Patrica Rice (20 page)

“We will sail there when the weather allows?” she murmured against his cheek as he divested her of her clothes.

He liked the way she went all soft and helpless beneath his touch, Michael decided as the gown slid off. With his vow to not create any bastards to hold him back, he’d never been a rake. They would learn together.

“The rain is already ending,” he promised, gathering her into his arms and aiming for the bed. “Let us hope you make a good sailor.”

Leaving his trousers on the floor, he climbed into the soft feather bed with her. When she daringly stroked his arousal, studying him with wonder, Michael decided he had a lot more to learn, and he proceeded to the next lesson with all alacrity.

Blanche’s cries of pleasure rewarded him for his quickness as a student.

* * *

“Michael never dallies with females!” Gavin stormed, pacing up and down the much-abused carpet.

“Except Blanche,” Dillian reminded him. “And she’s not to be found anywhere.”

“Why Blanche?” In frustration, Gavin pounded his fist against a paneled wall. “Heaven only knows, he could keep half a dozen women in that pile of rocks of ours and I would make no complaint. But not
Blanche
. She’s the granddaughter of a damned duke, devil take it! Daughter of a marquess. She’s slept on silk sheets all her life. Michael calls the stars his blanket. Where could he keep her?”

“Your messenger said he traveled with a woman,” Dillian warned, bringing him back to the subject. “If Michael has no interest in dalliance, perhaps they observe the proprieties, if just in an improper fashion.”

Gavin glared at her as if she spoke gibberish. “They travel to Scotland. Why in the name of all that is holy would they go to Scotland for any other reason but an elopement?”

“Blanche said Michael found Fiona in the lake district. Perhaps they only mean to go there,” Dillian replied with doubt in her voice.

“And what will Neville do when he discovers his cousin has eloped with a man without a penny to his name?” Gavin continued his tirade, ignoring her suggestion.

“Go after him with his pen?” Dillian asked with amusement. “He wouldn’t consider Michael gentleman enough to challenge to a duel, and Neville isn’t much inclined toward sword and gun.”

“I cannot believe it of him.” Gavin dropped wearily into his leather desk chair. “Michael is not a womanizer. He will have to marry her.”

Dillian laughed and slid her arms around his shoulders from behind. “Blanche is the one you must convince of that. She thinks all men fools, and Michael the biggest fool of all. She’s of age, Gavin. No one can force her into a marriage she doesn’t want.”

Gavin’s scarred face twisted into an ominous scowl. “Then Michael blamed well better be traveling with another sort of female entirely. All the world will know of his elopement soon enough if they’re together.”

An unusual clatter in the early morning darkness stirred Michael from slumber. Instinctively, he reached for Blanche, pulling her closer. Snuggling her slenderness against him, he cupped one perfect breast, and slipped back toward sleep.

The violent crash against their bedchamber door jerked him rudely awake. With the wary experience born of years on the road, Michael rolled them off the far side of the bed. He muffled Blanche’s scream with his hand as the door crashed in.

“Grab the bloody impostor and we’ll have Fiona soon enough!” someone roared over the sound of splintering wood.

Michael dove under the bed and grabbed the leg of the first man who ventured near, jerking hard until a skinny shin cracked against the bed frame. Screaming in pain, the intruder flailed backward into his partner.

Michael rolled from beneath the bed, grabbed the water pitcher from the washstand, and cracked it soundly across the nearest skull. The pitcher shattered, and the man stumbled to his knees. The intruder with the bruised shinbone scrambled upright and swung at him, but Michael dodged in the opposite direction.

In the early dawn gloom, he could discern little more than size and shape as his assailant roared and rushed after him. The man probably had a good two stone on him, but he was slow on his feet. Grabbing the old washstand and grinning wickedly, Michael swung the heavy oak, connecting solidly with his attacker’s shoulders. The pegged pieces of the old stand flew apart, but the man sprawled to the floor.

Mr. Malcolm appeared in the doorway, brandishing a cudgel, Mrs. Malcolm screaming behind him. Kicking at the ribs of the rogue trying to rise, Michael whipped a sheet from the bed and began trussing this more conscious intruder first.

“Knock the other one over the head if he moves,” Michael ordered his host. He finished binding the first man and turned to the second.

“Knaves!” Malcolm thundered, standing aggressively over the cowed man lying between his feet. “Thieves! A man canna sleep in his own bed for the likes of these maggots!”

Behind him, Mrs. Malcolm whimpered something indistinct about her “beautiful china.”

Michael spun around to check on Blanche. She’d wrapped the wool blanket around herself, tucking it up somehow so it left her delicate shoulders bare but her hands free. Michael grinned at the iron poker she wielded. “You’d make a marvelous Amazon, my love,” he assured her as she hesitantly lowered her weapon. “But right now, I need something to tie up this other fowl. Unless you just wish to knock him out,” he added thoughtfully.

The man at his feet screamed in protest.

“Are you all right?” she whispered, her eyes wide with fear.

With an embarrassed grin, he reached for the trousers he’d dropped on the floor the night before. “Best way to rouse a man’s blood in the morning. I’m fine.” He turned to the innkeeper and his wife. “Will you call the magistrate?”

“I’ll have the laird fetched,” Malcolm replied as his wife returned with rope.

Michael took the rope and firmly bound the second intruder. “Whatever you suggest. Help me roll the rogues out of here so my wife may dress.”

With the door safely closed on their audience, Michael clasped Blanche in his arms and kissed her hair, offering prayers of gratitude that she wasn’t shaking as she had the day of the carriage fire. “Someone realized I’m not Seamus,” he murmured into the luxuriant thickness of her hair. “We need put some distance between us and the coast.”

She nodded against his chin. “Must we wait for the laird?”

“Not if I can help it.” After kissing her forehead, Michael hastily dressed. He’d gone far enough in registering their marriage lines. He wouldn’t risk exposing Blanche to some noble who might know her and pass word of her to others. The scandal would break eventually, but not yet, he hoped.

Leaving Blanche alone to dress, Michael went downstairs and tried questioning his prisoners, but they were singularly uncooperative. That one of them still had his eyes crossed from the blow on his head didn’t help. Of course, interrogation wasn’t one of Michael’s strong suits, either. He’d always preferred hit and run.

“They obviously intended murdering us in our bed,” Michael declared blithely as his host returned with a pot of coffee. “We’ll have the fellows hanged for attempted murder, robbery, and worse,” he added with enthusiasm, well aware his captives listened.

“You’ll never hold us,” the more conscious one growled. “We’ll be out within a fortnight. May as well save yerselves the trouble.”

Michael didn’t like the sound of that. If someone sought to rescue these two, he wanted Blanche as far from the scene as possible. Taking their host aside, he handed him a quantity of their remaining coins. “We need to be leaving.”

“Will ye not wait for the laird, my lord?” Malcolm asked with disappointment. “He’ll not do much without ye to stand as witness.”

“My lady longs for home,” Michael lied. “Being set upon by thieves has shaken her. I heartily apologize for any damage I may have caused in my zeal to protect her.”

“My missus will get over it when she sees your gilt.” The innkeeper pocketed the coins with a smile on his rough face. “’Tis a shame you’re ending your wedding journey so soon.”

Michael shrugged and gave a knowing smile. “Perhaps I’ll take her south through Bath and see if she changes her mind about returning home.”

That would give anyone following them a wrong direction, Michael hoped as they brought out the carriage and loaded it. He counted their few remaining coins and wondered if he could slip away long enough to conjure up another purse or two.

But the idea of returning to his usual trade while in Blanche’s company didn’t sit well. That worried him, but he was more concerned with having Blanche well gone before the scoundrels’ companions came looking for them.

Blanche clasped his gloved hand as he took the seat beside her and the horses started down the road. “You think they will follow?”

“They think we know where to find Fiona. Word must have traveled from London that Seamus has a look-alike. They didn’t think I was him this time.”

“But you said the men in the village did,” she said with puzzlement.

“Yes, but they’re not part of this gang, if gang is what they are. The villagers are just poor fishermen. Fiona and her brother are not.”

“What has Fiona got herself involved in?”

“I don’t know, but it looks pretty grim from where I stand. Perhaps I’d best take you to Dorset. I may be mistaken in thinking you’re safe with me.”

But when Blanche trustingly rested her head against his shoulder so he had to circle her with his arm, Michael couldn’t bear the thought of parting with her so soon.

“I’m safer with you than alone,” she argued, “and you promised to take me to Ireland. Perhaps we’ll meet this Seamus and find out if he’s your real brother.”

“It’s been over a week,” Michael protested weakly, knowing his argument held no substance. “The duke will be looking for you.”

“No, he will not,” Blanche replied scornfully, sliding her fingers beneath his waistcoat and rubbing the linen covering his chest. “He’ll not miss me until the session ends.”

“You grow bold, my lady,” he murmured, unfastening her traveling cloak. “What must I do with you when we return to London?” Michael asked the question idly, trying to hide his concern.

“Let’s not return to London,” she suggested as her cloak fell from her shoulders. “Let’s stay in Ireland and make babies.”

Michael’s laugh was short and painful as he lowered her bodice to take what she offered. Her breasts beckoned him like ripe peaches ready for plucking, and his loins took over from his brains. They would make babies of a certainty. Unfortunately, he didn’t think the delicate, sophisticated Lady Blanche would be happy raising them on the road.

He took her nipple into his mouth and she moaned enchantingly. Michael thought no more about their predicament as the carriage jounced down the rutted road toward England and safer ports. If his vows of fidelity prevented his ever having another woman, he would have this one as often as possible before he must give her up.

* * *

Blanche had fallen asleep in his arms by the time they crossed the border into England and found another posting inn late that afternoon. Michael brushed a strand of hair from her forehead and straightened her bodice as the coach rocked to a halt. There were so many places he would take her if only he could. but right now, he couldn’t even publicly call her his wife.

She blinked sleepily and stirred as Michael touched the ring she wore on her left hand. “The weather is clearing,” he murmured. “I would like to go a little farther this day. Stay here while they change the horses. I’ll inquire about the roads ahead.”

She kissed his cheek and curled up with the carriage blanket around her. For a moment, Michael imagined her growing round with his child, and he panicked briefly. He knew better than to court fate, however, and he climbed down with only the next inn in mind.

Even that thought vanished when he entered the bustling front hall and caught sight of a familiar visage at the ticket desk, questioning the clerk. One of Gavin’s men.

Michael debated escaping before the man saw him, but he couldn’t run from Gavin. The messenger turned and shouted in relief and recognition.

“Mr. O’Toole,” he called, hurrying through the milling crowd of people.

He’d grown accustomed to the Lord Michael address these last days, but not wanting to infringe on Gavin’s titled legitimacy, he’d always insisted on the anonymity of O’Toole. Michael clasped the man’s hand and led him toward a more private alcove. “What is it? Are the marquess and his family all right?”

“They’re well, far as I know. It’s the duke. His Grace can’t find his cousin, and Lord Effingham thought you might know aught of her. There’s been some threat against His Grace and his household, and they’re concerned something may have happened to her ladyship.”

“Threat?” Alarmed, Michael tried to keep his voice down

The duke had already missed Blanche. If Gavin had traced him, they may know Michael traveled with a woman. He couldn’t let the scandal hit Blanche before she was ready to call him husband. And he couldn’t send her back to London if it was unsafe.

A loud cry caused them to turn. In the room’s center, a stout female, her apron thrown over her head wept loudly as a crowd gathered to watch.

Distracted, Michael lied without thinking. “I saw her ladyship off to Dorset and no more. What threat is there?”

The caterwauling continued, making conversation difficult.

“I don’t know the whole of it,” the messenger admitted. “But it’s something to do with some radicals threatening His Grace. Lord Effingham has hired men to search some street in Seven Dials. He needs your aid in finding the radicals and Lady Blanche.”

Michael was uncertain who Gavin protected with this garbled message: himself, Michael, Blanche, the duke, Fiona, or some combination of all. Gavin had never asked for Michael’s help until now. Michael couldn’t refuse. But he couldn’t take that carriage into London with Blanche, either, not with Gavin’s messenger watching.

The woman’s wails became wrenching sobs as someone comforted her. Michael pounded the messenger’s back and nodded toward the tavern.

“Let me buy you a drink while I find a fresh horse. Mine is too blown to continue. I’ll come fetch you when I’m ready.”