The Earl is Mine (7 page)

“What do I need to look at the time for anyway?” Bertie had said. “Wear it on grand occasions. It’s my lucky watch. I wore it when I first met your mother as a baby, and then years later, you and Pippa.”

“Thank you.” Gregory had clutched the orb of burnished gold in his fist.

Bertie got a wicked gleam in his eye. “I also suggest wearing it when Pippa gives you trouble.”

“Then I suspect I shall don it frequently when she comes to Town,” Gregory said dryly, and left to the sound of Bertie’s laughter behind him.

Now he saw that it was ten-thirty. He cursed loudly enough to send the herd of corgis leaping in a frenzy of longing to climb the vast mountain that was his bed and become masters of it—and him.

But there were no bed steps, thank God.

He sat up, threw his legs over the side, and stretched his bare arms above his head, which reminded him of how Pippa had put her arms around his back and neck in Eliza’s garden a year before and held on to him as if he were a runaway horse she wouldn’t let go. He’d only remembered that later, when he was in his cabin of the ship sailing to America. Every night he was away from England, he’d thought about that kiss.

He’d have to stop thinking about it now—and of Pippa in her bed. Otherwise, he’d not be able to don his trousers.

But wet noses on his calves and his feet brought him back to perfectly sober thoughts. “I’m late,” he told the gathered company, who were all ears and wagging tails.

He readied himself in a few minutes. His driver, Oscar, would be waiting impatiently, no doubt, Gregory’s trunk strapped behind the carriage.

Nobody was in the breakfast room, and he stole out of the house quickly.

Once on the road, rain began to fall lightly—and then harder—and he was glad for his dry seat. He wasn’t worried about Oscar, either. They’d been on enough trips together that Gregory knew the man welcomed harsh weather as a challenge to his driving skills. He made sure Oscar’s flask was always filled with the Marquess of Brady’s finest Irish whiskey and that his driver’s coat was of the best material available, with the large, flat gold buttons featuring the crest of Brady that Oscar loved to flaunt in every inn yard they entered. He couldn’t boast any other way—the Sherwood family all traveled in unmarked coaches.

Gregory closed his eyes and hoped the horses were feeling spritely, that the road was smooth, and that the rain didn’t uncover many rocks and form lakes instead of small puddles.

He rested in a gentle haze of napping—he’d lost sleep, after all, thinking of Pippa—until the rain beat so fiercely on the coach roof that he opened his eyes to look out the window. In the distance, trudging along the edge of a field, he saw a solitary figure, a boy or a young man with a large sack held over his shoulder, his top hat squashed flat by his hand as he held it on to his head, and shockingly without a greatcoat to protect him. He was bent, gusts of wind and rain pummeling him, and a more miserable creature Gregory had never seen.

He lowered the window and was promptly hit with slashing needles of rain.

“Oscar!” he bellowed. “Pick up that fellow, will you?”

“Right, my lord!” Oscar called back to him. “I’ll sit ’im up here with me. I got a spare blanket under the seat!”

“Very well,” Gregory yelled back. “But if he’s too far gone, he can come in with me.” He shut the window, glad to return to his cozy shelter.

The coach came to a halt, and Gregory knew that Oscar was standing up and waving his arms at the traveler.

The fellow lifted his head, pulled out a pair of spectacles, and shoved them on his nose. They appeared too large on his face and were surely useless, as he couldn’t possibly see through them in the torrent.

“Get over here,” Oscar cried. “Ride up here with me! We’ll take you to the nearest town!”

The figure hesitated, then slowly began to plod in their direction. His shoulders drooped. He was exhausted, Gregory could see. His spectacles fell off, and he bent to pick them up. This time, he didn’t bother to put them back on but held them in his fist.

“Hurry up—we don’t have all day!” Oscar yelled to him. “I’ve got good, strong drink to warm you!”

The traveler tried his best to speed up, the bag on his back bouncing against his shoulders.
Nothing like the promise of a drink to warm you,
thought Gregory.
He’s glad for the ride—and perhaps the company
.

How long had he been walking? And where was he headed?

Oscar jumped down from his seat onto the road and waited for the man to crawl over a stone wall. He limped the rest of the way to the coach, his face pale, his lips a bit blue. The lad couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen, and he had delicate features: an upturned nose, large eyes, and an expressive mouth. Gregory had no doubt he’d been teased about his looks by other boys. But his expression, especially about his eyes, was fierce enough.

“I’ll help you,” Oscar shouted to him through the deluge, and took his elbow.

The stranger stumbled.

Gregory slid over on the seat so he’d have a better view of the side of the coach. Oscar gave the fellow a boost to the box—or tried to. The stranger fell right back down, obviously too weak to pull himself up.

That was enough to convince Gregory to open the window. “Come in here!” he cried. “In the coach with me!”

The fellow pushed his hat lower and shook his head no.

Oscar gave him a little shove. “Do what the earl tells you!” he yelled.

The man stupidly put his spectacles back on in the pouring rain.

“For the love of God, don’t stand on ceremony!” Gregory threw open the door and waved with his hand. “Get in!”

With a strong push and a “Harrumph!” from Oscar, the young man half fell into the coach, streams of water running down his tailcoat, boots, hat, and even off his ears and onto the floor. Gregory was more than somewhat wet now himself, but it was still better to be inside than out in the elements. Oscar shoved his flask at him and Gregory pushed it back. “Save that for yourself, thanks. He can drink from mine.” And then he pulled the door shut.

The traveler slumped into his seat, and his eyes rolled up in his head.

“Wait!” Gregory blindly reached under his seat for his flask.

But the stranger fell into a dead faint, his body slumping sideways on the tufted leather seat cushion. His hat and something brown and grotesque—resembling a flattened dead squirrel—fell off his head and onto the floor, revealing a crown of tightly pinned Titian-colored curls.

Chapter Four

Dear God, it was Pippa! Pippa in man’s clothes! A surge of shock traveled the length of Gregory’s body, and he cursed like the veriest sailor. What was she doing dressed as a man and walking through a rainstorm so far away from home? How had she gotten this far? What in the world had happened to her?

Her slender legs, encased in buff breeches and Hessian boots, and slanted across the edge of the seat, were completely immobile, but she was breathing evenly, thank God.

He tried not to notice whether her breasts were evident, but he couldn’t help seeing that she’d managed to disguise her feminine figure completely.

The flask. He needed it
now
. For both of them.

With a sweep of his hand, he located it in the folds of a lap blanket and pulled the cork out with his teeth and took a quick swig.

Soaked as her clothes were, they gave the impression she was a successful secretary or accountant—or even an upper servant with the day off. Her brown-and-tan-striped cravat was a bit uncommon, but Gregory wasn’t surprised she’d gone that route. She always wore at least one thing on her person that was eye-catching. The brown tailcoat and tan waistcoat, on the other hand, were perfectly unexceptional.

Gently, he touched her temple and brushed a tendril of hair back. “Pippa, wake up.”

Her eyes fluttered and opened. “Gregory,” she said softly.

His name had never sounded so sweet. But a black fury rose in him, choking out the gratitude he felt that she was safe.
“What kind of foolish game are you playing?”

She merely stared at him, water pooling under her cheek.

“Answer me, Pippa.” Threat laced his words, but inside, his heart knocked against his ribs. She looked so forlorn. A waif of a girl. And there she’d been, battling the elements on her own. Who knew what kind of stranger would have stopped to pick her up if he hadn’t?

“Don’t make me go back.” Her voice cracked. “I beg of you.”

Any man with three sisters and a loving mother knew the power of soothing words to a woman in distress. But he’d not reward her folly. He’d keep her alive—that was enough.

“How the hell did you get this far from home?”

“A farmer’s wagon. But he dropped me off when he got where he needed to go.”

“Here.” Gregory’s voice was gruff. “Let me help you sit up.”

She made a move herself, but he took the burden off her by lifting her under her arms. She was like a rag doll, and his wrath increased.

“I suppose you’re angry—” Her voice was thin.

“You guessed right.”

They were close. And private. Like two lovers running away. But they weren’t. Not by a long shot.

“Here.” He handed her the flask. “Drink this. It will prevent another faint, and it will warm your bones.”

Without hesitation, she took the vessel from him, lifted it high, and poured some in her mouth. Instantly, her cheeks grew round and she waved a hand in front of her face.

“Swallow it,” he urged her.

Her eyes, already made large by the elfin hairstyle, widened further.

“Pippa.”

She stared at him as if she were ingesting poison, swallowed loudly, and sputtered, her fingers clenching her throat.

Ah, she was such a girl! But he’d not pity her. No, indeed. “Dress like a man—expect to act like one.” His brogue came out along with his temper.

“Good heavens.” She inhaled a great breath through her nose and wiped her hand across her mouth. “I pity the brute creatures who enjoy such vile stuff.”

She reached for the door, and he caught her by the wrist.

“Oh, no you won’t.” He pivoted her unyielding arm onto her lap. The straight line of her back and her narrowed eyes spoke volumes, but that was her problem, not his. “You’ll have more.” His tone brooked no argument. “You’re shivering.”

She leaned forward, her mouth a straight line, her eyes snapping with her own fury. “I’d rather
die
than have more.”

He got nose to nose with her. “You just might—if you don’t.”

They stared steely-eyed at each other, and he was glad to see her angry. It would get the blood moving through her veins almost as well as the whiskey would.

“Very well,” she muttered, “if it will mean you leave me alone and I may be on my way.”

He tried not to show his obvious triumph when she drank from the flask again with an unsteady hand and let out a long breath. “Are you happy now?” She winced and handed it back to him.

“You’re welcome.” If she was looking for more comfort, he wasn’t going to offer it. Of course, he was fall-on-his-knees happy that she was coming back to life with a vengeance, but she didn’t deserve to know this, not when she was wrecking all his plans. “I’ll be sure to tell the marquess you send him your highest compliments. He says it’s an old Brady recipe handed down by the leprechauns.”

“In that case.” She beckoned with her index finger for another taste—and then another. “I feel better now. I
think
.” She thrust the silver vessel back at him. “Thanks to your father. And the leprechauns.”

Not
you, was the unspoken sentiment.

He corked the flask and left it on his seat. “You need to change clothes.”

“I can’t,” she said immediately. “I’m off again.”

“Over my dead body.”

She made a moue of impatience. “Dammit all, Gregory! I’ve already felled one man today. Don’t make me do the same to you.”

“Hah. As if—” And then her words hit him
“What did you say?”
She couldn’t be serious.

Her eyes became shuttered. “It’s a long story.”

“And you’ll tell it.” He was already burning to exact vengeance on whoever had forced her to defend herself and then run away. “If you’re hurt—”

He’d kill the man. Plain and simple.

“Of course I’m not hurt,” she said scornfully.

In the midst of his stone-cold anger, he admired—and was touched by—her show of bravado. “Was it someone you met on the road? Or—it wasn’t that damned Hawthorne, was it? Give me the name.
Now
.”

“Hawthorne,” she said, “but—”

It was as if she’d thrown a match onto dry straw. “That sorry—”

“And the Toad—Mr. Trickle—helped him. They wanted him to carry me off.”

Gregory saw red. Those conniving bastards! He’d enjoy every moment of thrashing Hawthorne until he ran from Plumtree with his tail between his legs. Unfortunately, Trickle had to stay in the equation for Lady Helen’s sake, but Gregory would be sure to make life miserable for him.

“You must change clothes,” he said. “I promise I won’t look. And no one will ever know. When you’re situated comfortably again, we’ll discuss what we’re going to do.”

He wrenched open her sturdy canvas sack. Thankfully, the items folded loosely inside—two shirts, two white cravats, a tailcoat, a waistcoat, a pair of pantaloons, a pair of men’s shoes, and three pairs of stockings—were dry.

“I can’t change clothes,” she said. “Not with you here.”

“Surely you don’t expect me to wait outside in that deluge.”

“But it’s not proper.”

He sighed. “There’s a time for proper, and a time for common sense.”

She looked fretfully out the window. “It
is
pouring cats and dogs.”

“Yes, it is.”

She still said nothing.

“I told you I won’t look,” he reminded her.

“Well—”

“I dare you,” he said. “Take off all your clothes, and if you do, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?”

“I’ll buy you a hot beef pie at the next inn.”

“You will?” Her face brightened like the sun.

“Of course. And then we’ll change horses and turn around so I can scare Mr. Trickle near to death and beat the daylights out of Hawthorne.”