Tempting a Proper Lady (10 page)

“Well, to begin with, Nevarton Chase used to belong to him. He sold the estate to Virgil Bailey when he became engaged to Annabelle. I'm sure the servants are still loyal to him. In fact, the land we are sitting on is very close to what remains of Raventhorpe's lands.”

“He is not the first nobleman to sell one of his properties. I do not see how that makes him a villain.”

“He had to sell,” Samuel said, “because he needed to pay his enormous gambling debts. It seems His Lordship cannot stay away from the tables.”

She shrugged. “Unfortunately that, too, is not a new tale when it comes to the nobility.”

“You don't seem to understand that this man would do
anything
for money.”

“Which is no doubt why he is marrying an heiress.” She tore off another piece of her sandwich and nibbled at it. “Mrs. Bailey says you worked as a captain on one of his ships?”

“Yes.” Samuel tore off a bite of his sandwich with more force than seemed necessary and washed it down with the lemonade. Then he reached to refill
his cup. “Raventhorpe hired me to replace a captain who had left abruptly. He offered an excellent salary, and despite the fact that he would tell me nothing about the cargo, I agreed. I was trying earn enough money so I could marry Annabelle. John tried to warn me about Raventhorpe, but I did not listen.”

“What do you mean, he warned you about Lord Raventhorpe?”

“John has a history with him, too. And before you ask: No, I don't know anything about it except that John had to leave England as a result.”

Cilla had just opened her mouth to pose the question, but closed it again.

“We had already reached the Caribbean when I discovered His Lordship the Earl of Raventhorpe was not interested in the sugar and coffee I had assumed we were transporting. He was using the vessel for the slave trade.”

Cilla set down her sandwich and stared at him, her stomach churning. “Are you certain?”

“Quite certain. We had a rather loud argument about it. He intended to meet a contact in the Indies who had a live cargo.”

“I thought slavery was illegal now!”

“Laws don't stop some men when money can be made.”

“Didn't your Mr. Lincoln free the slaves in America?”

“He did, but this outside the United States. And it's another kind of slavery. A specialized kind.” He paused, as if uncertain if he should continue.

Apprehension swept through her like a gust of icy breeze. “Tell me, Samuel.”

“It's not really a tale for a lady's ears.”

How long had it been since a man had treated her with such gallantry? “We have come this far, and I should have all the facts if you expect me to help you. Besides, I am a grown woman.”

“Grown or not, it's not a pretty story.”

“Samuel.” She leaned forward and laid her hand on his sleeve. “Look at me. I am hardly a naïve girl.”

He did look, his gaze sweeping over her form in a swift assessment that seemed to miss nothing. “No, not a girl, but I think perhaps there is still some innocence about you. And I would not want to be the man who takes a piece of that away.”

“Innocence!” She gave a laugh, quick and harsh. “I have not been an innocent in some years.”

“I think some part of you is, and I don't want to be the man to rip away your illusions.”

She let out a huff and began to rapidly wrap up her sandwich. “Then you might as well take me home, Captain. I will not help you blindly.”

“Blast it, woman.” He took the sandwich from her hands, slapping it back on the blanket in front of her. “I'm trying to spare you some unpleasantness.”

“And I am telling you that you need not spare me anything. I am hardly a fragile flower. I can take the truth, else I would not have asked for it.”

Still he hesitated. She started to get up, and he burst out, “It was women. There, are you satisfied? Raventhorpe was interested in selling women as slaves.”

“Women?” Stunned, she sat back down. “As in…not for…”

“A kind term would be ‘pleasure slaves.'”

“Heavens.” Shocked despite herself, Cilla splayed a hand over her bosom. “Who would engage in such wickedness?”

“Men with no scruples, like Raventhorpe. He and his associates obtain women through kidnapping, blackmail, and sometimes buying them outright from their families. They take them far from home and sell them to rich men abroad.”

“As pleasure slaves.” Just the words left a bad taste in her mouth. “Would he…What about Annabelle?”

“Mrs. Burke, when I refused to go along with his evil purposes, he pushed me over a cliff on that island and left me for dead. The whole crew went along with it; they were loyal to Raventhorpe. This man will do anything he needs to in order to further his own ends and fill his coffers—even kill the Baileys and Annabelle to inherit their fortunes.”

“This is…I am having trouble believing all this.”

“You are welcome to ask John Ready.” He swept a hand toward his servant, who sat on the coachman's bench with a book open on his lap.
A servant who reads?
She barely had a chance to process that bit of information before he was speaking again. “As I said, John also has a history with Raventhorpe. When I did not come back from the voyage, he got one of Raventhorpe's crew drunk and convinced him to tell him where they'd been. Then he came
back for me, though it took more than a year.”

“'Tis a fantastic tale.” Even as she said the words, she wanted to believe him. She could not forget his face the night Annabelle had jilted him. Could a man feign such intense emotion? “Why do you not bring charges against the earl, if he is as villainous as you say he is?”

“Because I have no witnesses other than John, and he has his own reasons for not wanting to come to the notice of the law. Without ironclad proof of his perfidy, I can't bring charges against Raventhorpe. What chance would an American seaman have in an English court against the influence of an earl?”

“Probably none in the House of Lords, which is where he would be tried. But without proof or witnesses, there is no way to bring him to justice.”

“All I can do,” he said, “is save Annabelle from him. I intend to take great pleasure in depriving Raventhorpe of what he wants so badly.”

She recoiled. “You intend to use Annabelle for revenge?”

“No, I intend to make certain she is safe, and in the process punish the man who tried to steal my life from me.” He stared into her eyes, as if obtaining her agreement to his plan was simply a matter of his will. “I know it sounds mad, but I am doing this to save her life—and to prove to Dolly and Virgil that I did not lie to them. That I did not cruelly abandon their daughter.”

His passionate whisper sent the blood sweeping into her cheeks. “I believe you.”

“Then you will help me?”

“What exactly are you proposing?”

“Talk to Annabelle and build doubts about Raventhorpe. Buy me some time so I can find real evidence to show the Baileys.”

“I—”

A soft crunch came from the trees behind them. They turned to see a man dressed in black step out of the wood. When he grinned at them, she noticed he was wearing a mask.

“Stand and deliver,” he said in a strangely cheerful tone, pointing a pistol at them.

Samuel sat up straighter. “What do you want?”

“Your valuables of course, my good man.” He gestured with the pistol. “Let's start with the lady. What have you got in your reticule, my dear?”

She paled and grabbed the tiny bag. “Please, it's all I have.”

“Leave her be.” Samuel leaped to his feet but froze when the highwayman cocked the pistol with an audible click.

“I prefer to leave you alive, friend,” the highwayman said. “Let's not be rash, eh?”

“Leave her alone,” Samuel repeated. “I have gold enough for both of us.”

“Such chivalry.” The thief smiled as if they were two acquaintances having a pleasant conversation. “I never thought to hear such gallantry from one such as you.”

“Such as me? You don't even know me. What have I done to you that you would threaten us this way?”

“Well, 'tis a sad thing indeed. You see, you are on
Raventhorpe land. And I make it my business to take anything that might be Raventhorpe's.”

“I had no idea we were on Raventhorpe's land. We simply stopped for a picnic.”

“You should choose your friends more carefully, my friend. Raventhorpe is not the type of man to engage in something as unfashionable as loyalty.”

“Raventhorpe is a snake of the lowest order,” Samuel agreed. “I shall be certain to spit on his land before we leave it.”

The highwayman laughed, a booming sound that echoed across the clearing. “Excellent, sir! How gratifying to find someone who shares my view of the pig earl. Very well, I shall take only
your
gold, and I shall leave the lady be.”

A shout echoed through the air. John had spotted the highwayman and was racing toward them, a rifle clutched in his hand.

“Your guard approaches. Quickly now. Your purse.”

“No.”

“Samuel!” Cilla hissed. Was he mad?

“I should hate to shoot you, but I will.” The highwayman held out his hand and snapped his fingers. “Your purse.”

“No.”

The thief swung his pistol around to point at Cilla but kept his gaze on Samuel and snapped his open fingers again.

“Samuel, don't,” Cilla whispered. “I think it's Black Bill.”

“Of course I'm Black Bill,” the highwayman an
swered. Samuel pulled out his purse and threw it at the thief, who caught it easily. “Thanks much, my friend.”

“Go to hell,” Samuel snapped.

“I don't think so.” He turned away and ran for the trees.

“Stop thief!” John raced up to them, stopped and lifted the rifle to his shoulder. Fired.

A chunk of tree exploded in front of the thief. Black Bill stopped. He whirled, aimed, and returned fire. John jerked, then fell.

“John!” Samuel raced toward his fallen friend.

Black Bill paused for a moment. “It did not have to be this way,” he called with what sounded like real regret, then sprinted toward the woods and disappeared into the trees. Moments later the sound of hoofbeats echoed through the meadow, retreating into the distance.

“J
ohn!” Samuel dropped to his knees beside his fallen friend.

Cilla raced over and shoved the cloths from their sandwiches at him. “Use this to staunch the bleeding. How badly is he hit?”

Samuel shoved the cloths underneath John's shirt, then buttoned his waistcoat tightly around the temporary bandage. “Shoulder shot, but still bad from the bleeding. Might have nicked an artery. We've got to get him to a doctor.”

John groaned. “No doctor.”

“Nevarton Chase—” Cilla began.

“I'll not take him there. The inn is closer.” He raised his voice. “John, we have to get you to the carriage.”

“What do you want me to do?” Cilla asked. Her voice shook.

“Collect the picnic basket and the blanket. Especially the blanket. We need to keep him warm.” Samuel slung John's arm around his shoulders and stood up, dragging the half-conscious man with him. “Damn it, John, I won't let you die. And damned well not before we get Raventhorpe.”

John turned his head toward him and locked his pain-dazed gaze on Samuel's. “Raventhorpe.”

“Walk with me, John. Help me get Raventhorpe.” Samuel started for the coach as quickly as he could, half dragging the stumbling, wounded man.

Cilla raced back to the picnic site and threw everything into the basket willy-nilly, snapping it shut and hefting it in one hand and the blanket in the other. Then she raced as fast as she was able, burdened by her load and hampered by her skirts, to meet Samuel at the coach. She set the picnic basket on the ground and flung the blanket into the vehicle, then shoved her shoulder under John's arm to help steady him.

“Can you hold him?” Samuel asked. “I'll climb into the carriage and grab him under the arms, and we'll drag him in. You can get his feet.”

She nodded, winded from wrestling with the nearly unconscious man. Then she let out a soft
oof
as Samuel eased out from under John's arm and jumped into the carriage. Cilla staggered beneath the increased weight. Slowly John started to sink to the ground, dragging the much shorter Cilla with him. “Samuel!”

“I've got him.” Crouched on the floor of the coach, Samuel grabbed one of John's arms, relieving her of a good part of his weight. “I need you to help me turn him around so when we drag him in here, he'll be on his back.”

She blew a loose curl out of her face and nodded, her bonnet askew and dangling from its ribbons. Between the two of them, they managed to get John
turned around. Then Samuel hooked his arms under John's armpits and hauled him backward into the coach. As soon as John's feet left the ground, Cilla cradled his legs in her arms and swung them around to help get him all the way in.

Samuel squeezed out from under John and propped him against the seat. “You need to ride in here and apply pressure to his wound. I'll drive us back to the inn.” He stood in the doorway and held out a hand to her, assisting her into the coach. He paused before climbing out, looking into her eyes without relinquishing her hand. “Keep him alive for me.”

“I will.” She squeezed his hand. “Just get us there with all possible speed.”

He nodded and hopped out of the coach. He picked up the picnic basket and tossed it on the seat before closing the door behind him. Then he climbed up into the coachman's seat and set the team racing for the inn.

 

By the time they reached the inn, Cilla was very worried about John. The cloths she had been pressing against the wound had become soaked with blood, and he had fallen unconscious. She was despairing of what to do next when the coach thundered into the yard of the Caruthers Inn.

Moments after the vehicle stopped, Samuel flung open the door, shouting for help. Grooms ran over in response, and three of them helped Samuel ease John from the coach and carried him into the inn. Cilla sat on the floor of the carriage, her hands shaking with emotion. Slowly she climbed out into the yard.

A groom held the horses and tipped his hat to her as her feet hit the ground. She nodded to him, then stiffly made her way to the door of the inn.

Inside, bedlam reigned. Samuel and the grooms carried John up the stairs under the direction of an older man who had to be the innkeeper. Cilla stood uncertainly in the middle of the madness until a young woman spotted her.

“May I help you, miss?” she asked.

“Missus,” Cilla corrected out of habit. She pointed after the people on the stairs. “I am with the wounded man who was just brought in.”

“Oh, of course! You're with Mr. Breedlove. Come upstairs, Mrs. Breedlove, and we'll get you settled right away.”

“I am not—” She took a breath. “I would like to see the wounded coachman, please.”

The girl gave her an uncertain look. “Are you sure about that? They've sent a lad for the surgeon, but it might be a while if he's not at home.”

“Please take me to him.”

The girl shrugged. “Come with me.” She started for the stairs.

Samuel appeared on the landing. “Cilla! There you are. Come up.”

The girl smiled at Cilla. “See there? All's well, Mrs. Breedlove. Just you go on up with your husband.”

Cilla gave the girl a nod. “Thank you.”

She climbed the stairs, and Samuel met her halfway.

“Mrs. Breedlove?” he murmured, offering his arm.

“She assumed and I did not feel like explaining,” she said as they climbed the stairs together. “I am told they sent a boy for the surgeon.”

“Yes. We've got his boots off and stripped off his shirt. I've arranged for a private dining room, so perhaps you would rather—”

“Captain, I am a widow. I have seen a man without his shirt before.” She swept a hand before her. “Do lead the way. I want to check that bandage we cobbled together.”

“The innkeeper's wife is sending up some clean cloths and hot water.”

“Good.” Cilla straightened her bonnet. “Lead on.”

 

The woman was not what he thought she was.

Samuel led Cilla to the room where John lay with sweat misting his forehead. They had laid clean handkerchiefs over his wound, but already drops of blood had begun to seep through. Cilla stepped into the room without a qualm, her eyes on John as she removed her dangling bonnet. Smoothing her hair, she turned to Samuel.

“When was the hot water requested? The sooner we clean that wound, the better.”

“The innkeeper's wife should be bringing it at any moment.” He stroked a flyaway tendril of hair behind her ear. “Are you certain you would not rather retire to another room and recover from this shock?”

“I have not swooned yet, Captain.” Easing away from his touch, she set down her bonnet on the bureau and went to John's bedside. She bent over
him, pressing her hand to his forehead. “I believe he is already becoming fevered.”

The innkeeper's wife came up behind Samuel where he stood in the doorway. He moved aside, letting the lady enter the room with her basin of water. “The surgeon should be here at any moment,” she said, bustling to the small table beside the bed. “He lives just down the road.” Cilla stepped out of her way as the woman carefully lowered the bowl, then set down the cloths that had been hanging over her shoulder.

“He seems very warm,” Cilla said.

The innkeeper's wife frowned in concern and rested her hand briefly against his cheek. “Indeed he is. Best get that wound cleaned.” She glanced at Cilla. “Nothing you can do for now, Mrs. Breedlove. I'll see to your coachman. We've got the private dining room set up for you.”

“We'll wait until the surgeon gets here,” Samuel said. “Mrs….”

“Caruthers,” she replied, dunking one of the cloths into the water and wringing it out. She moved to John and lifted the handkerchiefs they had used as the last bandage, then pressed the damp cloth gently against the ugly hole just below his left shoulder. John groaned and shifted. His eyelids lifted for just a moment, then fell again.

Footsteps pounding up the stairs drew Samuel's attention away from his friend. An older man thundered up the staircase at a pace he would not have believed possible. But the surgeon—a short, square-shouldered, balding man with spectacles sliding down his nose—reached the doorway in record
time, and Samuel found himself moving out of the lively man's way.

“Mrs. Caruthers,” the surgeon said. “What has happened here?”

“Their coachman was shot, Mr. Emerson,” Mrs. Caruthers said.

“Who shot him?”

“A highwayman,” Cilla said.

“Indeed?” The surgeon bent over John, lifting his lids to peer into his eyes.

“Black Bill,” Samuel clarified.

Emerson sighed. “That young man certainly keeps me busy.”

“He seems to be well-known around here,” Samuel said.

“Indeed he is. Notorious even.” The surgeon waved away Mrs. Caruthers and lifted the damp cloth to study the wound. “Well, your friend was lucky. I think Black Bill missed the artery.”

“He seems warm—” Cilla began.

Emerson sent her an impatient glance. “Of course he does—he's been shot! What did you expect would happen?”

Samuel came forward and took Cilla's arm. “Will he live, Mr. Emerson?”

“We'll know in a few hours. As long as this fever doesn't worsen, I expect he will make a full recovery.”

“What can we do?” Cilla asked.

Emerson barely spared her a glance. “Stay out of the way. We'll call you once we've got him comfortable.”

“Cilla.” Samuel tried to tug her away. “Come, let's go downstairs. I've ordered dinner.”

“We have a fine lamb today,” Mrs. Caruthers said. “Go on now. Your coachman will be here when you get back.”

“John,” Cilla corrected, her eyes on the wounded man's face. “His name is John.”

Emerson looked up at that. “We'll care for John. Off with you.”

Slowly she turned away. Samuel slid a guiding hand around her waist as they left the room and made their way downstairs. She did not protest. The farther away from the sickroom they got, the slower her movements became. He signaled to Caruthers, the innkeeper, then followed the man to the private dining room, feeling by the time they reached it that Cilla had somehow left a part of herself upstairs with John. It was as if he guided a life-sized doll to the table where a steaming feast awaited.

“Would you like some wine?” Caruthers asked.

“No—” Samuel began.

“Yes,” Cilla replied, sitting down at the foot of the table. She stripped off her bloodied gloves.

Caruthers glanced at Samuel.

“Bring some water with the wine,” Samuel said, and then the innkeeper slipped from the room. Samuel ignored the place setting at the far side of the table and pulled out the chair right next to Cilla. “Are you all right?”

“I thought I was.” She stared at her stained gloves, an affront to the neatly set dining table, then glanced up as Samuel took the discolored pair away and
stuffed them into his coat pockets. “It all happened so quickly.”

“You were magnificent.” Samuel placed his hand over her restless one. Her skin was soft, her bones delicate. “If you hadn't kept your head, John would be dead.”

“I would be better if I could be up there with him. Sitting here doing nothing—it's frustrating.”

“From what Mrs. Caruthers said, this Emerson is supposedly an excellent surgeon. Best we give him the room he needs to do what needs to be done.”

“I know, but—” She raised her gaze to his, her dark eyes wide and troubled. “I suppose I function better when I am the one handling the problem.”

“Dolly Bailey has been known to say she could not manage without you.”

“That is kind of her.”

“Kindness has nothing to do with it. You forget, I have seen you in your capacity as a lady's assistant. You are frighteningly efficient. Scared the devil out of me the first night we met.”

She let out a reluctant laugh. “If that were true, Captain, you would never have disrupted the party.”

“Nonetheless, I knew you were the one who might actually succeed in stopping me. You were the one I watched.”

“Well.” She licked her lips and dropped her gaze to their touching hands. “I suppose I should be flattered.”

“It was meant as a compliment.”

Caruthers entered the room, bearing a tray with a bottle of wine, a pitcher of water, and two glasses.
Samuel took his hand from Cilla's. Her brisk efficiency of the previous hour was slowly giving way to some sort of panic. He knew what to expect from the strong, efficient Cilla who managed details as easily as he commanded a ship. But this other woman—pale, sober Cilla with the trembling fingers—this woman was a stranger. One who was quietly losing her composure.

“I'll pour the wine, Caruthers,” Samuel said as the innkeeper started to uncork the bottle. “Please leave us. The lady needs a few moments in private. And please ask the staff not to disturb us.”

“Of course, of course.” Caruthers placed the contents of the tray on the table, then gave a bob of his head and left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

“I apologize.” Her whisper came out on a quivering breath. “I do not want to be any trouble.”

“Nonsense. This has been a harrowing ordeal, especially to someone who is not accustomed to that sort of thing.”

“Are you? Accustomed to it, I mean?”

He shrugged and reached for the wine bottle. “I've spent many years at sea and seen my share of unpleasantness.”

“I feel like a ninny. Like a pale, simple
woman.
” She sucked in a breath and straightened her spine. “Again, I apologize.”

“You're a human being, Cilla. No reason to apologize for that.” He worked loose the cork on the wine bottle. “I believe some wine might help.” He poured her a glass. “And for the record, my dear, you
are
a woman.”