Scoundrel Ever After (Secrets and Scandals) (5 page)

Shame washed through him as he found the strength to run back to the cabriolet.

She stumbled onto the road as he arrived, his breath coming hard and fast. Her eyes were huge in the lamplight, her face nearly white. “He’s . . . he’s . . . he’s dead.” She clapped her hand over her mouth and rushed to the side of the road.

She bent over, but Ethan couldn’t be certain if she was sick. Torn between going to her and disposing of the body in the cabriolet, he decided he’d better do the latter before attempting the former.

He moved slowly to the other side of the cab, stopping briefly to reassure the horse, who’d been astonishingly calm throughout the encounter. Ethan’s experience with the animals wasn’t extensive, but he knew a horse attached to a vehicle of this caliber would be a well-trained beast. Thank God for that.

The highwayman was sprawled on the floor, his feet dangling over the edge of the cab. He was on his side, a pool of blood beneath his head. His eyes gazed sightlessly at the night sky. Ethan felt no remorse. In his life, the tenet of “kill or be killed” was more than an idea; it was reality.

He pulled the lifeless body out of the cab. His muscles screamed in agony at the exertion required to wrestle the large man to the ground. Then Ethan dragged the highwayman to the side of the road and pushed him over into the ditch.

When he turned around, Audrey was standing near the coach. “Why did you kill him?”

“He would’ve killed us.”

“Would he have? Maybe if you’d given him the bag, they would’ve gone about their way and left us alone.”

Ethan shook his head. “No, they wouldn’t have. At best, they would’ve taken the money and you. I saw the way they both looked at you.” With lust and violence gleaming in their eyes.

She brought her hands to her mouth and clenched her eyes shut.

Though agony poured through him, Ethan forced himself toward her. “Miss Cheswick. Audrey.” He had no experience in soothing a distraught young woman. “He was a very bad man. A criminal.” Like Ethan. He took her hands away from her face. “Look at me.”

She opened her eyes slowly, revealing wariness in their depths. She averted her gaze from him and spoke softly, but firmly, “I want to go home.”

He couldn’t take her home. And if she went home, she’d be a sitting target for Gin Jimmy. He opted for deflection again. “Just stand here and look at the stars. Do you see Aquila, the eagle?”

She tilted her head back. After a long moment, she exhaled. “Yes.”

“Good. Tell me what else you see.”

He hurried back to the ditch where he pulled the highwayman’s coat from his body. He glanced back at Audrey and saw that she was watching him. He pointed to the sky. “What else?”

She snapped her head back up. “I see Cygnus, the swan, and Delphinus, the dolphin.”

“Excellent. Cygnus is one of my favorites.” He rushed back to the cabriolet with the coat, one sleeve of which was already rather bloody. He used the rest to wipe up as much of the blood on the floor of the cab as he could.

She was quiet as he moved past her to dispose of the ruined coat, which he tossed atop the corpse. When he turned back toward her and the cab, he was suddenly and thoroughly spent. His vision blurred. His knees shook. He barely kept a grip on consciousness.

He must’ve swayed, because the next thing he focused on was her coming toward him.

“Are you all right?” she asked. She clasped his good arm and only just stopped from grabbing the bad one.

No, but he didn’t say that. Nausea swirled in his gut. Tossing up his own accounts didn’t seem like such a bad notion all of a sudden.

“We need to get off the road.” She pulled him toward the cab and helped him climb up.

“I’m supposed to be helping you,” he muttered.

“It’s a bit late to act the gentleman, isn’t it?”

Nothing she said could’ve stung more. He’d tried very hard to be a gentleman. It was all he bloody wanted. But it was impossible when trouble was intent on finding him. If tonight’s plan had been successful, he’d be at Lockwood House toasting the arrest of one of London’s worst criminals and he’d be free of his old life.

Instead, he was fleeing London with two holes in his arm and was subjecting a perfectly lovely young woman to atrocities she should never experience. Yes, it was altogether too late to be a gentleman.

He landed in the seat with a loud exhalation.

She climbed up and sat beside him, casting a look of distaste toward the floor. She didn’t, however, break down, once more affirming his estimation of her intrepid spirit. “How’s your arm? Should I drive?”

Ethan cradled his injured arm and winced. “Do you know how?”

“I used to drive our gig in the country. It had two horses, so this has to be simpler, doesn’t it?” She picked up the reins.

Ethan wanted to argue, but he was too overcome with pain and exhaustion. He just wanted to close his eyes.

The last thing he heard was another shriek.

A
UDREY BARELY KEPT
Mr. Locke from toppling from the cabriolet. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him toward her, trying to be careful of his arm, but in the end, she feared she’d caused him more pain.

But now he was slumped toward her. She peered at his face in the lamplight. Dark circles, accentuated by the pallor of his skin, had formed beneath his eyes. Eyes that were closed.

“Mr. Locke?” She shook him gently. “Mr. Locke?”

He was utterly unresponsive.

She let him go, careful to angle him against her, and leaned back against the seat. Panic seared through her. Where was she to go? She couldn’t stay here. One of the highwaymen had run off. He might decide to return with reinforcements.

Get a hold of yourself, Audrey. You are not a simpering featherwit
.

She turned sideways and shook him again, this time more firmly. “Mr. Locke. Wake. Up.” In the absence of smelling salts, she did the only other thing she could think of: She slapped his cheek.

His eyes shot open. “Ow.”

“Sorry, but I had to wake you.” She smoothed her hand against his stubbled cheek. The dark growth of his beard was visible. She ought to find his appearance shocking; instead she was oddly intrigued by the scratch of the hair beneath her fingers.

“No, my arm.” He groaned again and cradled his wounded arm with his good one.

“You may return to your unconscious state as soon as you tell me your plan. Where am I to drive?”

His head rolled back against the seat and he closed his eyes. His pale throat was elongated above the twisted knot of his cravat. He looked a gentleman, despite his unshaven state, but he’d done things tonight she doubted most gentlemen could—or would—do. “An inn,” he said weakly. He tried to sit up, but barely moved. His breath came in sharp gusts, like he’d run a great distance.

He pierced her with his intense gray stare, eyes she’d looked into before as she’d taught him to waltz. She’d wondered why he hadn’t learned before, but had been too shy to ask. It would join the list of questions she’d formed tonight.

“Be careful. Not all of the inns are . . .” His head lolled back against the seat and his eyes shuttered once more.

“Not all of the inns are what?” She willed him to open his eyes again, to answer her, but he didn’t stir. His chest rose and fell with his breath, rapidly at first, and then slowing to a sleeping rhythm.

She repositioned herself on the seat and picked up the reins again. It took a few tries, but she managed to get the horse moving. The road was dark as pitch and rather uneven. She was glad Mr. Locke was unconscious because the constant bump and jostle would’ve caused him no small amount of pain.

Her mind traveled over the course of the night. She’d started it with scandalous behavior—a quick glance down at her gentleman’s costume affirmed that—and she was ending it in much the same manner. If anyone knew that she was alone with Mr. Ethan Locke, she’d be completely ruined.

As if it mattered. What sort of marriage prospects did she have? None. Her parents would be horrified; she’d scandalized them before, but that would be the extent of things. Oh, she supposed she wouldn’t go to any more balls or parties, but what was the point of them anyway? She propped up the wall and visited with her small circle of friends, things she could do anywhere, anytime.

Should she turn back to London? No, she wanted to find shelter as soon as possible, and there was nothing behind her for a few miles. However, returning home meant she could preserve her reputation. Her stomach roiled, not with the same gut-wrenching sickness the dead highwayman had provoked, but with a gripping tension that accompanied thoughts of the life that awaited her in London. The life she’d tried so hard to appreciate and succeed at, and she’d failed miserably on both counts.

Yet when she thought of the last hour, her body thrummed with exhilaration—dead highwayman notwithstanding. She flinched. What sort of person did that make her? She’d shot a man, committed larceny, and witnessed a murder. No, surely it wasn’t murder since Mr. Locke had been defending her.

And what sort of person was Mr. Locke? He’d fought off the intruders at her house, orchestrated the theft of the cabriolet, and saved her from the highwayman. She couldn’t fault him for any of those things, only the manner in which he’d done them. And yet, she was invigorated by him.

The cabriolet moved forward. Away from London. Away from the life she didn’t really want. A sense of rightness settled over her. Whatever happened now, things would be different. She relaxed into the seat and smiled softly. The one thing she would do upon arriving at the inn would be to draft a short note to Grandfather, assuring him of her well-being. She didn’t want him to worry, but neither did she want to give details about where she was or why.

The sound of hooves clopping in the dirt drew her to sit up straight and search the darkness. She prayed to God it wasn’t another highwayman. Where on earth was an inn? She needed to get off this blessed road!

The horseman came into view. And rode straight into the center of the road, just as the highwayman had done.

Chapter Three

L
IGHT BLISTERED THE
backs of Ethan’s eyes. He turned his head to try to evade the intrusive glare and promptly groaned at the shard of pain that sliced through his temple. Tentatively, he opened his eyes. He stared at the ceiling over his head, registered that he was in a bed, and that his arm was on fire.

Memories of the previous night rushed over him.
Audrey
.

He pushed himself up, wincing with the pain the movement wrought. A thorough scan of the room revealed it to be empty. It was narrow, with two slender windows on either side of his bed. A small table and a rough-hewn chair sat before the hearth, which held a smoldering fire. Though sparse, the space appeared clean and well-kept. And completely foreign.

Where was he? Was Audrey near? God, he hoped nothing had happened to her. He didn’t remember a thing after dragging the body of the highwayman from the cab.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He still wore his breeches, but the rest of him was quite bare, save the bandages covering his right bicep and shoulder. Who had tended his wounds? More importantly, who had removed his clothing?

The door opened and Audrey stepped over the threshold. She carried several garments folded over her arm. Her gaze connected with his and she smiled. “Good morning!” she said cheerily, as if she hadn’t seen things last night that no proper young lady should.

And she looked like a proper young lady this morning—gone was her gentleman’s garb. A simple gray frock hung a bit loosely from her frame, and it was too short for her taller than average height. Her hair was pulled up haphazardly. Errant curls tumbled here and there. She looked fresh and lovely, not at all like she’d been to hell and back the night before.

She set the clothing on the chair next to the table and bustled toward him. “You shouldn’t be up.”

“Where are we?” he croaked, as if he’d spent the night drinking too much gin in a flash house.

She waved at his feet, directing him to put them back on the bed. However, she kept her gaze fixed on his face. “An inn. Don’t you remember?”