The Accidental Abduction (4 page)

“Is she all right?” Leannah nodded toward Gossip. Of course she'd check for herself, but for reasons she could not quite understand, she did not want Mr. Rayburn to be looking at her just now. The rush of the drive and the distraction of Harry Rayburn's touch were fading, and the pain had begun to creep up past her wrists, into her arms. It would be bad later, but she couldn't worry about that either.

Mr. Rayburn quirked a brow at her, as if to let her know he understood this was meant as a distraction. Nonetheless, he did move carefully around Gossip, who stamped and whickered at him. He patted her shoulder, murmuring soothing nothings as he ran his hand slowly down her leg. Whatever his station in life, Mr. Rayburn was a patient man, and one who understood horses. Probably she'd gotten hold of some Newmarket dandy, or member of the sporting set who would be all too delighted to regale his comrades about his midnight ride, probably expanded and improved upon to tell how he'd stopped the runaway team and saved a damsel in distress.

Then she remembered his rough hands with their controlled and well-judged grip. Those were not a dandy's hands at all.

“I think she's all right,” Mr. Rayburn said as he straightened up. “I can't find any swelling or tenderness. Just lost the shoe.”

She nodded. Despair threatened again, but she pushed it aside, hard. “We're about two miles from the tollgate, I think. It makes more sense to head there than try to turn back to town.”

“I agree.” He raised the lantern a little higher and met her gaze. “There's still every chance we can catch up with your sister. If this fellow she's with is in a great rush, he's just barreled up the high road, and we'll get word of them at the inn. If he decided to be evasive and take the side roads, we will be ahead of them.”

Unless Gretna wasn't their destination after all. Unless there was no marriage planned. Leannah couldn't believe that of Genevieve, despite her radical, bluestocking views. But what of Anthony Dickenson?

Leannah drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. It would do no one any good to say so much now. “We should be on our way at once.”

He nodded briskly. “I think this one . . .”

“Gossip,” she told him. “Gossip and Rumor.”

He cocked his eye at her again. She shrugged. “They're the fastest things in the world.”

That earned a startled chuckle, and despite everything, Leannah felt herself smile. “Gossip here will walk, if we take it easy. I'll lead,” he added before Leannah had any chance to protest.

She shivered. “All things considered, you'd be within your rights to leave me here.”

He didn't answer that, at least not directly. “Have you a shawl or any such?”

He'd seen her shiver. He was too observant by half, this Mr. Rayburn. She was going to have to be very careful around him, or she'd give something important away.

“I left home in rather a hurry.”
Without gloves or a hat or . . . oh, no, without any money.
She'd been so intent on catching up with Genevieve before the worst happened that she hadn't even paused to consider such things. Leannah shuddered again.

“Here.” Mr. Rayburn stripped off the caped overcoat he wore. “Take this.”

“You'll be cold.”

“Not as cold as you'll be up there. Come now. You've wounded my pride by abducting me, you can at least permit me my chance to play the gallant.”

He settled the coat around her shoulders and she felt the barest brush of his fingertips against the bare skin of her throat. The coat smelled of whiskey, salt water, and, surprisingly, spices. A treacherous shiver trickled down her spine.

Oh, don't,
she whispered in the dark of her mind.
I mustn't be curious, or intrigued.

If Mr. Rayburn thought this latest, so very treasonous shiver might be anything more than cold, he was gentleman enough to remain silent. He held out his hand, and Leannah realized belatedly that he meant to help her back onto the box. She let him, noticing he took her arm, not her injured hand. His own arm was steady as a rock as she leaned on him. For a brief moment she imagined having those arms around her again, and she thought of how those hands would feel as they settled against her waist to pull her close, here in the dark, where no one could see, no one could know.

I should leave you here, Mr. Rayburn. Gossip could run a little way at least, if I gave her her head. I could leave you behind and let you walk back to town and away from me.

But Mr. Rayburn already had Gossip's bridle. “Come on, old girl. We'll take this nice and easy. Here we go.”

Leannah took up the reins. The pain of the leather against her bare palms nearly made her gasp, but she swallowed the sound and gave them a single shake. Rumor snorted in complaint but took up a walking pace at Gossip's side.

“Thank you, Mr. Rayburn.”

“For what?”

She thought she'd spoken too softly to be heard, but apparently she'd failed in even that much. “For not saying if I'd driven less like a maniac, my horse wouldn't have cast a shoe, and I still might catch up with my sister.”

“All part of the service, Mrs. Wakefield. For what it's worth, I've a sister, too, and I've had to make a mad drive or two myself on her account.”

“Why do they do it?”

“If I knew that, I'd write a book and make a fortune. Are you going to be all right?”

“I'm going to have to be.”
Again.

I must stop this.
Leannah scolded herself at once.
Feeling sorry for myself is not going to help.
She drew in a deep breath. Vanilla, cinnamon, sandalwood, and oranges hung in the air around her. Whoever Harry Rayburn was, he carried the world with him. A sailor? A merchant man? It would explain his steady nerves, and strong arms.

I'm a widow,
she wanted to tell him.
I have been for over a year. There's no living husband, or anyone else to protect me, or protest what I do.
There was Terrance Valloy, but she did not feel she could count him.

But she must count him, and all the other people who in their turn counted on her. She had no business fantasizing about a stranger, no matter how warm his embrace or gallant his manner. This wasn't a ballroom where she could watch the men and dream about them later. Genevieve's future was at stake. Every second was precious and their walking progress was excruciatingly slow. And yet, she couldn't help looking at this man who turned from being abducted by a stranger—a woman no less—to playing the rescuer and barely batted an eye.

Who are you, Harry Rayburn?
Leannah inhaled another deep breath of spices.
Where are we going together?

H
arry had never once had cause to be grateful for a thrown horseshoe in his life, but he was now. That shoe let him lead Gossip the mare, instead of requiring him to ride up on the box next to Mrs. Wakefield.

If Harry'd had any breath left after that carriage ride, the sight of Mrs. Wakefield by lantern and moonlight would have knocked it clean out of him. From his vantage point during their wild ride, he'd had an idea his abductress might be good-looking, if a trifle mad and rather unconventionally accurate with the butt of her whip. Because she wore no coat or cape, he could plainly see she had the full curves of a well-grown woman. He'd watched with interest when her mane of hair tumbled down her back to be tossed and teased by the night wind. But those hints and glimpses were nothing compared to his first, full look at her.

For one thing, Mrs. Wakefield must have been married right out of the schoolroom. If she was more than twenty-five, he was a codfish. For another, she was almost as tall as he was. He'd spent so much time stooping down to talk with Agnes, and his sister, he'd more or less formed the idea of all girls being tiny things. To be able to stand with straight back and see something other than the top of the other person's head was comfortable, and surprisingly enjoyable. It made him feel more himself. It also allowed him to see the flush in Mrs. Wakefield's cheeks and the flecks of brightness that glimmered in her green eyes. Whatever had brought her out onto the road at this hour, her outrageous drive had left her not frightened, but invigorated. Her magnificent hair curled wildly about her shoulders and down her back—all the way down her back to the swell of her derriere, he could not help noticing. It was fair hair, with hints of red, he thought, although the light was not good enough to be sure. He did know for certain she smelled of lemon and jasmine.

But as arresting as the sight of her beauty had been, it was nothing compared to the sensation of embracing her. God! What had he been thinking! He hadn't been thinking. He'd seen her distress and he'd taken her in his arms. At the moment, it had seemed quite simple and natural. But what he'd felt as her full breasts pressed against him was anything but simple. His body had been instantly on fire, and hard as stone. The whole of her delectably curved form felt soft and luxurious, and yet he knew how strong she was. She'd scarcely seemed to notice how badly she'd cut herself by driving without gloves.

The sight of Mrs. Wakefield's wounded hands had bitten into Harry almost as hard as his sudden need. The moment he saw those cuts, he wanted to embrace her again. He wanted to swear to protect her forever, just as soon as he hunted down this Dickenson who'd caused her to be out on this road alone at night. He'd teach the fellow to never again cause a woman—this woman—pain. She'd tip her face up toward his, and those gorgeous eyes would be alive with gratitude. He'd see how much she wanted to be in his arms again and then . . . and then . . .

Harry's mouth went dry and his breath came shallow. If his breeches didn't loosen soon, he'd strangle himself.

Once, home from school for the holidays, he'd overheard Fiona and some of her friends reading some story from a lady's magazine. He remembered, quite clearly now, how he'd laughed up his sleeve. After imbibing such tales of overblown rescue and harebrained gallantries, the girls would be shocked to find that no real man would be so stupid. Why would a real man risk his neck over some silly girl? Especially one he'd just met?

It seemed he was finding out.

Stand down,
he ordered his overeager member.
Stand
down
. She's alone, and in trouble and she's married.

Which was just as well, because at the moment the thought of her husband was all that kept him walking down the highway, leading this stumbling, complaining, entirely too high-strung mare. Who in God's name let a woman drive such a creature? Harry's opinion of the as-of-yet-unknown Mr. Wakefield had not been terribly high to begin with, and it dropped a little further with each yard they progressed. Where was Mr. Wakefield anyway? What kind of man let his wife go tearing about through the streets of London alone to chase down her eloping sister? Was he overseas?

Perhaps he was in his grave. Perhaps this mysterious beauty was a widow.

The thought sent a shudder straight through him that was equal parts desire and disgust. How could he, of all men, wish someone in their grave? Especially over a woman he didn't know?

It's the dark,
he told himself.
It's the isolation and the excitement of that ride, and all after being turned down by Agnes. That's what this is. That's all.

Because under normal circumstances there was no possible way he could come to feel so much so quickly. He wasn't a man to fall in love at first sight. He didn't believe in that nonsense. Which did not change how intensely he wanted to kiss Mrs. Wakefield. He wanted to kiss her hands, right across the welts left by the reins. He wanted to kiss the worried lines on her wide, pale brow and to discover the taste of her lips and the sensation of her tongue sliding against his. He wanted to surround her with his embrace and discover what those luscious curves would feel like crushed tight against his body as he slowly, tenderly, took the chill from her skin and the pain from her hands, replacing both with warmth and with pleasure.

“Was she all right?” asked Mrs. Wakefield suddenly.

“Sorry?” Startled, Harry stumbled over a loose stone. Gossip made a sound very close to a snicker and Harry swallowed a curse.

“Your sister, the one you said caused you such worry. You seemed so well acquainted with, well, circumstances, I thought, perhaps . . .”

“Oh. You mean did she elope? No. Fi—my sister, Fiona—she wasn't doing anything so conventional as eloping. She was chasing after someone.” He was babbling. He was thoroughly aware of the fact, and yet couldn't seem to stop. “And yes, she's fine. Married to a future baron just last June.”

“I'm glad.”

Mrs. Wakefield fell silent again, which dried up Harry's own stream of conversation.
Say something!
He ordered himself.
Put her at her ease. Be witty, charming, soothing . . .

But he did not feel any of these things. He felt cold and bereft, not to mention randy as a prize bull, and absolutely helpless to do anything about any of it. The more he tried to steer his mind away from the lush beauty holding the carriage reins with injured hands and making no complaint at all, the more his mind's eye showed her to him as she'd been before—wild as a barbarian queen, lighting down easily from the carriage to stand in the circle of the lantern light.

She was also quite naked in this vision, and she seemed to be holding her arms open for him. She had skin of honey gold, he noticed, and her nipples were dark buds at the tips of her beautiful, full breasts. Harry bit down on another curse.

“Where'd you learn to drive?” he made himself ask.

“Where I grew up in Devon, there's a tradition of a girls' race on Lady Day.”

“I imagine you won quite a bit.”

“Every year.” She sounded oddly hesitant as she spoke. Harry risked a glance over his shoulder. She wasn't looking at him. Her gaze was on the road, and yet he had the strongest sensation that she wasn't seeing it. She was lost in some memory. He wished he could see her face well enough to know if it was a good one.

“You've come to London for your sister's season, I imagine.” Harry cursed himself as soon as the words were out. Bringing up her sister was exactly the wrong thing right now.

“That's one reason.” For a moment, her shoulders drooped, and Harry cursed himself again. “What of you, Mr. Rayburn? What brings you to London?”

“Oh, I'm quite the town man,” he said. “My father's an importer. I work in his warehouses. I'm afraid, Mrs. Wakefield, your gallant knight is nothing but a coarse member of that class the haut ton are pleased to call the ‘counterocracy.'”

“I can't think of anyone else I'd rather have with me.”

The swell of pride that came with this statement was entirely unwarranted, and, unfortunately, his pride wasn't the only swollen part of himself.

You need to stop talking now.
But Harry couldn't be sure whether that thought was meant for her or for himself.

“I did think you might be a merchant,” she was saying.

“What gave me away?”

“You smell of spices.”

Something in those few words shot straight through him. She might have said “your coat,” but she didn't. She said “you.” She was remembering being in his arms. They'd been close enough to breathe each other's breath and feel each other's heartbeat. Did she like it? Did she like him? Did she want to be near him again?

“And you're far too st— calm to be the usual ballroom beau.”

She'd meant to say strong. He was sure of it. Yet more absurd pride sang in Harry's blood and he found himself wishing something new would happen. Perhaps this Mr. Dickenson could turn up with a cutlass, or a pack of highwaymen.

God in heaven, what is happening to me? I'm turning back into that damned schoolboy, just like with Agnes.

Except what he was feeling for Mrs. Wakefield was nothing at all like what he'd felt for Agnes. When he'd gotten near the faint and dainty Agnes, he'd never dared to do more than kiss her hand. He'd always been worried he'd break her, or shock her. With Mrs. Wakefield, though, he felt the power of his own body. He felt quick and decisive and ready, not to mention rough, and he liked it.

That thought was a slap in the face, and the heat in his blood dimmed. He'd felt this surge in his blood before, the dangerous delight that robbed a man of thought and restraint. It could be like a drug, and the touch of it could turn excitement to darkness in a single heartbeat.

Harry cursed again, making sure to keep it all under his breath. It seemed that heaven heard him anyway, and decided to teach him a lesson for lust, and blasphemy. Because the clouds chose that moment to unleash their torrent of icy spring rain. Harry cursed in earnest now and the impatient off horse—Rumor?—pranced uneasily and shook the harness.

Rain pounded in cold, hard drops on his skull and shoulders. Harry welcomed it. The cold and discomfort did a great deal to dim his undisciplined body's more painful urging. But he'd no coat and his hat was long gone. His hair was soon plastered to his scalp and the drops hissed against the carriage lantern. The candles guttered. If they lost the light in this storm, they would be in genuine trouble. Harry turned, meaning to tell Mrs. Wakefield they should raise the barouche's cover, so she could have some shelter. He could handle the horses without her on the box.

“There's a light.” She pointed up the road.

Now Harry saw it, too, the glimmer of torchlight on the right-hand side of the road.

“That'll be the inn at the tollgate. The Three Swans, I think it's called.” he said. “We're there.”

We're done,
said another part of him.
Good.
Because this night had turned him into someone he didn't want to recognize, someone far different from the dependable Harry everyone believed him to be and who he wanted to be.

And he'd liked it far more than was good for anybody.