one of his footmen starting toward the girl. He was appalled to hear the
chit addressed by that impossible nickname—and by one of his servants!

The footman, Galbraith, recognized his mistake immediately and said, “Begging your pardon, milord, but Char—Lady Charlotte is—” He cut himself off again and shifted from foot to foot.

“What Timothy is trying to say is that we’re friends, and he’s worried about me,” the chit said.

Timothy Galbraith—Denbigh had not known the man’s first name before Charlotte mentioned it—flushed to the roots of his hair at this confession and stiffened as the earl gave him a narrow-eyed look. For the first time Denbigh noticed the footman was young and handsome.

The earl’s gaze shifted from the footman to his ward and back. What he was thinking must have been plain on his face, because Galbraith hurried to reassure him, “Lady Charlotte is only what she said, milord. A friend. She doesn’t see class, the way we do in England. Char—Lady Charlotte says that in America everyone is equal.”

Denbigh turned to stare at his ward. Had she been spouting that sort of heresy ever since she arrived? No wonder Mrs. Killington was upset. He looked into the faces of the collection of servants who stood watching them. “Go get the housekeeper,” he instructed them. “Tell Mrs. Tinsworthy to bring whatever she needs to care for Lady Charlotte’s bruises to the Blue Room.”

The servants stood unmoving, obviously protective of the girl, until he said, “If you have nothing better to do than stand there and gawk, perhaps it is time I reduced the staff,” whereupon they dispersed hurriedly.

“Are you going to come upstairs with me peaceably?” Denbigh asked his ward.

“I don’t see why I should.”

“I should think the threat of more bruises would be reason enough,” Denbigh said.

“Are you planning to beat me?” the girl demanded.

“The idea has definite appeal,” Denbigh muttered to himself. The girl was looking him right in the eye, and he would not have put it past her to spit in it. “Are you going upstairs on your own two feet, or must I carry you?”

She wrapped her arms around her knees. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I wish I’d never met you. I want my life back the way it was before my papa died. I can’t imagine what Papa was thinking. He can’t have meant for you to be my guardian. You’re a bully and a brute. You’re a worm in the grass. No, you’re a snake. You’re a—”

“You’ve made your point exceedingly plain, Lady Charlotte,” he said, cutting her off.

His pulse was throbbing in his temples, and it sounded as if she were just getting warmed up. He had no intention of waiting around until the servants
returned to hear her diatribe. Without any warning, he scooped her up in his arms, intending to take her where she would not go on her own.

She gave an outraged shriek when his hand accidentally brushed against her breast. If it had given her as much of a jolt as it had given him, he could understand her response. She might be dressed like a man, but she was most definitely a woman. His body had reacted swiftly and surely to the feel of soft female flesh beneath his hand.

“You … You’re …” she sputtered.

Obviously she was having trouble coming up with a word disgusting enough to describe him. He was horrified at the thought of the servants racing to her rescue—and finding him in the condition he was in. The current fashions left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

“You’re despicable!” she finally managed. “You’re—”

He put a hand across her mouth to cut off a new spate of insults, gathered her more tightly into his arms, and began marching back up the stairs.