A Duchess by Midnight (11 page)

Mr. Palmer was a short, balding fellow with a salt-and-pepper mustache and a tick in his right eye. Thorncroft was his only client which was for the best as the duke was as renowned for demanding perfection as Mr. Palmer was for delivering it. They’d been working together for nearly a decade and in that time Thorncroft had watched his income quadruple under Mr. Palmer’s management which was why he excused the solicitor’s peculiar eccentricities, the most notorious of which was a large white rabbit that he insisted on carrying with him wherever he went.

Lulled by the rhythmic sway of the carriage Thorncroft’s eyelids soon began to grow heavy. With nothing else to occupy his time during the long, tedious journey to London he pressed the side of his face against the cool window pane and closed his eyes. Within moments his breathing deepened and he was fast asleep.

Thorncroft woke automatically
when he felt the carriage begin to slow. Lifting his head he winced when his shoulder filled with pins and needles. Stretching the offending limb as far above his head as his cramped quarters would allow he directed his gaze out the window, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth when he saw they had not reached their intended destination – a small inn where the horses would be traded out before they continued on through the night – but were instead stopping in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere.

His suspicions were confirmed a few seconds later when the carriage groaned to a halt. The matching team of bays tossed their heads and stomped their feet, as confused by the sudden stop as their owner.

“What the bloody hell is going on?” Thorncroft demanded. His voice was lost to the wind and the rain, both of which had increased dramatically since he’d fallen asleep. The billowing winds were so strong they were actually rocking the carriage from side to side, no small feat given its size and weight. Rain lashed against the windows with a violent intensity, obscuring Thorncroft’s view. With a muttered curse he reached beneath his seat and pulled out the Flintlock pistol he kept hidden there for situations exactly like this one.

Only a damn fool would attempt a robbery in such weather.

Or a desperate one.

Either way, Thorncroft had no intention of letting a highwayman rob him blind and when the door unexpectedly swung open his assailant was met with the loaded muzzle of a gun. Unfortunately the ‘assailant’ was no assailant at all, but Thorncroft’s own driver who took one look at the pistol pointed at the middle of his face and promptly fainted dead away.

“Bollocks,” Thorncroft growled. Sliding the pistol into the waistband of his trousers he pulled on his jacket and stepped down from the carriage where upon his boots immediately sank into three inches of wet, thick mud.

“
Bollocks
.”

Gnashing his teeth together Thorncroft grabbed the driver beneath the arms and half dragged, half lifted him into the carriage. Bending over the unconscious man he lifted one eyelid and then the other, trying to determine if he had struck his head when he’d fallen. Seeing no signs of concussion he left the driver in the carriage while he went around to assess the horses.

Other than being impatient and wet, they seemed unharmed. The carriage was likewise in working order, or so it seemed from a cursory glance. So why had they stopped?

Slanting a hand across his brow in an attempt to keep the rain out of his eyes Thorncroft forged ahead down the road and found his answer in the ditch.

A carriage was turned over on its side. One of the wheels had gotten stuck in the mud and the rear axle had snapped, rendering the vehicle completely useless. Someone – the coachman? – had unharnessed the horses. They were huddled beneath a tree a few yards away, watching him attentively.

Splashing through a puddle Thorncroft approached the overturned carriage with a tight knot of trepidation in his stomach. It was laying on its roof. One of the wheels was still slowly spinning. Another had been snapped off entirely.

The last time he’d come upon a scene such as this… no. With a hard shake of his head he dispelled the ugly memory to the back of his mind. He wouldn’t allow himself to think of them. Not here. Not now.

“Hello?” he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth so his voice carried through the tumultuous storm. “Is anyone there?”

For a moment the only thing he heard was the pounding of rain on the underbelly of the carriage and the rushing of water as it streamed past his boots. Then, so soft it was nearly indiscernible, he heard the soft cry of a woman’s voice.

“
Here
,” she called out faintly. “
I am in here. Help me, please.
”

Thorncroft did not need to be asked twice. Without a care for his own safety he slid down the steep side of the ditch, the soles of his feet striking the carriage’s mud-splattered side with a dull thud. Rain continued to fall, pelting his arms and back as he rolled onto his stomach and grabbed the door handle. The frame was bent from the fall and it took several minutes and some inventive cursing before he finally managed to wrest the door open.

Water fell from his brow as he peered inside, searching the shadowy interior for some sign of life. Everything was in shambles, making it difficult to get a clear picture of exactly what – and who – he was looking for. And then something in the far corner stirred, and a pale face lifted, and Thorncroft found himself staring into a familiar pair of mesmerizing blue eyes.

“
You
,” he said incredulously.

Thorncroft could count on one hand the number of times he’d been genuinely shocked in his lifetime and this moment quickly surged to the top of the list. Of all the carriages and all the roads and all the women… Why did it have to be
her
? He spread his arms out on either side of the door, muscles bulging as he pulled himself out of the thick mud and onto his knees. “What the devil are you doing here?” 

Freckles danced across Clara’s cheeks as she managed a wincing smile. She was curled in a tiny shivering ball with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. “Hello again. Come to s-scold me for trespassing, h-have you?”

Thorncroft glowered, a sharp retort burning in the back of his throat, but then he saw the splatter of bright red blood on her sleeve. “You’re hurt,” he said as all of his anger instantly gave way to concern. “You’re bleeding.”

She stared at him blankly for a moment before she absently lifted her fingers to her forehead. When she lowered them again they were slick with blood, drawing Thorncroft’s attention to the thin gash peeking out beneath her hairline.

The cut was no longer than the length of his pinky, but he knew better than most that appearances could be heartbreakingly deceiving. When he had found Katherine… 

No.

He would not think of it.

“Do not move,” he ordered.

Clara blinked. “Where exactly do you think I would go?”

Their gazes locked and held, cold gray clashing against bright, distressed blue. It was insane, but Thorncroft suddenly felt compelled to reached inside the carriage, snatch Clara against his chest, and kiss her senseless. He wanted to taste strawberries on her tongue. Wanted to bury his hands in her wet hair. Wanted to lick and nibble every inch of soft, creamy flesh until she begged him to take her.

Bloody hell.

His jaw clenched as he battled back the overwhelming wave of lust that had surged through his body like an electric spark. Now was not the time to be thinking with his cock instead of his head. A young woman’s life was in danger and instead of playing the knight-in-shining-armor he was swooning over Clara like some addlebrained buffoon.

Pull yourself together, man.

Easier said than done when his mind kept betraying him with flashbacks to another scene eerily similar to this one. It had been raining then as well and there had been blood. Lots and lots of blood. By the time he’d finished dragged the broken, lifeless bodies of his wife and child from beneath their overturned carriage his hands and shirt and face had been covered with it.

“Are you going to help me or not?”

Clara’s voice, tinged with both pain and annoyance, broke through the dark haze that had settled over Thorncroft’s line of vision. With a hard, violent shake of his head he banished the past to the shadows and forced himself to return to the present.  

“Is there anyone else here with you?” he asked roughly. “Where is your coachman?”

“He and my friend Poppy went to get help.”

“And they left you behind?”

Clara frowned. “Well you needn’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like they were doing me a grave disservice. I
asked
for them to leave me here.”

Of course she had.

“And why,” he said through gritted teeth, “would you tell them to do a stupid thing like that?”

Looking at him as though he were some sort of monster dragged up from the deep she said in a very matter-of-fact tone, “Well someone had to stay and look after the horses, didn’t they? I couldn’t very well leave them here all alone.”

Thorncroft closed his eyes.

The horses. She was more concerned about the bloody horses than her own life. What kind of woman was she?

One not quite right in the head
, he decided as he ducked his shoulders and took a cautious step inside the carriage. It immediately made a loud groaning sound and began to slide deeper into the ditch. He froze, every bone and muscle locking into place.

“Clara,” he said slowly.

“Yes?” she asked, completely oblivious to the danger she was in. 

“I cannot come any further into the carriage. My weight will send it into the ditch. Can you crawl out to me?”

“Crawl out to
you
?” More blood trickled down the side of her temple as her forehead creased into two perplexed lines. “Whatever for? I am quite content in here, thank you very much. Besides, I told Poppy I would wait for her. What if she returns and she cannot find me?”

Thorncroft wondered if it was physically possible for one to expel steam out their ears. “The nearest town is over ten miles away. It will take them at least two hours to reach it and another two hours before they get back. You’re shivering and you’re bleeding and you most likely have a concussion. You need help. I am here to help you. Now stop being so bloody stubborn and come out of that damn carriage!”

She frowned at him. “You should really work on your temper.”

The hell with it.

Moving with lightening quickness Thorncroft lunged inside the carriage, lifted Clara into his arms, and was back out on solid ground just in time for them both to watch as the carriage and everything in it collapsed into the ditch with a mighty splintering of wood and grinding of metal.

“Oh dear,” Clara said faintly, her blue eyes overwhelming her pale countenance.

“Stubborn brat,” Thorncroft muttered under his breath as he carried her across the road to where his own carriage stood waiting. The driver, now conscious, greeted them with a red face and a stuttering apology which Thorncroft waved off.

“Take us to the nearest doctor,” he said tersely before he climbed into the carriage and gently sat Clara down. Removing his greatcoat he settled it around her trembling shoulders as he studied her with a critical eye.

Her face was so white her freckles stood out like dots of ink splattered across her nose and cheeks. Her clothes were soaked through to the skin. Her hair was a wet tangled mess around her shoulders. She had a blank look in her eye, one that Thorncroft recognized as delayed shock. The urge to comfort, to protect, to shield her from the elements and keep her safe was so unexpectedly strong he had pulled her back into his arms and was holding her cradled in his lap before he quite knew what he was doing.

When was the last time he had given a damn about anyone, let alone a headstrong slip of a girl with hair the color of sunrise and eyes so blue a man could easily drown himself in their cerulean depths?

He could not remember.

Bemused by his actions and the strange weight he felt tugging at his heart Thorncroft nevertheless continued to hold her as the carriage began to move. He held her as the rain stopped and the skies cleared. He held her as her breathing softened and her head grew heavy on his chest. He held her as his own body finally relaxed and the demons that had been chasing him for seven long years made their first retreat into the shadows…

A muffled scream
burst past Clara’s lips when she roused herself from the inky darkness of unconsciousness and realized she was sprawled on a man’s lap with her skirts pushed up and her shoes and stockings removed. Arms flailing and bare toes wiggling she struck out instinctively against her attacker and managed to get in one solid blow to the side of his jaw before he captured her wrists with one hand and encircled her waist with the other, fingers splaying across her ribcage.

“Stop it,” a furious voice growled in her ear. “Stop fighting before you hurt yourself.”

Twisting in her captor’s arms she managed to glimpse one side of his face. A stormy gray eye framed by a menacing brow glared down at her. His nostrils were flared. The half of his mouth she could see was twisted into a scowl. Recognizing that scowl - and that eye - she immediately stopped trying to bludgeon him over the head with her fist, but she did not relax. How could she when she was sitting in his lap with her dress rucked up above her knees and no memory as to how she had gotten here?

“Let me go at once,” she demanded. The hand holding her wrists together slowly opened but the hand on her stomach remained, making Clara intimately aware of just how close they were sitting. She could feel the hardness of his thighs through the thin fabric of her skirt. Feel the steady lift and fall of his chest against her spine. Smell the faint note of peppermint on his breath.

Her pounding head went fuzzy around the edges as she recalled their kiss in the middle of the stream. It was a moment she’d relived over and over again. One she’d clung to late at night when her eyes had filled with helpless tears at the thought of being forced to marry someone against her will. And now the man she’d dreamed about was here in the flesh, looking every bit as angry – and devastatingly handsome – as she remembered.