Ransom Redeemed (4 page)

"Pardon me, I took you for a literate gentleman. I see I was mistaken on both counts. Your mode of dress should have been warning enough, I suppose."

"Well, there you are then. Give up on me and peddle your wares to someone else, wench. I'm a hopeless case, aren't I?" She thought she heard him mutter under his breath, "I assumed everybody knew that."

While he obviously wanted to scare her back to the counter and out of his way, Mary's curiosity was piqued. As was her sense of humor. What
was
he doing there? This wide-shouldered, dark-eyed genie looked as if he belonged in another world entirely and had temporarily escaped his bottle. Or whatever vessel it was in which such a dangerous, mischievous spirit might be kept.

Yes, he was dangerous, she knew at once— felt the prickle of little hairs along her arm as if he had taken forceful custody of her wrist and gently blown a warm breath across her skin to tease.

All of that from one glance.

She cleared her throat. "Perhaps we have something here that could be of use to you nevertheless," she persevered.

"Use to
me
?" he grunted, looking over his shoulder again, his gaze sweeping her from skirt hem to ear, first with nonchalance and then disdain. "You? I very much doubt it."

The stranger was poised to leave the shop, one hand on the door, until he saw something outside that prevented it. Turning to Mary again he almost bowled her over, and then he gripped her by the arms so tightly that she went unusually floppy. Startled and suddenly warm, she completely forgot to protest.

"Don't give me away and I'll be in your debt," he muttered. "Save me."

With that strange plea he darted behind the nearest shelf, vanishing into the dusty gloom. Although he had released her arms, the echo of his heated touch remained.

A second later the door flew open and the bracing wave of air thrust yet another customer into the shop. This one wore a large hat, over-loaded with lush apricot plumes, and a very fine satin coat, the buttons straining to cover a lavish bosom.

"Where is 'e? The bastard?" she yelled, breathless, long lashes wafting up and down as she assessed her cluttered surroundings. "I 'ave chased 'im 'alf way across London. Did 'e come in 'ere?"

Mary thought quickly. Of course, she could easily give him away; he had not been very nice to her— in fact he'd been downright rude— and she probably ought to take the woman's side. Sisterhood and all that. However...

Save me
, he'd said, as if it was the most important thing she would ever do. Generally people did not ask Mary for help these days; they— like Dr. Woodley— viewed
her
as the sad creature in need of mercy and guidance.

But this man had asked for her help.

Mary was usually most comfortable as an observer of other people's follies, a figure on the edge of the action, but this stranger had put her in the middle of it.

"Well, girl? Are you mute, deaf? Or just stupid?”

There went sisterhood.

"The bastard, madam?" she asked quietly. "To whom or what do you refer?"

As she spun like a child's top, the little Frenchwoman's wide skirt disturbed a teetering pile of books that tumbled and stirred up another cloud of dust — almost thick enough to obscure her completely. The plumes of her hat reached in all directions, curling sensuously in the churning, dusty air, like the tentacles of a curious octopus. "Did a man come in 'ere, girl? Very tall and 'orribly 'andsome with the eyes of a cold-'earted, savage panther and manners the same?"

"I'm sorry, madam. This is a bookshop, not a refuge for stray circus beasts."

The brightly decorated woman sneezed violently and looked down at herself in horror. "Mon dieu!" When she wiped a hand over the spider's web that now patterned the front of her gown, those sticky gossamer strands clung to her kidskin glove and the satin of her sleeve, which only added to her evident distress.

"Perhaps I can interest you in a book, madam?" said Mary, picking up one that had fallen.

The woman shot her a very fierce little scowl. "No. 'E would not come in 'ere.
You
'ave nothing 'e would want."

Head high and feather tentacles bouncing, she swept to the door again and gripped the handle. But the door of the shop had a tendency to stick when opened from the inside and there was a particular gentleness required when turning the handle if one wanted to get out again, so Mary stepped forward to help.

"Allow me, madam."

"Madem
oiselle
!" the lady corrected her sharply.

"My apologies, mademoiselle." Mary carefully angled the handle, gave it just the right amount of tug, and the door opened. "Good day."

The other woman pushed her way by and, rather than wait for Mary to close the door, she took the handle from the other side, attempting to jerk it shut. In so doing, she trapped her voluminous skirt in the door twice, until she was finally free. Then the stiff breeze outside took hold of that same troublesome garment, inflated the striped silk as if it were an untethered hot-air balloon, and transported her onward down the street so quickly that her tiny feet could barely keep toes on the ground.

This was certainly turning into a very lively morning, thought Mary as she stood at the window, watching through the grimy glass squares. Frenchwomen and escaped savage panthers on a Wednesday before ten o'clock. Whatever next? She wouldn't be surprised to see an elephant dressed in a jester's cap and bells coming down the passage.

Her sister Violet would be very sorry she'd missed the parade. She might even have stopped complaining about their sadly reduced circumstances for five minutes, had she witnessed all this drama.

Dr. Woodley, also on his way out of the shop then, stopped, took off his hat, and bowed again to Mary. "Good day to you, Miss Ashford. It is a delight to see you looking so well, despite the harsh winter weather, which is usually savage upon a lady's complexion. You have a comely glow about your cheeks today."

"I probably sat too close to the fire this morning."

He shook his head. "A very dangerous custom, young lady. It can take only a matter of moments for an unguarded skirt to catch flame."

Only when Mary had reassured the fellow that she would take every precaution against stray sparks did he turn to depart. Of course the handle stuck fast again, but he, being a gentleman who knew everything, always insisted on trying to get it open himself. Mary waited a polite moment, discreetly pretending not to notice his struggle, and then she went to his aid.

"Thaddeus really should mend this handle," he grumbled. "How many years has it been thus?"

Mary smiled as she opened it for him. "I believe it has been mended several times, Dr. Woodley, but it resists the idea of change and stubbornly clings to its old ways."

He looked askance. "It is a door handle, my dear lady. It cannot have sentient thoughts."

She quickly straightened her lips. "Of course."

Probably concerned for the state of her mental health now too, he finally left, venturing out into those dangerous streets that were filled with flea-ridden beggars, wild dogs, and lurking diseases. Sometimes she wondered how he ever got up the gumption to visit this part of town, but apparently the lure of a good book could not be resisted. Even by the eminently sensible Dr. Woodley.

Once he too was gone, she looked back to see that Mr. Speedwell had retreated to his fire in the parlor, leaving her utterly alone with that French lady's lost panther.

She wondered if he was, in fact, the same beast Dr. Woodley had observed running about the street, salivating at the mouth and ready to bite. More than likely.

"It's safe to come out now, sir."

He sidled into view, stopping before her in a shaft of misty, cool light. "Thank you." Since he wore no hat and had nothing to tip, the escapee was reduced to waving his fingers around his temple in an odd, theatrical flourish. Or did he simply have a headache? Now that she was between him and the window, Mary saw a mark on his brow, a nasty bruise. So he was capable of denting after all. "Thank you," he repeated, "Miss....?"

"Ashford."

"Ashford. Very good," he murmured, as if he'd already forgotten the name. Or, at least, had every intention of doing so. With a long stride he made to pass her, heading for the door.

Quite suddenly she thought of that decadent chocolate-covered pastry again, the sides bulging with fresh cream. A chance she'd once forfeited and regretted ever since.

Before he could take another step, Mary reached out, catching his coat sleeve in her fingers. "On the matter of that debt, sir?"

His progress halted, he looked down at her hand and then at her face. He squinted.

"You said you would be in my debt, if I saved you," she reminded him.

"I did, did I?"

"Oh, yes. I remember it distinctly."

"Well...perhaps another day. I'm busy at this moment."

She tightened her grip on his sleeve. "I thought, perhaps, you might like to buy a book. Or two. While you're here."

There followed a pause while he assessed her with a more focused gaze. Finally he flung out his arms in a grand gesture of supplication to the heavens, dislodging her fingers at the same time. "How can I buy a book this morning? I'm quite without funds. As you observe, I do not even have a shirt on my back, Miss...what is it again?"

"
Ashford
," she repeated steadily. "And we can send you the bill, if you find yourself currently insolvent." Mary did not believe for a minute that he was one of the poverty-stricken. Even half dressed he exuded an unmistakable air of privilege, and his clothes— the pieces in existence— were well made of very fine material, perfectly fitted. A fact she had tried her hardest not to notice. "It is the least you could do, sir, considering I saved your life this morning."

"Saved my life?"

"
Save me
. Those were your words, sir. Since I'm not in a position to save your soul, I assume you referred to your life. Or, at the very least, some necessary parts of your anatomy."

He exhaled a blustery sigh and folded his arms. Like a tall, slowly falling tree, he tipped to one side, resting a shoulder against the door. "But I don't need any books."

To Mary, that was like saying one did not need air. "Everybody needs books," she exclaimed.

"Had my fill of 'em in the schoolroom and at university." He shuddered and brushed dust from his sleeves. "Ugh. Quite put me off opening another dull tome as long as I live."

"Then you're missing out and I pity you. But I suppose not every man wishes to enlarge his mind to fit the size of his head."

The stranger's eyes sparked, spidery cracks in the ice of their practiced indifference suddenly letting the light through. "Just because you've got a ton of the blasted things you're trying to be rid of—"

"And most men, in my experience, do not keep their promises, so I shouldn't be surprised that you now intend to renege on yours."

"Well, I don't make promises, so if you heard one from me it was a mistake."

"Mine or yours?"

Still leaning against the door, he glowered at her for a long moment.

"Fate can lead a fool to a bookshop," she added with a sigh, hands clasped before her, "but it cannot make him read."

Eventually a low groan rumbled out of his bare chest. "Very well. I'll take some of these dratted books off your hands." But despite this weary tone, a cunning, wicked amusement had come into his eyes and stayed there, slowly thawing the ice. "I'll say this for you, you're determined. Don't give up easily, do you?"

"It's a vexing quality that comes to women in advanced age."

He pushed himself upright and perused her more carefully this time, scouring her person inch by inch. Feet apart and arms still folded he reminded her again of a genie come to grant somebody three wishes. Not hers though. Surely.

"The books, sir?" she prompted.

"You choose them. Something to entertain me, Miss...
Ashford.
"

He lingered over her name as if tasting it on his tongue, and Mary felt another shiver the entire length of her body. It was a deliberate attempt to unsettle her and get the upper hand, of course. She remained unimpressed.

There was a time when arrogant, good-looking scoundrels like this one were two or three a penny in Mary's life. They were men who rose late and went to bed even later; they had a never ending supply of vitality and saw no cause to slow down. Back then she was an eligible debutante, someone with whom these men teased and tried to flirt. But that was before her brothers went away to war and never returned, and when the Ashford family still had an estate of their own. Before their fortunes were severely reduced and her bereaved father had to sell it all to settle his debts. Before her uncle died in prison, having confessed to murder by oyster fork. Before the Ashford name was, in the minds of a great many, utterly ruined.

That naive, sheltered youth seemed so long ago now. Another era, a sunshine-glazed past that belonged to somebody else.