How I Married a Marquess (19 page)

“Chesney.”

Thomas glanced at the distinguished man who stopped at his side. “Althorpe.”

Richard Carlisle, Baron Althorpe, extended his hand. In his early fifties, with a touch of gray at his temples, yet still possessing the strong frame of his youth, the baron held himself with dignity, and Thomas could easily see where the three Carlisle brothers got their mountainous builds. And where Josie had learned that cutting, no-nonsense stare of hers. From the ends of his well-trimmed moustache to the tips of his polished boots, every inch proved him the respectable country gentleman he was.

“I trust you're enjoying your stay at Blackwood Hall,” Althorpe commented casually.

Thomas shook his hand, unable to stop the pulse of nervousness in his gut at meeting Josie's father.
Good Lord
!
When had he ever been nervous about meeting a lady's father before? “Very much.” He cleared his throat. “Sir.”

The two men hadn't spoken since the start of the house party, with the baron leaving the outings to his sons and the domestic activities to the ladies while he remained at Chestnut Hill, overseeing the small estate himself. Even though the baron was in attendance this evening, Thomas suspected that his pressence was only due to the insistence of his wife and that Althorpe was more comfortable among hired workers and tenant farmers than mixing with the
ton
.

Thomas certainly understood that. Even as heir to a duchy, he seldom felt as if he belonged among society, and he rarely was at ease in social gatherings, although anyone looking at him would never have suspected. Perhaps he and Richard Carlisle had more in common than his constantly surprising daughter after all.

“I'm disappointed that your father isn't in attendance for the party,” Althorpe remarked. “How is Chatham these days?”

“Father's well, thank you.”

He nodded. “Glad to hear it. I've had the pleasure of working with him in the Lords, although my involvement is decidedly limited compared to his.”

“He enjoys the political intrigue, I'm afraid.” His eyes strayed toward Josie as she lingered on the far side of the room, and the corners of his lips curled in amusement. Her unease at finding him in conversation with her father was palpable as she watched the two of them, with nervous curiosity and dread passing in turns across her face.

“She's quite wonderful, isn't she?”

“Pardon?” Thomas tore his gaze back to the baron, feeling like a fool for being caught staring at the man's daughter.

“Josephine,” Althorpe commented, now drawing Thomas's attention openly to her, although it had never strayed far from her all evening. “She's a wonder.”

“Remarkable,” he offered evenly. Although
incomparable
was more exact. He'd never before known a woman who seemed so much his equal. “I've never met anyone quite like her.”

A look of fatherly pride crossed Althorpe's face. “When she was eight, she rode her pony right up the front steps of Chestnut Hill, through the doors, and straight into the entry hall. Seems she had a craving for one of Cook's biscuits and couldn't find a groom in the stables to hold the pony for her while she ran inside.” He chuckled at the memory. “She would have gotten away with it, too, except that the butler noticed hoofprints on the rug.”

Thomas easily imagined her doing just that. “I hope she wasn't too badly punished for it.”

Althorpe shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “How do you punish your child for being independent and determined? Aren't those qualities we all pray our children acquire?”

“Especially in your household,” Thomas quipped wryly, “with those brothers.” But even as the baron chuckled at that, Thomas knew better. Her independence resulted from a keenly honed survival instinct, a courage borne of a childhood spent in the horrors of an orphanage.

Althorpe continued thoughtfully, “She'll never be part of the
ton
, and you would never find her at a society event.”

Her father was right, Thomas conceded, the two men now standing shoulder to shoulder and gazing openly together across the room at her, which made her so nervous that he could see her trembling even from so far away. He never would have found a woman like her anywhere in the drawing rooms of the quality. And he was glad of it.

“She's not one of those London ladies, Chesney.”

Thomas stiffened at the tone of Althorpe's voice, the comment a very subtle apology for any slight she'd given him tonight.

But his words were also a warning to remember that she was not as urbane as the women with whom Thomas was known to associate, both publicly and privately. And an order that he should immediately forget any rakish designs he might have on her.

“No, sir,” Thomas agreed quietly. He watched her for a moment over the rim of his cup, then said earnestly, “I would never make the mistake of confusing Josephine for one of those women.”

“Good.” Satisfied at Thomas's answer, Althorpe lightly slapped him on the shoulder. “Enjoy your evening, then.”

Althorpe finished his coffee and handed the empty cup to a nearby footman, then walked away. He approached Josie and said something that drew a relieved smile from her. Then he affectionately leaned over to place a kiss on her cheek before taking her arm to escort her across the room to join his wife at the pianoforte.

Thomas stared after them, the look of love Josie gave her father taking his breath away. Althorpe was right. She was nothing like Helene or the other ladies he associated with. She was so much more beautiful and special than those women could ever be. Every moment he spent with her only confirmed it.

Always before, he'd bedded women for nothing more than sexual satisfaction. But with Josie, the primary desire he longed to satisfy wasn't physical. He felt a yearning for her that set his soul on fire, and he craved the comfort and solace he knew she'd bring to him merely from being with him in the darkness. Oh, the thought of having her naked beneath him was certainly appealing, but so was the thought of simply holding her close, of falling asleep knowing he'd still be in her arms when he woke.

Yet he couldn't purge his doubts about her, even as he couldn't stop the churning of desire and frustration battling inside him.

He set down his half-finished coffee and left the room in search of whiskey. The night was going to be damnably long.

In the dark shadows of the silent woods two hours later, Josie cinched the black mask tighter around her head and tried to ignore the terrified pounding of her heart. The robbery would happen at any minute.

She'd done this nearly two dozen times in the past, every move perfectly choreographed and expertly anticipated, every man there entrusted with her life. Yet still she couldn't escape the absolute terror that would cascade through her at the moment when the rumbling noise from the approaching carriage finally echoed through the dark woods, the sickening dread in the pit of her stomach when she had to give the signal to her men to swarm. Perhaps she never would grow used to it. Perhaps that meant she hadn't yet become the cold-hearted criminal Thomas accused her of being.

But at that moment, with the carriage rolling into sight and only seconds from another holdup, that was exactly what she was. A criminal. But one without a choice.

The carriage rolled to a sudden stop, the team of horses nearly skidding into the felled tree blocking the road.

Now.

She placed two fingers to her lips and let loose a shrill whistle.

The woods came alive as men on horseback plunged down the hill toward the coach, and two men leapt out from the bushes to pull down the driver and tiger. She raced her horse toward the carriage, dropped to the ground, and pulled out her pistol as she grasped for the door to fling it open.

From out of the darkness, shouts split the night as the pounding of horses' hooves sped toward them on the hard-packed road. A gunshot cracked through the trees. Her horse reared onto its hind legs, and she fought to hold on to the reins while around her the small band of robbers panicked. The shouts and gunfire came closer now. One of her men fired into the darkness.

“Hold your fire!” she shouted.

But a barrage of guns erupted from everywhere around her.

Her horse jerked back its head and spun on its hindquarters, ripping the reins from her hands and bolting down the road, leaping the felled tree and disappearing into the black night. She stared after it. Terror paralyzed her. Without her horse, she was as good as dead.

A horse crashed out of the dark woods to her left and galloped straight toward her. The tall, broad rider rode with his hat pulled low over his face, his thighs clenched tightly to keep him in the saddle even as he held the leather reins clenched between his teeth and a pistol in each large hand. He fired a pistol into the top of the coach, splintering the empty driver's seat with a loud crack. Dropping the first pistol, he fired off the next shot behind him toward the onrushing outriders, scattering them into the trees, then flung the spent pistol to the ground and shoved his hand down toward her.

“Take hold!” he snarled.

His long fingers grabbed her wrist and jerked her off the ground. She was barely off her feet and not yet on the horse when he dug his heels into the animal's sides and sent it charging back into the black woods. A tree limb just missed her head, but he never slowed the horse to give her time to find her seat behind him. Instead he urged the horse faster.

Her arms went around his waist as she finally got her leg across the horse's back and sat astride behind the saddle, then clung to him for dear life. She couldn't see her rescuer's face with the hat forced down low on his head, but she knew…the solidity of his body as she pressed against him, the hard panes of his chest beneath her palms as her arms encircled him and held tight, that familiar scent of leather and soap—

“Thomas,” she sighed with relief, her eyes stinging as she squeezed them shut against the hot tears.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No.”

A fierce curse exploded from him, and she flinched, more startled than she'd been at the gunfire.

He spun the horse in a circle and charged back in the same direction they'd just traveled for a dozen or so yards, then pointed the large gelding downhill toward the river. Without hesitating the well-trained mount plunged into the cold water and galloped on in the knee-deep current for several minutes before finally turning up the bank and out of the water, straight toward a small stone fence. The horse took the jump as easily as if the wall weren't there at all, and they galloped on along the edge of the dark meadow, circling slowly back toward the woods.

“Where are we—”

“They're hunting us down,” he snapped. “I'm confusing our tracks.”

Once again she was reminded that he was no ordinary man, and if she'd doubted him when he told her that he was a spy and a soldier, she was certain now. Just as she was certain that barely controlled fury burned white-hot inside him.

“Which way to the cottage?” he demanded.

She pointed to the right, past the clearing with the hollow tree where she usually dropped the burlap sack.

“Give me your gun.”

She unbuckled the strap at her shoulder and handed over the holster and pistol. He flung them away into the trees.

She gasped, stunned. “What are you doing—”

“If they find us, I'm not giving them an excuse to kill us,” he snapped at her over his shoulder. “I won't die for you, Josephine. Not tonight in the woods, nor on the gallows.”

Her heart thudded painfully. Of course he wouldn't—she would never ask that of him—but dying…
Oh God
!
Thomas could have been killed tonight, and she couldn't bear the thought that he might have been hurt while trying to save her.

“I'm sorry,” she mumbled, her words muffled by the rough wool of his greatcoat as her cheek rested against his back. “Thomas, I'm so sorry—”

“Stop apologizing,” he growled. “We're not out of this yet.”

As if on cue, more shouts and gunshots echoed from the woods behind them, distant but clear, and close enough that she pressed herself even closer to him, her arms tightening around his waist.

He leaned forward and urged the horse dangerously faster through the black night. No moon, no stars, not even shadows. Only darkness so deep she could barely see a few feet ahead of them. But she closed her eyes and placed her trust and her life completely in his hands.

They arrived at the cottage and rode the horse into the lean-to stall. As Thomas jumped to the ground and tied the horse, she slipped down from its back. Her feet had barely touched the ground before he grabbed her wrist and yanked her away, pulling her through the darkness toward the cottage door.

Stumbling to keep up with his long strides, she followed him inside the dark cottage. He closed the door and slid the bolt home, locking them inside. Instead of releasing her, he pressed her back against the door and covered her mouth with his hand to keep her quiet.

Frozen in place, she listened to the night around them but heard nothing except the rush of blood pounding in her ears and the fast, shallow sound of his breathing, so close to her in the darkness that each exhalation fanned hot against her cheek. Outside, the woods were silent, the men no longer chasing after them, and inside, the cottage was cool and dark. So dark that for a moment she didn't know if her eyes were open or closed. So dark she couldn't see Thomas as he stood less than a foot away from her.

And then his fingers weren't covering her mouth to keep her quiet anymore. They were caressing her lips, tracing their fullness, seeking her out in the darkness.

“Thomas,” she breathed achingly against his fingertips.

His thumb tugged at her bottom lip, and then his mouth was on hers, ravaging her lips in a hot, openmouthed kiss. In the blackness she couldn't see him, but oh God, how she could feel him—the insistent thrusting of his tongue between her lips, the rough strokes of his hands down her body. And when he pressed against her, pinning her between his body and the door, his erection jutted hard into her belly.