Taming the Wicked Wulfe (The Rogue Agents) (56 page)

“Hold still and it will go much easier for you,” the coarse voice teased at her ear.
 
“You really are lovely, my dear,” dry lips caressed her ear, “he said you were.”
 
She stiffened and shivered, attempting to pull away from the man.
 
Her mind raced.
 
Who was it?
 
What did they want?
 
Where was John Coachman?
 
Could he even see her from the carriage?
 
Why did she refuse his company?

“Now, we are going to leave here quietly.
 
Do you understand?”
 
She nodded her head slowly.
 
She knew she had to get away now, otherwise who knew what would happen to her?
 
Clarissa held out her reticule as if a peace offering to the beast behind her.
 
“Nice touch, lovey, but I have other plans for you before I deliver you.
 
Yes, indeed.
 
Something sweeter than whatever is in that fine reticule of yours.”

Clarissa’s eyes widened in fear at the meaning behind his words.
 
Innocent she may be, but she heard the change in his voice, felt the change in a certain part of his anatomy behind her.
 
No
, she cried silently.
 
He stood her up and dragged her to the side of the bench.
 
Not knowing what else to do she slammed her foot down on his and kicked his knee.
 
He loosened his hand enough that she was able to scream for John Coachman.

“You little bitch,” he roared.

Clarissa turned and ran up the path towards the carriage.
 
There was too much land between her and safety.
 
She saw John approaching them and the worry on his face.

“Duck!” She heard him yell and she instinctively dove into a hedge before she heard the pop of a gun.
 
She felt the prickly branches scratch her face, chest and arms.
 
There was another crash and oath only a few feet behind her.
 
She scrambled out of the bushes, gaining her footing and began running towards the coach.
 
Her dress caught in some of the underbrush ripping loudly and slowing her escape.
 
The gloved hand felt like a manacle as it closed around her ankle.

He pulled her down, but she fought and clawed, trying to pull herself away from the thug.
 
Her fingers left trenches in the damp London soil.
 
“Help me!” She cried at the top of her lungs.

“Shut up,” he whispered as he tried to pull her towards him.

“Help!
 
Please!”
 
The sound of pounding footsteps came closer and closer.
 
Clarissa felt her energy running out fighting the large man.
 
“Help!”
 
Even her voice sounded weaker, fainter.

“Hell, this ain’t worth it.
 
I don’t care what the bloke said.”
 
All of a sudden her foot was loose, but she was too exhausted to move.
 
Hands were lifting her.
 
“But you are my way out of here.”
 
The man was dragging her towards a far entrance to the park.
 
She heard the men chasing after them.
 
They were close enough to the entrance that the man could get away easily.
 
“Another time, m’lady,” the man turned her head and roughly kissed her mouth bringing blood.
 
“That’s a lil’ somethin’ to remember me’s by,” then he flung her towards a copse of trees.
 
Disoriented and unable to catch her balance, she slammed into a huge old tree headfirst.
 
She felt the bark scrape down her cheek, tearing her flesh.
 
Clarissa saw beautiful stars light the blue sky before all went dark.

***

She came too in the carriage, her head pounding and her body torn and bruised.
 
She was able to knock on the wall of the coach to get John Coachman’s attention.
 
The carriage lurched to a stop and she felt the sway of someone getting down.
 
She squinted against the last light of day as John opened the carriage door.

“Miss, I should have gone with you.
 
I’ll ne’er forgive myself.”

“John, I’ll be fine,” she croaked out as she pulled herself up in the seat.
 
“Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you home.”

“No.
 
Take me to Aunt Gertie’s, please.”

“But...”

“No, John.
 
Please, do this for me.”

“Yes, miss.”
 
She watched as John closed the door and felt the sway of the carriage as he once more got the horses moving.
 
Clarissa remained stoic and composed during the entire ride to Gertie’s house.
 
Despite the pounding in her head, she made certain that she had replayed the incident enough in her mind that she could recall the details exactly.
 
The bumping and swaying of the coach in combination with her head was making her nauseous and she could not wait for the torturous ride to be over with.
 
She knew John was taking his time in reverence to her, but on the cobbled streets of London, it would almost be better to speed to their destination and get it over with.

When they pulled up in front of the Gertie’s house, John jumped down and was lifting her out of the carriage just as the housekeeper opened the door.

“Oh, dear,” she heard the old woman say before she yelled, “Lady Heathrow, we need you immediately.”

“John, do I look that bad?”
 
Clarissa did not argue against him carrying her because her legs felt like a holiday pudding.
 
When she heard Aunt Gertie say, “Oh, my sweet baby, what happened to you?” she knew she looked horrid.
 
She felt the tears gather behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
 
She did however let Gertie wrap her up in her arms if nothing but to let her aunt feel better about the situation.

***

Justin Southerby, Viscount Southerby, sat in his father’s study and poured over the report he had to deliver in the morning to the Director of the Foreign Office.
 
This was only his third assignment since volunteering to work in the office.
 
His career had begun by coming across a group of Frenchmen attempting to enter Scotland near his grandfather’s land.
 
Justin had quickly run to get clansmen to help capture the intruders.
 
Ever since then, he felt it his duty, no his calling, to help the government keep Napoleon out of Scotland and Britain alike.

Before that time, he had done what most younger sons of the
ton
did, played hard.
 
Then his older brother had felt the need to fight against Napoleon and had been one of the few British soldiers killed in the Invasion of Naples, leaving him to inherit.
 
His father had shown him how to run the estates, but Justin found it a boring process.
 
Not that we would neglect them upon inheriting the land, it just currently did not hold his interest.
 
His visits to Scotland every summer always held some adventure and he enjoyed escaping the hustle and bustle of London for a while.

His mother had been on him to begin looking for a wife this season.
 
He thought he had found one in Mikala Simmons.
 
She was fiery and independent, just what his grandfather and grandmother would approve of.
 
Circumstances beyond anyone’s control, however, found her married to the Duke of Hawkescliffe.
 
A pounding on the front door interrupted his thoughts and soon the butler appeared at the open study door.

“You have a message, my lord.”
 
Justin took the message that his parent’s butler, Dickson, carried on a silver salver.
 

“Thank you,” Justin said on a sigh.
 
He had tried to tell Dickson that when his parents were gone there was no need to stand on formality.
 
However, the man insisted, unlike Johnson at the country estate.
 
Justin took the note and the man turned stiffly and walked out the door.
 
He ripped open the seal, not paying attention to the mark in the wax, and began to read the note.

Dearest Justin,

I dearly need your assistance.
 
Please, come at once.

Love,

Gertie

“What has she gone and done now?” Justin asked the empty room.
 
Deciding to get the crisis over with, he locked his report in the safe hidden in the bookshelf and called for his horse.
 
Justin left his parent’s townhouse, which was located in an older but respectable area of Mayfair and made his way to Grosvenor Square to his godmother’s house.
 
He never knew what to expect when visiting his mother’s best friend, which is why he tried to keep the visits to a minimum.

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