The Accidental Abduction (6 page)

“All part of the service,” he answered with what she was coming to think of as his habitual smile.

Leannah found she did not want to look at Mr. Rayburn anymore. She did not need to see him with his collar and cravat loose, exposing the intricate lines of his throat with its sprinkling of golden stubble, or the swell of his Adam's apple. She especially did not need to see the curve of his shoulders and arms beneath the plain white linen of his shirt. Instead, Leannah got to her feet and turned her attention to the basin of steaming water. She plunged her hands into it. The heat was scalding, and Leannah hissed and jerked her hands back.

Of course Mr. Rayburn was right there. “Here,” he said and she knew she did not imagine the tremor in his deep, patient voice. “Let me.”

Leannah knew exactly what she should say in this moment.
No. Thank you. I can do this myself. You needn't trouble. Truly.
But she didn't say it. She only held out her hands. Mr. Rayburn dipped a cloth into the water and wrung it out. He took her right hand in his. With infinite gentleness, he dabbed at the raw, straight gash on her palm, clearing away the caked grime. It hurt, but the pain was nowhere near as powerful as the sensation of his skin against hers. She could feel every nuance of his fingers. If she'd been a properly bred miss, his callouses would have made her cringe. Instead, they fascinated her. She wanted to know what those rough hands would feel like caressing her bare arms, and tracing a warm line across the sensitive skin of her throat, or her mouth, or her breasts.

Leannah couldn't even grit her teeth against the image, because she didn't want him to think he was hurting her. Mr. Rayburn took up a long strip of clean white linen. Quickly and efficiently, he wrapped it around her injured hand.

“You've had practice at this,” she remarked, struggling to find some kind of intellectual distance that would keep her from slipping away with the rising tide of her need.

“Well, working in a warehouse, you see a few injuries.”

“I would not have thought to find myself in such capable hands on this night.” Now it was her words that made Leannah wince. The list of things she should not have said was growing unforgivably long. She told herself it didn't matter. There was no one to hear. No one, except of course Mr. Rayburn himself. What would she do if he decided she was flirting with him? What was she going to do if it turned out she was?

He made no reply, only looked at her for a long moment. He didn't let go of her hand, and that, for Leannah, that was answer enough. He knew what was happening inside her, what his touch was doing to her. He saw it in her eyes, he felt it in the way her hand warmed as he held it. He had blue eyes, and they were startlingly wide and clear; the sort of eyes that could look straight through a woman's polished politeness and see what she really wanted. Firelight caught in his gold hair, and those overgrown, coppery sideburns. The scent of spices was gone. Now he smelled of clean rainwater, and a bit of whiskey.

Move, away, move away!
she ordered herself.
At least, say something.
But her throat had closed. She could scarcely breathe, let alone speak. She did not in the least want to move.

It was Mr. Rayburn who broke the moment. He dropped his clear, blue gaze and let go of her hand, so he could soak the towel again. He was breathing hard, and although the firelight made everything uncertain, she was sure she saw his cheeks coloring.

He feels it, too.
Leannah's heart pounded in the base of her throat. She hadn't been in any way mistaken. He wanted her, and now he knew how she wanted him.

“I can do the other,” she said.

“No you can't,” he replied gruffly. “You'll get your bandages wet.”

He took her hand and laved it softly with the towel. She didn't protest.
Let him do this,
said that treacherous part of herself.
Enjoy it. It will never happen again. I can make a memory of this moment and save it for later. I will want it later.

Later when she was alone in her own cold bed, filled with the aching, heated restlessness that gave rise to private fantasies and forbidden acts. Oh, yes, she'd want to remember Harry Rayburn's hands on her then.

I am a shameless, wicked woman. Hot-blooded, reckless, indecent . . .

But before Leannah could finish this silent litany of her faults, they heard the crash of the door slamming open in the public room, followed by a man's voice.

“Hullo! Anybody about?”

Leannah's heart froze. She pulled herself away from Harry, ran to the door, and pressed her eye to the crack beside the threshold. She was fully aware of Harry right behind her.

It took a moment for her eye to adjust to the dimmer light of the public room. But as soon as it did, she saw there, standing at the bar with rainwater dripping from the brim of his curly brimmed beaver hat, was Anthony Dickenson.

L
eannah opened her mouth. Probably she intended to cry out and burst into the public room. Probably she would have done it, too, had not Harry Rayburn clapped his hand over her mouth and pulled her back.

“Don't.” His breath was warm and his lips brushed her ear softly sending fresh tremors of sensation across her skin. “Think a minute. Is that him?”

Leannah nodded. He seemed to be taking a very long time about letting her go. But then, she wasn't struggling to get away as she should have been.

“All right.” Mr. Rayburn lowered his hand from her mouth, but he did not loosen his grip on her arm. His body felt solid and warm and infinitely inviting against her back. “Your sister will have stayed with the carriage while he makes sure the rooms are ready. You go out and get her. I'll detain this fellow.”

Leannah nodded again and now Harry did let her go. Her mouth tingled from the press of his hand. She needed to tell him to stop touching her, even in these extremes. His touching her was adding entirely too much trouble to this extraordinary night.

But whose fault is that, really?
Leannah moved away from the door, so she would not be seen when it opened. Harry seemed to have forgotten her, at least briefly. His gaze was fixed entirely on some distant point. Then, as she watched, his expression shifted. No, his whole stance shifted. In the space of a few heartbeats, Mr. Rayburn transformed from her intoxicating stranger into some bluff and hearty fellow, a little too tall for the space and a little too hale for civilized company.

In this character, he breezed out of the parlor. “Hullo!” she heard him cry. “Thought I heard a voice. Beastly night out there, ain't it?”

Leannah was uncomfortably aware that her mouth was hanging open. “What sort of man are you, Harry Rayburn?” she said under her breath.

But there was no time to puzzle out that question. Leannah turned quickly around and slipped out the parlor's side door. She found herself in a little stairwell. A second door led out to the yard. Rain pounded steadily against windows and shingles. She was still wet from her earlier dousing, but she mustn't let that bother her. Leannah felt herself smile.
Let me see. What would Harry Rayburn do now?

He wouldn't hesitate, she was certain of that much. Fortunately, the innkeeper was diligent, and the hinges were well oiled. The door opened with very little sound. Leannah pulled the thick shawl up over her head, caught up her hems, and ducked outside.

The rain tapped insistently against her head, but she ignored it. Hugging the wall of the public house, she hurried toward the spark she knew must be a carriage lantern.

Leannah's eyes had adjusted to the dark now, and up ahead she saw a high-wheeled landau. What a ridiculous choice for elopement. Such a carriage was meant for short drives in the city or on a racecourse, not long jaunts at speed through the country. At least Mr. Dickenson had put the top up. But despite the rain and despite the dim light of the carriage lanterns, there was no mistaking the profile of the girl sitting on the side nearest the house. That was most decidedly Genevieve, waiting for her would-be fiancé to come fetch her inside.

Leannah glanced at the inn, afraid to see the door open and let out Mr. Dickenson, but it remained fast shut. Harry Rayburn was doing as he said and detaining the man. Leannah crouched low and ran forward, making a wide circle around the back of the carriage. She skidded badly in some mud once, but righted herself. The rain covered the noise, and she was able to come right up to the carriage door on the far side.

In one quick motion, Leannah yanked the landau's door open, and jumped inside.

Genevieve whirled around, her hand raised. Leannah grabbed her sister's wrist before the slap could descend. “It's me, Genny,” she announced and let the shawl slip off her head.

“Leannah!” Genny cried. “How!” Leannah wished for better light. She was certain the look that crossed her sister's face in that moment was quite priceless.

“Next time you want to keep a secret, you shouldn't involve Mrs. Falwell,” said Leannah acidly. She was tired. Her hands hurt abominably under the bandages Harry Rayburn had so carefully and expertly applied, and she'd spent a large portion of the night feeling scared to death. It was not a combination that inclined one to immediate sympathy with a sister's interrogation.

“Well, you have to go away. You'll ruin everything.”

“Too late for that.” Leannah nodded over her sister's shoulder.

The carriage rocked as Genevieve jerked herself around yet again. There, framed by firelight from the inn's open door stood Mr. Dickenson, gawping. Harry and Mr. Jessop stood directly behind him.

“Mrs. Wakefield!” Dickenson cried. “How?”

“Ah, well now!” The landlord clapped his hands together with an air of immense satisfaction. “I guess this makes it a family party, don't it?”

“Now, see here . . .” began Mr. Dickenson hotly, but Mr. Rayburn cut him off.

“Let's all get inside. We can sort this out where it's dry.”

It was quite clear from the stubborn set of her jaw that Genevieve wanted to protest. But the wind chose that moment to gust, and it blew a curtain of frigid rain straight through the carriage's open side and into her face.

“Oh, very well.” Genevieve sniffed and ostentatiously reached for Mr. Dickenson to help her down. For her part, Leannah watched Mr. Dickenson closely, and made sure he knew it. Martin, the stable lad, hustled up glum and resigned to take the equally glum and resigned horses around to the stables.

“Mrs. Jessop!” bellowed the landlord as he led them all back into the public room. “You were right! The lady and gentleman were here ahead of their family!”

“Come, Genevieve, we'll go into the parlor.” Leannah took firm hold of her sister's arm.

“Good idea,” said Harry, before Mr. Dickenson could protest. “I'm sure Dickenson and I will do fine out here.”

Leannah shot him a quick glance of gratitude before directing her attention to steering Genevieve into the parlor and shutting the door tight.

“Who is that man, Leannah?” demanded Genevieve as soon as she turned back around. “What have you been doing?”

“What have
I
been doing?” Leannah gaped at her sister.

“Yes, you! I'm gone a handful of hours and I find you running through the dark with a handsome stranger in tow!” Leannah couldn't tell whether her sister was shocked, or impressed. “And what on earth happened to your hands?”

This abrupt questioning was really more than Leannah could bear. It was only years of training in discretion that prevented her from shouting. “Genevieve, I have been chasing you down for most of the night,” she answered as evenly as she could. “What happened to my hands is I was driving through London like a lunatic without my gloves. And you, incidentally, have no right to demand an account of my doings.”

“Well, you are still my sister.” Genevieve untied her bedraggled straw bonnet. Her auburn hair had come loose from its pins and now trailed in loose ringlets around her neck. “I have every right to know what you're up to, especially when it involves strange men.”

Once again, Genny had successfully turned her well-deserved scolding around on Leannah. How on earth did she manage it? “And
you
are still
my
sister,” Leannah reminded her. “My
underage
sister, and I am here to once and for all stop you from marrying Anthony Dickenson.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Genevieve took off her dun-colored topcoat, and shook it out to hang on one of the pegs by the door. “I want to marry him. I am passionately in love.”

“I'm not even going to dignify that with a reply.”

A knock at the door interrupted them. Mrs. Jessop, grinning from ear to ear, trooped in with her stout arms full of towels and drying sheets. A young girl, still blinking the sleep from her eyes, followed. She carried a tray laden with a teapot, bread, and bowls that, from the savory scent of the steam, contained the long-promised stew. Hunger cramped Leannah's stomach.

“There now,” said Mrs. Jessop as she set all the things down on the table. “Mary and I will have the beds turned down presently. And, ahem, we've found some dry things for you, Miss . . . ?”

“Mrs. Wakefield.”

“Just so. Mrs. Wakefield, and this is the genuine Miss Morehouse, I'm guessing? Yes.” Mrs. Jessop nodded with satisfaction. Leannah suspected the retelling of this story would involve all the local housewives, and many more pots of tea. “Miss Morehouse's bandbox has been sent up to the room,” Mrs. Jessop went on. “You just get some hot food into you and then it's all to bed, and everything will be right as nine pence in the morning.” She must have noticed the sisters' doubtful expressions. “You may trust me, miss,” she said to Genevieve. “Twenty years I've kept this house, and I've seen plenty of elopements go by. It's better you put things right with your people sooner rather than later. Now then, Mrs. Wakefield, I'll take you upstairs and we can get you out of that wet dress. Mary will see to things down here.”

Meaning Genevieve would not be left alone, in case she was thinking of making another dash for it.

Leannah followed the landlady gratefully. The room upstairs was chilly, despite the fresh fire in the grate, but like the parlor, it was clean and neat. The same could be said for the plain shift, dress, and stockings the landlady helped her into. She smoothed her wet hair back from her brow. It was going to dry into a mass of tangles. She'd have to ask Mrs. Jessop for a brush or a comb or she'd never get it put right. There were, however, far more urgent matters she needed to attend to first.

Back down in the parlor, Leannah found Genevieve at the table, tucking into a bowl of stew. The girl, Mary, moved slowly about the room, collecting damp things and folding them all with painstaking neatness. At a nod from Mrs. Jessop, the diligent maid followed her mistress out into the public room, a mountain of wet clothing and towels in her arms.

Before the door closed, Leannah glimpsed Harry Rayburn standing at the bar with Mr. Dickenson. Their eyes locked, and that instant sent a flutter of nerves through Leannah. Harry raised a glass to her.

Then the door closed, and he was gone, but knowing he was on the watch made her feel obscurely better. How had this stranger managed so quickly to become a reassuring presence?

It's this extraordinary mess that's done it,
she told herself.
That's all. My nerves are worn raw. I will be able to see things sensibly in the morning.

But, she realized with a jolt she did not want to see things sensibly, not when it came to Harry Rayburn.

Genevieve was quite another matter. Leannah drew a chair up to the table, and the fire. She dipped a spoon into her stew bowl, all the while trying to work out what she should say.

The stew proved to be mostly dried peas and potatoes, with a bit of mutton for flavoring. Still, it was filling, and the bread was fresh, and the butter sweet. Leannah quickly finished her entire bowl and felt much restored, despite the strained silence that persisted between her and Genny. By the time she'd buttered her third slice of bread, she even felt as if she might be able to carry on a rational conversation.

If only her sister could be persuaded to do the same. “Genevieve . . .” Leannah began.

Genevieve dropped her spoon into her empty bowl with a clatter, and pushed it away. If the truth were to be told, she looked very much like a sulky child refusing her warm milk.

“All right, all right, I am not passionately in love with Mr. Dickenson,” Genevieve announced. “But I'm marrying him all the same.”

Leannah swallowed the dismissive scold that hurried toward the tip of her tongue. “Why, Genny? You're not . . . he hasn't . . .” she couldn't make herself say the words.

“No! What do you take me for?”

“We're sitting in a public house on the road to Gretna Green and you need to ask me that?”

Genevieve opened her mouth. She closed it again. She looked at the fire a long time. “I'm sorry,” she said finally. “But you'd made it plain you would never consent.”

“So why are you doing this, Genevieve? You don't love him and you don't have to marry him.”

“Of course I do,” she shot back.

“But
why
?”

Now Genevieve did look at her, and her mix of sadness and determination cut straight into Leannah's heart. “So you won't have to marry Mr. Valloy.”

She would need to be very careful how she answered this. She couldn't let Genevieve see even the smallest hint of her discomfort. “Nothing's been decided yet. Besides, Mr. Valloy is a perfectly amiable and capable man.”

“He's a pig,” Genevieve snapped. “A pig who wants to get his clammy hands on Jeremy's land!”

“Genevieve!”