How a Lady Weds a Rogue (12 page)

Still he did not speak, his gaze on the narrow road flanked by rock walls stretching endlessly ahead into the haze of rain. To either side, hills rose steeply in glorious hues of emerald and evergreen, copses of trees cresting the heights and sheep speckling the fields oblivious to the rain in their thin, late summer coats, all of it now veiled in silvery gray.

“I suppose she has less concern than we since she knows nothing of the threat Mr. Eads poses.”

No reply.

She had been talking to herself like this all day. And staring at him, his broad shoulders covered by his black overcoat, the damp curl of his hair about his collar. She had touched him there. She still couldn’t quite believe it. But she had the memory of sensation within her gloves now, and everywhere else in her body. And, of course, there was his altered mien, not in the least uncivil, only subdued.

He regretted having kissed her, touched her, and he did not remember it. She—brazen, wanton daughter of a wayward, wicked mother—remembered every moment. And she could not stop thinking about it.

“Are you familiar with this part of Wales?”

“I heard many stories of it in my childhood.” He did not sound exhausted, or piqued, or unhappy. He sounded . . . normal.

She released a tiny breath. “What sorts of stories?”

“In Knighton, the town we left this morning, there is a clock tower at the top of the main street. Did you notice it?”

“Yes.” She hadn’t. She’d noticed only the regret on his handsome features and the flicker of relief when she refused his offer of marriage.

“If a man of Knighton wishes to divorce his wife, he may bring her to that clock tower in the center of town and sell her to whomever will take her.”

She laughed. “That is positively barbaric!”

“Isn’t it?”

“Of course you would never do that.”

“Of course not.” A pause. “Only if she were very troublesome.” For the first time since the Bates’s stable, his voice seemed to smile.

Happiness caught at her, simple and warm. She swiped rain off the tip of her nose. “Then it is a good thing we are not to marry after all, because I daresay you would be selling me at the clock tower within days.”

He did not immediately respond. Then: “I daresay.”

She swallowed over the sudden thickness in her throat. “Are we lost, Mr. Yale?”

“Not precisely, Miss Lucas.”

He had called her Diantha the night before. And for a moment, in that moment, he had truly frightened her.

“Slightly lost?”

“Possibly.” Another silence, washed by the steady stream of rain about them and punctuated by Mrs. Polley’s snores.

“Probably lost?”

“Yes.”

“What shall we do about it, then?”

He glanced up and she realized that she missed his eyes when he did not look at her. She drank in the profile of his jaw and the contours of his mouth. Droplets of rain fell from his hat brim onto his coat.

“Mrs. Polley is sodden to the bone,” she continued, because speaking was considerably easier than contemplating his mouth and wishing for things she could not have, “and I think Owen is sleeping as he walks.”

“It will be best to find a place to hide for a bit.”

“To ‘hide’?” He did not strike her as the sort of man who hid. From anything.

“To take shelter.”

The rain fell heavily now, silencing all but itself. But he also did not seem the sort to shy from bad weather.

“Oh,” she said. “For my safety from Mr. Eads.”

Back to no reply again.

“But you said he agreed to allow you to assist me on my quest because of a tragedy having to do with his sister and a brothel.”

“That was before you rode out of town on his horse.”

Her hands jerked on the reins and the big roan snorted.

“You
stole
—” She glanced back at her sleeping companion and lowered her voice. “You stole
his
horse?”

“It was Eads or the law.”

“Hm. I see. Given the policy on troublesome wives in that town, one might not hope to meet with justice over the theft of a carriage and pair.”

“My thought precisely.”

“Probably a good one. You don’t think he will turn us in to the authorities?”

“I believe he will wish to avoid the authorities altogether.”

She looked over her shoulder. The road behind was swathed in gray. “Perhaps we should pick up our pace a bit?”

“Or take shelter off the road where Eads will not look.”

“Perhaps you’re right. My available time is already growing short and we have had to make more detours than I like. It would be silly to advance yet farther. How far is Bristol from here?”

“Several days’ ride.”

“And perhaps the man in brown has confederates too. I would not want to run afoul of any more of your enemies.”

“It cannot be wondered at.”

“It would further delay us.”

Finally the slight smile shaped his mouth. Diantha could not look away, her insides all tangled again.

“Why are you smiling now? You have not smiled at me all day, which cannot be wondered at, of course. But I cannot imagine now that this is a good sign.”

He drew the horse to a halt. “The rain is worsening. I will send Owen ahead to scout out a place to rest for the night.”

“An inn upon this deserted road? And you did not answer my question.”

He glanced at their companions approaching from behind. “An inn may be too much to expect.”

“A farm then.” She could not ask if they would once again pretend to be married.

He seemed thoughtful. “I would encourage you to come down from there and rest while he goes ahead if it weren’t for the mud and the prospect of Eads catching up.”

“I would come down if Owen would take the opportunity to ride. Or you.”

The smile lingered at one corner of his mouth. “You think infrequently of yourself.”

“What on earth do you mean? I’ve done nothing but think of myself since I left Brennon Manor.” Especially with him, begging for kisses when he told her not to.

His regard shifted to Ramses trotting ahead on the narrow road, his coat a matted mass, then again to Owen and Mrs. Polley. “You adopt strays,” he said beneath the rattle of the rain.

“They needed our help, and we needed theirs.”

“Not precisely.” His eyes seemed to glimmer now. “Why do you do it? Do you intend to save the world from its ills, one lost soul at a time?”

He did not tease. She could see this. His voice held a desolate note that burrowed into her and made her feel achy again, but not like the night before. This ache was different.

“Give me your hand, Mr. Yale.”

His gaze arrested. He did not move.

“Please,” she said more quietly, her voice nearly lost in the rain.

He did as she asked, offering his hand, palm up. She brought hers beneath it and through her sodden gloves felt his heat so that, within, she stirred.

“Your hands are large and strong. You are accustomed to doing with them what you will. With very little effort, I suspect, you have an effect upon others.” She could no longer hold his gaze. She laid her other hand upon his, matching palm to palm, fingers to fingers. “My hands are quite small, as you can see. I can do very little of effect. But what little I am able to do, I will always try to do.” Wresting her courage from her soaked shoes, she lifted her gaze. He drew a visible breath.

“Hem.”
Galahad appeared beside them, Mrs. Polley staring pointedly from the saddle.

Mr. Yale’s hand slipped from hers.

“Owen, walk a pace with me up the road while I apprise you of our—” He glanced at her. “—plan.” He set his hand on the boy’s bony shoulder and the two moved away.

Mrs. Polley glared after them. Of course, she would glare much more pointedly if she had any idea that the hand he’d just allowed Diantha to hold had been up her skirts the night before.

She sighed. “I do wish you would cease looking at him as though he were a villain intent on my ruination. He has no such designs.” Would that he did. Teresa had told her there were many duties gentlemen expected of their wives, other men’s wives, opera singers, and an occasional French maid. Diantha thought she had discovered one of those duties last night while pressed up against his bedchamber wall. She wanted to discover more but that, unfortunately, was not in his program. “He merely wishes to help me, you know.”

“I’ll not be saying what I think his true intentions are, or not,” her companion said with a wag of her head, bonnet spewing water in all directions. “But I’ll warn you, miss, gentlemen with a dark look like that one do only what’s to their advantage.”

“Well don’t we all? I think you will soon come to see your mistake.”

Mr. Yale came toward them, alone now. “He is looking for a dry refuge ahead.”

Mrs. Polley clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “There’s nothing dry for miles, sir. You’ve brought us into Noah’s flood.”

“I am sorry for your discomfort, ma’am.” He stroked down the filly’s neck with quiet care. Diantha’s insides went wobbly. He looked up and found her staring at him, and his eyes shaded. “No doubt we will find shelter soon.”

T
hree quarters of an hour of green hills and muddy road later, Owen reappeared.

“Found a house ahead, back from the road.” He glanced at her with a shy smile. “It’s a grand place, miss. Looks like a church. But there’s no one about. Knocked on all the doors and the gatehouse.” He was speaking English for her sake, and she smiled in return. His cheeks bloomed with red spots beneath his pallor. Even he was tired, all of them weary of the rain, Diantha’s teeth chattering and Mrs. Polley’s face pale.

“Well, if it has a dry stable we might borrow it for a bit, mightn’t we, Mr. Yale?”

“We might.” He studied the boy. “Fine work, Owen. Thank you.”

The lad took Galahad’s lead. “Just up the road a bit, sir.” He gestured.

They went. Not more than a quarter mile ahead, where the road bent south, a tiny lane led off north, overhung by a stand of old oaks interspersed with the tall dark pines that seemed so comfortable in this lush world. Vines twined in thick majesty around the gatehouse built of gray stone and the stone fence running along the lane, some still flowering and content in the rain. The drive was pebbled, sprigs of grass poking up here and there.

Hidden behind a copse of ancient trees, the house sat on a rise, a very large structure that did indeed have the look of a church about it—rather, several churches all connected in one grand sprawl. Its roofs sloped steeply to points, turreted towers of gray stone rising over the treetops. But the towers featured chimneys of modern appearance. Windows gleamed dimly, reflecting the black trees and the gray sky above.

A long, low building ran along the drive to another barnlike structure—the stable and carriage house, presumably. Huge rosebushes clustered about the buildings’ knees. Beyond, close to the low wall that ran another fifty yards to a fenced sheep field, a wooden rope swing hung from a branch of a solitary grand oak.

“It’s perfectly charming,” she whispered, although of course that was silly since the horse’s hooves were loud enough to be heard by a stable hand if there were one. She glanced at Mr. Yale. He scanned the house, his face sober.

“Owen, go around to the back and make certain there are none here.”

Owen disappeared at a jog.

Mrs. Polley accepted Mr. Yale’s assistance dismounting. “We’re here now, sir. So what would you have us do?” She made a show of stretching her back, her squat round form like a tilting teapot, bonnet and cloak drooping. “It’d best be deserted or the poor souls that live here will have a sorry shock when they discover us soggier than stewed mutton on their doorstep.”

“Stewed mutton sounds wonderful right about now,” Diantha mumbled.

He smiled his slight smile and came to her. “Wishing for roast and shepherd’s pie?” He grasped her by the waist and drew her off the horse. The moment her feet met the earth he released her, but he did not move away and she was obliged to pretend to him up close that his hands on her hadn’t felt like heaven. Her knees and behind were wretchedly sore, but a tingle danced inside her now where he had touched her so deeply the night before.

“I don’t suppose anyone is cooking stewed mutton for dinner inside?”

“I doubt it. But let us see how matters lie within before we relinquish hope of dinner entirely.” He moved toward the front door.

She followed. “I thought we were to rest in the stable. Do you intend to enter the
house
?”

“I do.”

Owen came around from the opposite side. “All’s clear, sir.”

Mr. Yale climbed the two steps to the door, a heavy wooden panel without adornment, and she went behind him. Closer, the stone seemed to be a subtle pink.

“But what if they return without notice?”

“Then we will hope they are gracious hosts. And Owen will keep a watch on the drive from the gatehouse. Owen, how would you like turning your talents to guard duty?”

“It’d be better than the mines, sir.”

“You see? All is well.” But his eyes gleamed with an odd intensity. Diantha followed as he ascended the stoop. He tried the door latch.

“Locked,” Mrs. Polley harrumphed.

He reached into his coat and withdrew a leather case no larger than a billfold.

Diantha peered around his shoulder. “What is that?”

“Why are you whispering?” he replied as quietly. He opened the case with hands slick with rainwater and withdrew two tiny metal tools.

“Because what you are doing there seems remarkably clandestine.”

“No doubt it is.”

She wished he wore gloves. She wished she could not see his capable hands that made her feel weak all over.

“What are those tools, Mr. Yale?”

“They are a lock pick, Miss Lucas.” He fit it into the keyhole.

“I suppose I should be shocked that you carry a lock pick in your topcoat pocket.”

“Yet it seems you are not.”

“That would be remarkably silly of me by now, wouldn’t it?”

“Probably.” Two metallic clicks sounded from the door. With the picks still in the keyhole, he lifted the latch. “Push on the door, if you will.”