Scandalous Summer Nights (4 page)

Olivia shook her head. “You are a dear, and a better sister than I deserve. But I want to go by myself—although I suppose I must at least take Hildy.”

Rose narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Are you just saying that because you don’t want me to miss out on the rest of the season? Because I can assure you—”

“That’s not it at all. But I’ve been in a beastly mood, and the last thing I’d want to do is subject you to it for two weeks straight. And honestly, I’d rather be alone with my thoughts.” Olivia had other reasons, of course, but the less Rose knew, the better.

Rose looked mildly disappointed, but nodded. “What was the favor you wanted to ask?”

“Help me convince Owen that I should be allowed to go.” Olivia worried her lip. Her brother could be very stubborn. It was something of a family trait. “He’s been hinting—none too subtly—that it’s high time I found a husband. He won’t approve of me hiding away in the country.”

“Then we must convince him it’s necessary to your happiness,” Rose said.

Olivia’s heart beat faster. “It is.”

“I am sure Anabelle can be counted on to help as well,” Rose said. “Visiting our aunt
was
her idea.”

“I’ll write to Aunt Eustace just after dinner and let her know that I should arrive by the end of the week.”

Olivia could barely believe her own daring.

But if she’d learned one thing from her mother’s desertion and her father’s suicide, it was that you never know how much time you’ll have with the people you love. She couldn’t let James go to Egypt without acknowledging that there was something between them. Especially not after that kiss.

She had an impressive list of adventures to her credit, but this… this plan would put all her other adventures to shame. Equal measures of guilt, hope, and exhilaration glimmered in her chest.

Several counties separated her and James tonight, but they wouldn’t for long.

J
ames sat in the dark, dank, and yet irrepressibly cheery taproom of Haven Bridge’s only inn, chatting with his coachman, Ian, and a few villagers who remembered him from the last time he’d visited Uncle Humphrey. How long had it been? Four years? Maybe five. Too long. Uncle Humphrey was the closest thing he had to a father, the man who’d nurtured his love of antiquities and supported him and Ralph the best he could. Coming back to Haven Bridge felt like coming home.

When James had arrived in the small, quaint village three days ago, it had been close to dusk. He’d tossed Ian a few coins and told him to see to the horses, order dinner, and have a few pints. Meanwhile, James had jogged down a pebbled road and eventually up a steep dirt path that wound to the top of a grassy fell. He was surprised that he’d found the spot—his childhood favorite—so easily after all these years, but he’d reached the summit just in time to witness a fiery orange sunset beyond rolling
blue mountains. Charming stone walls snaked along lush fields dotted with grazing sheep.

He’d gulped in a lungful of crisp, country air, and as he watched the sun sink into the earth, he’d known that the three-day journey to Haven Bridge was worth it.

Although, after that he’d nearly killed himself trying to walk down the fell and back to the inn in the pitch dark, but it had made for a good story once he was sitting at the taproom later that night.

The next day, James went to visit Uncle Humphrey, hoping the elderly man was still healthy and spry. Though thinner and more stooped than James remembered, he had all his wits about him. He tried to persuade James to stay in his cottage, but James didn’t want to impose, so he’d stayed at the inn. He envisioned a summer full of mornings exploring the countryside, afternoons chatting with Uncle Humphrey, and evenings drinking in the taproom.

Life was good—so good, he could almost forget the sealed note that he still carried in the chest pocket of his jacket. What he could not put out of his mind was the hurt and disappointment on Olivia’s face the day he’d left London.

He’d only been thinking of her and her best interests when he left. Now she was free to enjoy the attentions of other young bucks and dance and flirt to her heart’s content. He swallowed a large gulp of ale, finding it more bitter than usual.

“Where’d you go today, Averill?” Gordon, a miner with a grizzly white beard, lowered himself onto the bench across from James and thunked his half-full glass onto the wooden table.

“A farm east of here, near the river. Ruins all around, and it looks like walls could be buried beneath. What do you know about the place?”

The old man cackled. “Not much. People find things—fragments of metal and polished stone. What do you suppose they’re from?”

Averill shrugged. “Hard to say. Could be an old fort or a church.”

Gordon stroked his beard. “The land belongs to Sully. That codger wouldn’t know a—”

The miner halted midsentence, and the taproom—which had been rumbling with men’s cursing and grunts only a moment before—went silent and still.

Then Gordon let out a long, low whistle.

James craned his neck and found the objects of everyone’s attention. Two young women—clearly a lady and her maid—glided through the taproom and settled themselves at a table in the corner. Both wore cloaks and bonnets that concealed their features, but they were definitely
not
from Haven Bridge, and that alone was enough to make them an object of curiosity.

The young lady’s lithe yet feminine figure drew all eyes—James’s included.

“What do you suppose they’re doing in here?” Gordon said.

“Well, it
is
an inn,” James said dryly. “My guess is they’re travelers who need a place to spend the night.”

The miner winked. “I knew you were more than a pretty face.” He kept his rheumy gaze on the pair of women. “It wasn’t smart of them to sit next to Crutcher—he’s an ogre even when he’s not in his cups. Look, he’s already harassing them.”

James swiveled around on his bench and watched as Crutcher staggered into the end of the ladies’ table, banging it into the wall.

“Sir, I shall have to ask you to return to your seat at once,” the young lady said haughtily. Beneath her bravado, however, James detected a note of fear.

Hoping to defuse the situation, he strolled toward Crutcher, who was guffawing as if the woman’s request had been the punch line of a bawdy joke.

“Come on, Crutcher,” James said. “Join Gordon and me. I’ll buy you a drink.”

The man squinted at James, sizing him up. His opponents usually underestimated him—and paid sorely for the mistake with a black eye or fat lip.

“I’m not thirsty.”

James assumed a casual pose, nudging a pebble on the taproom floor with the toe of his boot, but he spoke firmly. “Come talk to us, then.”

“Why in the hell would I want to talk to you when I can talk to these pretty ladies?” Crutcher placed his palms on the women’s table and leaned over it, his greasy head inches from theirs. James didn’t even want to imagine how foul his breath must smell.

Crutcher opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter one more offensive word, James grasped the back of his collar, hauled him away from the table, and dragged him toward the front door of the inn. The drunk flailed his arms and kicked a few chairs over on the way out, but at least nothing had been broken. Yet.

Once outside, James thrust Crutcher in front of him. He landed hard on his knees in the dirt. The sun had disappeared behind the hills, and daylight faded fast. Gordon
and a half dozen other men spilled out of the inn, eager for a rousing fight.

“You bastard,” Crutcher growled as he lumbered to his feet and flexed his fingers.

“Why don’t you go home?” James suggested. “Sleep it off, and if you still want to fight me tomorrow, I’ll happily oblige.” He meant it. What was the sport in sparring with a man too drunk to piss straight?

But Crutcher—all six beefy feet of him—was already lunging toward James, aiming for the knees. James darted to the side, and Crutcher stumbled past him. “Bleedin’ coward. Stand tall and fight me.”

There was nothing to be done for it. James shrugged off his coat, and when Crutcher launched his fist toward James’s head, he was ready. He ducked and Crutcher swung through air. Still crouching, James jabbed his right fist hard into his opponent’s gut, just below the ribs.

Crutcher doubled over, gasping for breath.

James stepped back to give him some space. Hopefully that would be the end of that. He glanced up and in the waning light could just make out Gordon’s grin—one or two teeth shy of a full set. Behind him and the other taproom patrons stood the two women who’d started all the commotion.

One of them rushed forward, almost tripping on the hem of her cloak. “James!” she called breathlessly. “Are you all right?”

Good Lord.

It couldn’t be.

But beneath the brim of her bonnet were a pair of familiar brown eyes. “Olivia?”

“Yes, it’s me,” she said, whisking off her bonnet.
A blush stole over her cheeks. “Isn’t this an amusing coincidence?”

James stood frozen for several moments before he found his tongue. “It’s not entirely amusing. And I suspect it’s not a coinci—”

“Look out!” Olivia cried, pointing over James’s shoulder. Gordon grabbed her around the waist and yanked her back.

The hairs on the back of James’s neck stood on end—a little too late.

He spun on his heel just in time for Crutcher to plow him over. James’s feet left the ground and he sailed through the air like he’d been tossed from his horse. His back hit the packed dirt first. A split second later, his skull smacked the ground with a sickening
thud
. Before James could regain his breath, Crutcher landed on top of him and wedged an elbow across his throat.

Air. James needed it—was desperate for a big gulp of it. The world was already growing dark around the edges; dizziness seduced him, and he almost gave in.

“Stop it, you big brute!” Olivia’s scolding had no effect on Crutcher, but it sharpened James’s focus. He pried Crutcher’s elbow away from his throat and, using his legs, rocked his body several times until he gained enough momentum to roll the drunk off him.

Someone grabbed James beneath his arms and hoisted him to his feet. The world tilted and pain spliced through his head.

But he hadn’t lost a fight in two decades, and he wasn’t about to lose one now.

“Be careful, James.” A tremor in Olivia’s voice betrayed her fear, but he also heard her confidence. Knew he had to live up to it.

Crutcher circled, testing him with the occasional jab. James deflected them all. At least his reflexes worked on some basic level. He bided his time, letting Crutcher grow more cocky, more careless. Then, just as the bastard drew his arm back for his knockout punch, James landed a solid blow to the face with a lightning-fast right hook. His left fist followed with an uppercut to the jaw.

Crutcher’s head snapped back and he fell to the ground like a giant without a beanstalk. Out cold.

For half a minute, no one moved.

Then, everyone moved—except Crutcher.

One of his cronies tried to rouse him with a nudge of his boot heel. When that didn’t work, he reluctantly sacrificed the ale in his glass, pouring it onto Crutcher’s swelling face.

Most of the onlookers crowded around James. “Well done!” they shouted, slapping him on the back. But he was still dazed, and his head felt too big for his neck to hold.

“Where’s Olivia?” he asked.

“Who?”

“The woman’s over there,” said Gordon, pointing a few yards behind him. “Retrieving your jacket.” The crowd of men parted respectfully as Olivia rushed toward James.

“I was terrified for you,” she said. “Are you hurt?”

James would have raised a brow, but his head ached too much. “Not mortally.”

She giggled nervously. “Oh, well that’s good. I believe this is yours.” As she thrust his jacket toward him, a folded note fluttered to the ground.

Olivia’s letter. Damn it.

She stooped to pick it up and when her fingertips were a mere inch from the note, he dove and snatched it off
the ground. The letter secure—if somewhat crushed—in his fist, he pushed himself to his feet and brushed the dirt from his trousers. Again.

Sweet Jesus, that had been close.

Meanwhile, Olivia stood beside him, still holding his jacket and staring at him curiously. “That was a rather dramatic way to pick up a bit of paper,” she remarked. “What is it, a writ from the prince regent?”

“Maybe. And I hardly think you are one to lecture on dramatics.”

“Point taken.” She bit her bottom lip, and something inside him melted a little.

He took his jacket from her, jammed his arms into it, and stuffed Olivia’s letter into the chest pocket. He had to be more careful with that bloody note. “What are you doing here?” She opened her mouth to reply, but he cut her off. “Never mind. I don’t want to have this conversation right now.” He gazed at the circle of inn patrons who’d gathered around them. Crutcher had started hobbling home with the help of his friend, but there were still too many sets of curious eyes and ears. “Gather your maid. We’ll go back inside and talk there.” As they walked, he asked, “Who else came with you?”

Her cheeks flushed pink. “Our coachman, Terrence. He’s seeing to the horses.”

Good God. He guided Olivia toward the table where she’d been sitting; her maid trailed closely behind them. No sooner had the three of them sat than the innkeeper’s wife set two hearty bowls of shepherd’s pie onto the table before the ladies. “I’ll be back with some bread and ale,” she told them. “Can I get you some stew or a pint, Mr. Averill?”

“I’ll take a brandy.”

She nodded and scuttled off.

Neither Olivia nor her maid lifted her spoon.

“Please, eat,” James said. He had several questions for Olivia, but he wasn’t going to ask them in front of her maid. “We’ll talk afterward.” Huntford couldn’t possibly have approved Olivia’s jaunt to the Lakes. How the devil had she managed to travel three hundred miles from London without her brother’s knowledge?

James had
lots
of questions.

And the most pressing one was what the bloody hell to do with Olivia Sherbourne.