Tempted (9 page)

Part Two

This little pig went to market,
This little pig stayed at home…
And this little pig cried, Wee-wee-wee-wee-wee,
I can’t find my way home.

Tommy Thumb’s Little Story Book,
c. 1760

Chapter Eight

Mary couldn’t sleep the whole night, something that’d gotten to be a common occurrence since being employed by his lordship.

His lordship.

George Alexander Essex Drummond, marquis of Warrick. Heir to a bloody dukedom. And he desired her.

She rolled over, socking her pillow at the same time she smiled. A marquis. And he desired her.
Her.
She almost giggled like a young miss when she recalled the look on his face as he’d turned around, only to have her grin fade. She desired him, too. And therein lay the crux of the problem.

Abu sighed, stretching out beneath the covers. So far she’d been able to keep him hidden, though she didn’t know for how much longer. And if that happened, they’d want to know where she’d gotten the little monkey, and she sure as certain couldn’t tell them that she was really a performer with the Royal Circus. A female trick rider, to be specific, one who led such a lonely life only Abu could be claimed as a friend.

And then her thoughts returned to the marquis again, only to be interrupted by concern for Abu, only to circle back round to his lordship until she finally said, “Blimey. I give up.”

Her toes sank into plush, wool carpet as she climbed out of bed and padded across the floor to stare out the window. It was one of those nights when the night looked blacker than a pot of coffee, mist streaming in tendrils outside her window. Tiny pinpoints of moisture clung to the glass. She raised a finger and drew a smiling face. Next she drew a horse (well, as close as she could). And when that failed, she drew the marquis, complete with long thick lashes, just like he had. She wished she had pots of paint, for she’d like to try to catch the blue of his eyes…

Bloody hell.

She needed to stop this nonsense. There could be no future between her and a marquis, at least not the respectable kind, and she refused to get involved with the other, so that—

A flash of light caught her eye.

It was so out of place, so unexpected, Mary forgot all about the marquis and her attraction to him (well, for a moment, at least). She squinted, rubbing at the window with the sleeve of her white dressing robe to get a better look. A mist could be seen hanging at the base of a grove of trees, and she wasn’t sure.

Flash.

She jerked upright.

Flash, flash.

And Mary Callahan, smuggler’s daughter, recognized the pattern of that flashing.

“Holy mother of God.”

Mary raced down the stairs. She hit the bottom floor with a slap of her bare feet, all but running down the hallway that separated the kitchen from the pantry, washroom, and servants’ parlor. A hearth that burned brightly enveloped her in heat and light as she paused in the middle of the hallway. Where to go? Would they take Gabriella out the servants’ door? Or some other side door? Perhaps one of the doors leading out to the gardens?

Where the blazes were the Runners?

“Hurry up, you daft fool, we’re going to drop him.” Mary dived into the kitchen, pressed herself up against a wall. A braid of garlic hung above her head, nearly falling from the wall before she caught and steadied it.

“Hurry,” the voice urged again.

Moving from her spot against the wall, she darted behind the massive oak table that dominated the center of the room. Leftover flour on the floor caused her to lose traction. She fell onto her rump with an
oomph
that caused her to grunt, then freeze, every hair in her ear canal tuned to sound.

“Where’s the bloody door?” a second voice asked. “Straight ahead.”

Lord, they didn’t have her already, did they?

She lifted herself up, peeking over the edge of the table just as two men came into sight. They carried something. Mary almost came to her feet when she realized what it was.

The marquis.

Alex knew something was devilishly wrong when he woke with a splitting headache and the taste of old shoe in his mouth.

Granted, he had done something he rarely, if ever, did; have a drink before bed, but that wouldn’t account for his head feeling the way it did, nor the fact that the bed he lay upon seemed uncomfortably hard. And that he couldn’t move. Nor yell for help because, good lord, his mouth was gagged. And his hands were bound.

What the devil?

Dank and musty air filled his nostrils as he inhaled in shock. He tried to move, but he was wedged as tightly as a billiard ball in a pocket.

He hated small spaces. Absolutely loathed them. ’Twas one of the reasons why he sailed the high seas. Alex needed air and freedom. He needed light. He needed to be able to move.

He jerked sideways, but he couldn’t move. Not even an inch. And—devil take it—his feet were bound too. He tried to draw his knees up. That he could do, but it did little good, for his kneecaps came in contact with the lid of what he’d begun to suspect was a coffin sealed tightly shut above him.

Bloody hell. All right, he was close to panic now. He could admit that. He jerked around in a futile attempt to free himself.

And suddenly the lid opened, a dawn sky the color of pewter above him, with Mary Callahan momentarily blocking the view.

“Shh,” she said, making a shushing motion with her finger. As if he could speak. As if he wasn’t lying in a bloody coffin and staring up at the one person in this world he least expected to see.

She reached in, her hand grabbing his arm in a way that meant he should try to sit up. He was only too happy to oblige, but the moment the blood drained from his head, it left behind a mind-numbing ache that almost made him lie back again. Almost.

“Hurry,” she hissed at him, her eyes darting around. “They’ll be back any moment.”

Who?

She shook her head, pursing her lips in a way that clearly answered back,
not now.

It was then that he realized his casket was in between other caskets. Mary atop the one to his left, her red hair hanging loose around her, the gown she wore—no, not a gown, a
night shift
?

Egads.

The fabric hung open, her breasts nearly spilling out. He blinked twice at those breasts before realizing this was clearly not the time to be having lascivious thoughts about Mrs. Mary Callahan.

He’d been kidnapped.

Silly how the thought struck him then. It should have been obvious such was the case long before now. And on the heels of that realization came the realization that he’d interpreted the letter wrong. It was
he
the letter had referred to, not Gabby.

Gabby.

His daughter would be frantic.

“Hurry,” she ordered.

Devil take it. No time to worry about his daughter now. He lifted himself to his feet, though it was damn hard with his hands tied behind him. Next he tried to move, but he couldn’t because his bloody feet were tied. He almost fell atop her.

“Careful,” she hissed up at him, her gaze darting around. “And squat down, will you?”

“Mii feetth rrr tddd,” he tried to tell her.

“Shhh,” she immediately ordered.

He looked around for what had her so concerned. They were parked in a thin sort of wood. And yet just beyond the trees, visible through the mossy trunks and branches, was a tiny village. It was early morning, Alex noted. Roosters crowed a welcome to the chilly morning air, the reason for the village’s desertion apparent. Everyone was still abed, only the dogs were awake, judging by the way they barked nearby.

“Miii feetth rrrr tddd,” he repeated when he spied no kidnappers, nor even a farmer.

She shook her head, her manner one of lost patience as she stared down at him. “Here,” reaching behind him to jerk the gag off his face.

“Ouch,” he cried, for she near ripped his nose off, too. “Hop out,” she ordered again.

“I can’t,” he hissed back, and he could feel where the gag had left a mark on his face. His patience ended. “In case it’s escaped your notice, Mrs. Callahan, my feet are bound. I cannot lift my legs over the edge.”

She glanced toward the appendages in question. “Bloody hell,” he thought he heard her curse. “Sit down and swing them out.”

Good thinking. Alex felt miffed he hadn’t thought of it himself. Demme. They must have struck him harder on the head than he’d thought.

He did exactly as instructed, Mary staying behind to close the casket lid, then replaced the tarp that had obviously been pulled over them.

“Lean on me,” she said, after he’d hopped down.
Lean on her?
“Devil take it, untie my legs and hands first.”

“We can’t. There isn’t time.”

He leaned on her, her small arm wrapping around his waist, Alex surprised at how easily she took his weight.

It seemed to take forever for them to reach the woods, Alex feeling like he played a childhood game of hop in a sack. Only this was worse. She forced him on until they both nearly fell, Alex cursing, Mrs. Callahan doing the same.

“This is silly,” she said, dropping down to her knees after darting a glance at the village. Not a night shift, he realized, but a chemise with a white cotton robe thrown over it, one that allowed him a view of her voluptuous breasts. He swallowed. Bloody hell. He refused to have more lascivious thoughts about her. They were running for their lives—well, he was running for his. She was an innocent bystander who’d happened to get involved.

Come to think of it, how
had
she gotten involved? He was about to ask her, but she stood suddenly, untying his hands next, and the feel of those nimble fingers on his flesh made him groan inwardly.

Bloody hell.
He
was
having salacious thoughts. When she finished, she wadded up the rope and tossed it into the branches above where it caught on a bough.

“What the devil are you doing?”

“Evidence,” she said. “Don’t want them to know we came this way.”

He almost pointed out their traipse through the grass was hardly invisible what with the grass having folded down where they trod. Snails couldn’t have left a better trail, but she was off and moving again before he could say a word. And, besides, it
was
a clever thing to do.

“Do you have any notion where we are?”

“How the bleedin’ hell should I know?” she asked, her robe catching on the bottom of the thick grass, wetting the fabric, and brushing the ends of the blades flat some more.

“Then you have no idea where you are going?”

She stopped. He bumped into her, automatically reaching out to steady her. She didn’t appear to notice for she turned, hands on hips. “I was under the bleedin’ tarp the whole way here—same as yourself—freezing me cooler off in the pouring rain, on a road that shouldn’t be travelled, if you don’t mind me saying. And I’m not pleased about that, m’lord. Not pleased about any of it. I rode in the back of that bleedin’ cart stuffed between two eternity boxes half afraid the carriage would shift and I’d be crushed flat like a run-over possum. So, no, I don’t know where we are.”

And without another word, she turned again, running toward a stand of oak, their trail no longer obvious now that they trod atop last fall’s leaves. Gradually, the wood thickened, the village faded from view, and still Mary pushed on, darting glances behind them. And she likely would have kept going, too, if she hadn’t pulled up suddenly, her gasp of “Ouch,” bringing him to an abrupt halt.

She wore no shoes.

He felt his body buzz with the shock of it. She’d been running—No, they’d been charging over twigs and prickly oak leaves and the whole time she’d been—

“Bloody hell, I’m bleedin’.”

Bleeding?

“Lord love a duck, this day just couldn’t get worse. Stuck in the country with some fancy bred swell with no shoes, no blunt, and no bleedin’ clothes. Someone should just shoot me and put me out of me misery now.”

And her words made him feel an odd combination of pity and amusement mixed with…tenderness?

“Here,” he said, “I’ll carry you.”

“Not on your bleedin’ life,” she said, putting her foot down, turning and moving off again. But he noticed she didn’t put her heel all the way down, though she tried to make it look as if she walked normally.

“Did you catch a glimpse of my kidnappers?” he found himself asking.

“Only briefly.”

“Is that how you became involved?”

“Aye,” she said. “I saw a signal lantern from my window, and since I figured whoever was up to nonsense would likely not use the front door, I went to the servants’ entrance only to discover the nonsense was
you
, which reminds me, my lord. You need to hire better Runners next time.”

“They were stationed at Gabby’s door.”

“Aye, but someone should have been patrolling the boundary.”

And suddenly the enormity of what she’d done—all of it—struck him. She’d charged in to help him, unclothed, in the dead of night, not knowing what fate she might face, but committed to her course. She’d rescued him, handily, he might add, then run for her life with him in tow.

Amazing.

“Here,” he said again, unable to stand her limp a minute longer. He crossed to her quickly, bending so he could scoop her up.