The Devil's Love (4 page)

snickered. That made Abbey angry. Men could be so childish!

“Me and the lads want you to join us for a game,” Danny said, brazenly shifting

his gaze to her bodice.

Abbey stiffened; she hated the lewd look in his eye. Why did men always have to

look at her so? Unbeknownst to her, the well-dressed man from the private dining

room had moved to the common area, and watched her from the shadows beneath the

stairs. When Danny stepped in front of her, he took a step forward.

“I am really very tired,” she said, and stepped sideways, intent on going around

him. Danny matched her movement and blocked her path again. Behind him, the men

snickered disparaging comments to one another.

“Leave her be. She belongs to the marquis, she does,” Mannheim said.

Danny slid little black eyes to Mannheim. “You the marquis’s man?”

Mannheim shifted uncomfortably. “No,” he answered truthfully.

“Then stay out of it. Possession is the law, and the marquis ain’t here to defend what’s his,” Danny said with a growl. A hush fell over the room as patrons stopped their conversations and turned expectantly to watch the exchange

between them.

Abbey glared up at the man. “Really, you make it sound as if I am a milk cow. No

one possesses me, and no one tells me I must play darts.”

“I’m telling you, lass. You will play.” His tiny eyes shifted to her mouth, the

leer touching his lips again.

“Your insistence is quite rude,” she said almost casually.

Danny laughed nastily and glanced over his shoulder. “She thinks me rude, lads.

I reckon this pretty little thing don’t know what rude is.” From the corner of the room, the tall man took another step forward and slipped his hand into his

pocket.

“Be a good lass and play darts,” Danny said mockingly.

Abbey sighed and cocked her head to one side while she considered him, knowing

full well she was going to have to throw a dart in order to leave the room.

“And

if I refuse?”

“Don’t matter to me. I’ll hold you so’s you play, or you can play of your own

accord.”

With a sigh of exasperation, Abbey slammed her satchel down onto a chair next to

her. “Very well then, give me the blasted darts! If I throw and hit the king’s eye, then I shall retire to my room. Alone,” she added with a nod of her head.

“If I throw and miss the king’s eye, then I shall treat you to a tankard of ale,

agreed?” she asked as she motioned impatiently for the darts.

“If you miss the king’s eye, you are mine,” the man replied, then licked his lips as his gaze shamelessly swept her feminine figure. His companions hooted

their encouragement.

“I shall treat you to an ale, but I am most definitely not yours.”

A lopsided smile curved on Danny’s lips. “Whatever you say, lass,” he said

patronizingly, and stepped aside.

“As if this day could be more absurd,” Abbey muttered to herself, and stepped up

to the line that had been drawn across the floor. Without hesitation, she drew

her arm back and hurled a dart, landing it squarely in the king’s eye. A collective gasp went up from the common room, followed by startled silence. The

men stood, slack-jawed, as they stared at the dart protruding from the king’s

eye. They were in such a state of shock that Abbey had to nudge a man standing

next to her to take the remaining darts from her hand.

“Good night, sir,” she said simply, and while the men stared with disbelief at

the board, Abbey grabbed her satchel and fairly flew across the room.

Danny turned abruptly and made a move to come after her.

But his gaze shifted to the tall man standing just below the stairs, and with a

final glance at Abbey’s retreating back, he slowly stepped back and turned away.

The tall man stepped back into the shadows, withdrew a cheroot, and settled his

shoulder against a post underneath the stairs to stand vigil.

Abbey slept fitfully on the mound of dirty blankets, fighting the nagging thought that something was not quite right and waiting for Mrs. Petty to return.

When the first gray rays of light filtered in through the small window, she rose, washed as best she could in the ice-cold water at the basin, then donned a

plum wool traveling gown.

Surely Michael would come for her this morning. Surely he had been detained by

the weather and would have come for her last evening if he had been able.

Surely

he never intended her to stay with Mrs. Petty or at this inn this long.

Refusing

to let herself think there was any other explanation, she forcibly buried any doubt. She clasped her hands tightly together and pressed them against her

stomach, unsure if the queasy pangs she felt were hunger or nerves. Then she

crossed to the small window and looked out at the village. The storm had passed,

and the streets and thatch-covered roofs were blanketed in a thick layer of pristine snow. She mumbled a quick prayer that the roads would be passable and

she could soon leave this awful place.

In the small courtyard below, Lord Samuel Hunt oversaw the preparations for the

trip to Blessing Park. In addition to the driver and Mannheim, he had two outriders with him for the last leg of Miss Carrington’s journey. It was a precaution he had taken himself; Michael had seemed unconcerned for her safety

when he had summoned him and asked him to fetch his fiancee. He frowned as he

tested the ropes that held her trunks to the back of the coach. What could Michael have been thinking when he had hired Mrs. Petty? Sam had dismissed her

abruptly last evening after hearing her outrageous lies. He knew wild rumors

circulated about Michael, but personally he had never heard such venom from

anyone. His frown melted into a quiet smile as he recalled Miss Carrington’s

response to the accusations. She was nothing as Michael had described, nothing

at all.

In the first place, she was not homely.

Far from it, Sam mused. Her dark mahogany curls were offset by flawless, porcelain skin and full lips the color of roses. She was a classic beauty, with

high cheekbones and a small, straight nose. And her eyes—good Lord, they were

magnificent. A peculiar and remarkable shade of violet, framed by thick, dark

lashes.

Even more remarkable than her exquisite looks was the way she had stared that

ruffian down and then hit her target with the dart. Sam chuckled to himself as

he returned to the inn. He had never seen anything like it, and he could hardly

contain his glee as he anticipated Michael’s reaction to a woman he had described as a savage little hellion.

Outside her room, Sam sent away the outrider who had guarded her door through

the night with instructions that they would leave within the hour. Then Sam rapped lightly on Miss Carrington’s door. When she did not answer, he rapped

again, a little more insistently. After a pause, he heard the bolt sliding, and

then the door was yanked open.

Miss Carrington stood before him in a gown that accentuated her remarkable eyes,

which at that particular moment were narrowed with suspicion. She studied him

for a moment before her finely shaped brows snapped into a frown.

“You are not Michael Ingram!” she said angrily, and before Sam could respond,

she whipped a small pistol from behind the deep folds of her skirt and pointed

it straight at his chest. “I am no more interested in playing games this morning

than I was last evening, sir. If you value your life, you will retreat down those stairs and not bother me again. Do not think for one moment I will not use

this if I must,” she said in a calm voice that belied the small tremor in her

hand.

Sam slowly raised his hands, took a step backward, and bowed gallantly.

“I have

no intention of forcing you into a game of darts, Miss Carrington. I am Lord Hunt, a personal friend of the marquis, and I have come to see you to Blessing

Park.”

Abbey cocked her head to one side and considered that but did not lower her gun.

“If you will pardon me, sir, I have had quite enough escorting. Certainly I would not get into a coach with a strange man.”

Mildly amused, Sam arched a brow. “I applaud your caution. However, the Marquis

of Darfield has asked me to escort you, posthaste, to Blessing Park,” he said,

steeling himself for the possibility he might have to carry her down the stairs

and put her in the coach.

Abbey dropped the gun to her side. “Really?” she asked softly, suddenly looking

very vulnerable. It occurred to Sam that she had traveled thousands of miles to

marry a man she had not seen or heard from since she was a child.

Coupled with

her experience thus far in England, it was undoubtedly all very overwhelming.

“Indeed he did. The weather, of course—”

“I knew it!” she exclaimed happily, waving the gun carelessly. “I knew he would

have come for me had it not been for the snow!” In a sudden whirl of plum, she

flew across the room to her satchel. Sam had been about to say that the weather

prevented him from escorting her last evening, but seeing the gloriously happy

look on her lovely face, he did not dare contradict her. Abbey stuffed her pistol into the satchel, donned her cloak, grabbed her muff, reticule, and satchel, and started for the door, then stopped abruptly.

“I can’t go until I know what has befallen Mrs. Petty. She did not return from

supper last evening.”

“Mrs. Petty is well enough, I can assure you, but she has been discharged from

her duties. I will ask the innkeeper to see that her things are returned,”

Sam

said, and motioned toward the corridor.

Abbey glanced skeptically at the woman’s articles of clothing.

“On my honor, Mrs. Petty is quite all right,” Sam said again.

Abbey lifted her gaze, studying him, then cautiously preceded him down the

stairs. In the common room, she declined Sam’s suggestion that she eat something

and headed straight for the coach. She could not get away from Pemberheath fast

enough to suit her. Clearly, her doubts about Michael, colored by the malicious

accusations of Mrs. Petty, had been wrong. With a fat smile, she settled back

against the high cushion and tucked the lap rug about her. The fears that had

plagued her since she had disembarked in Portsmouth seemed laughable now. She

had been nervous and unfamiliar with the ways of the English, nothing more. It

was the snow, that was all. He could not come because of the snow.

Everything was going to be fine, just fine.

Sam appeared after settling with the innkeeper and climbed in, taking a seat

across from her. He smiled as he signaled for the driver to proceed, then settled back against the squabs, stretching his long legs across the coach.

Abbey smiled brightly as they lurched forward. “Is it very far to Blessing Park?”

“Five miles or so. May take some time because of the snow.”

“Is Lord Darfield there?”

“Of course.”

Abbey sighed with obvious relief. “He must be very impatient,” she remarked with

a smile, then shifted her gaze to the window. “He has been waiting such a very

long time to marry.”

Sam was startled by her apparent assumption that Michael somehow wanted this

preposterous marriage. “Do you remember him?” he asked uncertainly, to which

Abbey looked surprised.

“Of course!”

“Lord Darfield told me it was quite some years ago when last he saw you.

You

could not have been more than a child,” Sam explained.

Abbey’s laugh was gentle, lilting. “You are quite right, of course… Lord Hunt,

isn’t it? I was only a child when I last saw him in the flesh, but my father had

sketches made of him over the years—”

“Sketches?” Sam interjected incredulously.

“Oh yes, several sketches! You see, Lord Darfield could not come to visit me—we

were forever in different ports—so when Papa had occasion to see him over the

years, he had sketches made of him. He had one crewman who was particularly

talented with a piece of charcoal and would send the sketches to me so I would

not forget what he looked like. And, of course, he would send sketches of me to

Lord Darfield, as he was always badgering Papa for a glimpse of me.”

Sam seriously doubted that Michael had seen any of those sketches, or else he

would not have described her so falsely to him. He also seriously doubted that

Michael had ever badgered Captain Carrington for anything, with the possible

exception of being released from the absurd agreement. “Your papa sounds like a

kind man.”

Abbey smiled, her full lips stretching across a row of straight, white teeth.

“He was very kind, and very good to me,” she said, a distant look clouding her

eyes for a moment. “But, I think, not as good as Lord Darfield has been to me,”

she added softly.

Sam managed to hide his great surprise behind a cough. “ Lord Darfield?”

“From the time I left the ship, apparently I was never far from his thoughts,”

she said wistfully, and looked out the window. “My first year at school in Rome,

he sent me a violin. He is a great lover of music, you know, and thought it would be very nice of me to learn to play.”

Stunned, Sam was almost afraid to ask. “Did you?”

“Certainly! And the times when I despaired of ever mastering the silly thing,

Papa would tell me that Michael… Lord Darfield… was so looking forward to

hearing me play, I would try even harder. And he would send little trinkets, too,” she said, flicking one of the amethyst earrings dangling from her earlobes. “He sent these on my sixteenth birthday. When I was bound for Egypt,