The Marriage Ring (4 page)

“Of course,” Richard said. “Shall I wait in the hall?” he asked, realizing as he said it how silly that sounded. “Of course I should wait in the hall,” he mumbled, rushing out the door before he added to his awkwardness.

Grace was charmed. Richard Lynsted was not what she’d expected. Yes, he was stuffy, but so was his sire. However, unlike his father, there was an honesty and a bit of naiveté about him.

She slipped behind the dressing screen in the corner of the room and changed from the torn costume into a blue sprigged day dress with a demure bodice trimmed in lace. After repinning her hair, she set a gold velvet cap at a flirty angle over her curls, and threw her cape over her shoulders.

Grace was not displeased with her agreement. All she wanted for her father was the chance to tell his story, a chance for justice to be served.

Would Mr. Lynsted give him a fair hearing? She thought so. After all, the man had shaken her hand. She pulled her gloves on.

Nor was she afraid of him. One thing Grace had confidence in was her ability to handle men. She could keep him in his place for the space of the ride to Scotland.

Before picking up her valise, she took a moment to strap her dirk in its sheath to her wrist. A woman couldn’t be too careful.

Mr. Lynsted waited outside her door. He’d been leaning against the wall, his head nearly brushing the ceiling. He straightened as she came out of her room. His gaze traveled over her, but he looked away before she could tell if he approved of her more modest attire or not. She’d assumed he would and was surprised she was a bit annoyed he hadn’t offered a compliment.

Perhaps Mr. Lynsted would present a challenge as well. It had been a long time since Grace had met a man who ignored her. The trip to Scotland might prove entertaining.

“Let me carry your luggage,” he said.

“I’m fine. I carry it all the time.”

“I’ll carry it,” he repeated in a voice that brooked no disobedience. Grace let him have it.

She led him up the stairs. As she’d anticipated, Mr. Drayson lingered backstage, waiting for her. As she came up the stairs, he moved forward, saw Mr. Lynsted, and then hastily retreated.

Grace didn’t wait for an invitation but tucked her hand in the crook of the big man’s arm. She liked standing next to him. She liked big men. They made her feel protected.

Chester had never delivered the flowers to her room. Instead, they had been dumped in a rubbish bin by the backstage door. They filled the bin to overflowing.

Other than Mr. Drayson and a few stagehands, the theater was empty, the other actors and actresses having left while she’d been arguing with Mr. Lynsted.

Walter, the watchman, nodded to her. “Hear you are leaving, Miss Grace.” He was Scottish, too, and they’d formed a fast bond.

Grace released her hand from Mr. Lynsted’s arm and gave the watchman a peck on the cheek. “I’m going home, Walter. I’m returning to Scotland, where I belong.”

“God go with you, lass,” he said.

“And be with you,” she answered. “And, Walter, thank you for all of your help these past weeks.”

“I wish I could have done more.”

“You did enough.” Grace opened the backstage door and went out into the night.

The alley behind the theater was deserted. The only light was that of a half moon and the lamp by the stage door. She usually left at this hour and had no difficulties. She turned to Mr. Lynsted. “I’ll take my valise now.”

He looked up and down the alley. “How are you going home?”

“I walk. It’s not far from here. My valise?”

Mr. Lynsted held on to it. “London is not safe at this hour of the night. Not for you. Don’t you have a maid or someone who can accompany you?”

“I don’t have a maid. I don’t need anyone to help me dress.”

“You should have a companion,” he assured her, giving another glance toward the street.

“My Scot’s nature is too frugal to spend money on such silliness, Mr. Lynsted. Now, I appreciate your help leaving the theatre but I must go home and pack for the morrow. Please hand my valise to me.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he answered, taking her arm without invitation and sweeping down the alley toward the street.

Grace didn’t mind. In truth, she was glad for the company and this way he could see where she lived for when he came to pick her up in the morning.

The March air was heavy and damp. This wasn’t her favorite month. It seemed to rain all the time.

The street beyond the alley was dark. Grace noticed the globe on the lamppost was broken. “I can’t believe that is out again. They only recently repaired it.”

Mr. Lynsted grumbled something about “lamplighters not being worth a shilling,” and Grace laughed.

“Why do I sense you are one of those people who sees danger everywhere?” she suggested, making conversation.

He frowned at her. “What do you mean?”

“What I said. Some people, like myself, aren’t afraid of the dark. We don’t believe in beasties and ghosties and, well, so far, at four and twenty, I’ve managed to keep myself safe. Whereas you are more cautious.”

“Caution is a wise thing,” Mr. Lynsted answered with his usual brisk tone of decision. “Keeps one safe from angry stage managers and an overeager public.”

“
Touché
,” she said. “Although it doesn’t seem fair I must live my life expecting the worst because I am female.”

“The world is not fair, Miss MacEachin,” he said with a grim smile. “But then, you already knew that.”

“Yes, I did,” she admitted soberly. He was exactly right. “Now I am searching for my own fairness.”

She hadn’t meant to sound so sad…and yet, the loneliness had escaped her.

In the dark, she could feel his sharp, questioning glance. She’d have to guard her tongue. Mr. Lynsted had a barrister’s quick mind. He’d read something into everything she said if she wasn’t careful.

And probably use it against her.

“Here we are,” she said. “My building is only two doors down. I’ll meet you on this corner in the morning. You can hand over my valise.”

“You don’t trust me to see you safely to your door?” he said with a hint of disapproval.

She kept her voice light as she replied, “You warned me to be cautious.” She reached for the handle of her valise to take if from him, when two shadowy figures unfolded from the bushes and came at her.

Chapter Four

R
ichard didn’t think; he reacted. He’d dreamed of someday clearing a line of men with “his morleys” but had yet to test his mettle—and now, here he was.

He stepped in front of Miss MacEachin, lifting an arm to block the nearest man’s attack. Clenching his fist, he punched the man in his soft, paunchy gut.

With a grunt of pain, the man doubled over.

Richard’s lawyer’s heart almost burst with pride—until the other attacker delivered a blow to his kidney.

Fortunately, Richard was a big man and the hit a puny one. His attacker’s fist bounced off with little damage, but gave Richard the opportunity to pick the fellow up by his shirtneck and the hip of his breeches. He was a runt of a man with a foul mouth. Richard didn’t think twice about tossing him back into the bushes from whence he came.

The first man regained his strength. He took a swing at Richard, who easily warded off the blow with his arm. However, before Richard could strike back, Miss MacEachin decided to enter the fray.

Most women would have screamed and gone running off or at least had the sense to duck out of the way.

Not the Scottish songbird.

She jumped in front of Richard, brandishing her sharp little knife at their assailant as if she would carve out his heart. What she did do was ruin Richard’s clean shot at their attacker’s jaw.

And, of course, the bloke used his longer arms to grab her at the elbow and swing her around as a shield against Richard.

What the man didn’t anticipate was that she’d use the knife. She buried it in his thigh.

“God’s balls in heaven
,” the man roared and then screamed as Miss MacEachin pulled the knife out. “
Here, take her
. I’m not being paid that much to grab ’er.” He shoved her toward Richard with enough force she fell into his arms, her breasts against his chest.

Richard was stunned by the contact of her soft roundness against his hard strength.
Breasts
. He’d never had them so close before—and that second of stupefied hesitation was enough to allow the man to go running off down the street into the night. His companion had recovered from his interview with the bushes and limped off in the opposite direction.

Miss MacEachin shoved Richard away. “
They are escaping
.” She started after the one she’d stabbed but quit after a few steps. “He’s gone.
Damn
.”

In Richard’s world, women didn’t swear. And he knew he was to blame for not capturing their attackers. In fact, it was a true blow to his pride that while he had acquitted himself well with his fists, Miss MacEachin and her little knife had sent the scoundrels running for their lives.

She made an exasperated sound. “We should have caught them.” He heard the accusation in her voice. She meant
he
should have caught them.

Righting the valise she’d dropped to the ground, she opened it and pawed through her tumble of clothing until she found a kerchief. She used it to clean the knife’s blade with little more concern than if she’d gutted a fish.

“We had the better of them,” she grumbled. “Then again, perhaps you didn’t want me to catch them.”

“What does that mean?” he demanded, reaching for his temper. Temper he liked; feeling she was right, he didn’t.

She closed the bag and rose to her feet. “It means you didn’t try very hard to stop them.

“
What?
” The word exploded out of him. He recovered. “Miss MacEachin, I defended you.”

“Yes, but not as well as you might have,” she said, delivering the insult with blunt practicality. She picked up the bag and started walking. “Then again, if we follow the trail of blood from that one I stabbed in the thigh, we both know where he would lead us.”

“And where would that be?” Richard demanded, falling into step beside her.

“To your front door step,” Miss MacEachin informed him.

Richard’s feet rooted to the ground. “What did you say?” he challenged, not certain he had heard her correctly.

Miss MacEachin turned and coolly responded, “I said, the trail of blood would lead to your doorstep.”

His blood boiled. “That’s an
outrageous
accusation.”

She raised her brows, not offering apology.

Richard stomped up to her. “First, I
did
defend you. You’re the one who let them escape by interfering. Second, my father and I would never be a party to such an attack. We have no reason to be—”

“I believe you do. Your father and uncle do not want what I have to say to become public.”

“You are
infuriating
,” Richard replied, stifling the urge to howl his outrage like the man she stabbed had. “How often do I need to repeat that my father and uncle would never involve themselves in such a scheme? And let me point out, I am so certain of it, I am traveling with you to the ends of the earth to interview your father. I shall be gratified to hear your apology.”

She snorted her opinion in the most unladylike way. “There will be no apology—”

“And
third,
” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “you have so many enemies it could be any number of men who had attacked you. Those men could have been hired by that stage manager I had to pull off you earlier—” He paused. “Hmmmm, I don’t believe I was ineffective then, was I? Or perhaps those two lads who came after you were working for one of those who have placed wagers all over town on who will bed you?”

She drew short breaths, one after the other, and he knew his barb had hit home.

“Oh, wait,” he had to add, “
you
never have any difficulties walking home. I forgot. My apologies. You’ve become the most infamous courtesan in London, but you walk the streets without concerns.”

“I never had a concern until
tonight
,” she answered, as if accusing him.

Richard shrugged. “Considering your reputation, I’m surprised there aren’t brigades of men hiding in your bushes.”

She stormed up to him, raising her hand as if to slap him for his effrontery, but then seemed to realize she was too petite to do much damage. Instead, she glared up at him with a look that would have done the meanest governess proud.

Fortunately, Richard was past the age of being cowed by stern-eyed women.

And he was rather proud of himself for giving her tit for tat. How dare she accuse his father of planning an attack on her—

She kicked him in the shin.

The action startled him more than caused pain. “
Hey
,” he said, offended.

“I am
not
a whore. Not a courtesan. Not whatever names you men dream up to label women like spice jars in a cabinet. Do you hear me?” she ordered. “I don’t sleep with men. I’m my own person. I’m independent and ask
nothing
”—she spit the word out—“from
any
of you. So don’t you ever make an accusation like that toward me again or I’ll carve your heart out—no, wait. You don’t have a heart. You are a Lynsted. Holburn is the only good one of your ilk. But speak like that to me again and I’ll take my dirk and carve something, and let me assure you, Mr. Lynsted,
you will not like it
.”

Her threats didn’t bother him.

Letting him know she found him lacking when compared to his cousin the Duke of Holburn? That comment hit him square in the face.

Not that he shouldn’t be accustomed to it. He’d spent a lifetime being compared to his cousin. Holburn was everything Richard wasn’t. He was handsome, a normal size, always comfortable in social settings, intelligent, included in every event…popular.

Whereas, Richard was a great clumsy oaf who really did feel more comfortable with his ledger sheets than at a garden party or in a ballroom. He normally didn’t speak his mind as freely as he had this past hour with anyone let alone with a woman. He was too reserved…and his father’s son.

People didn’t like his branch of the family. Richard wasn’t certain why, but he’d always sensed others’ disapproval. He’d assumed it was because of his father and uncle’s strict sense of what was right and wrong—beliefs he shared…but what if there was something else behind it?

Immediately, he rejected the idea. Miss MacEachin’s ridiculous accusations had put the suggestion into his head. His father and uncle would not hire brigands.

Well, his father wouldn’t.

Richard wasn’t really too certain about his uncle. Through his business dealings with the man, he’d seen him take a short cut or two of the sort that caused concern.

Miss MacEachin had turned and was walking away from him, her back ramrod straight.

He followed with grim determination. Something was afoot. Perhaps the stage manager
had
sent two brutes after her to exact revenge. Perhaps he was right and they’d been after what most men wanted from her.

Or…and he considered this gingerly, reminded of how panic-stricken his father had been this afternoon when he’d told Richard of her accusations…perhaps there was something to her story. Something his uncle had done that could destroy them all if it was revealed.

She marched to the door of a modest row house. Richard stopped on the walk and then came to his senses as he heard the key click in the lock in the door. “Wait, let me go in first.”

“Why?” she asked, distrust coloring the word.

“Because if someone is waiting to attack you inside, I don’t want you to accuse me of orchestrating it by watching you enter alone,” he responded, gently pushing her aside and opening the door.

Richard opened the door to a pitch-black hallway. “Where do I go first?” he asked.

“Here, let me help,” she murmured and, before he could protest, ducked under his arm, a black shadow carrying the honeysuckle and rose scent of her perfume.

There was the sound of glass against glass, a scrape, the flash of a match, and then the soft, warm glow of a lamp in a side room. She came out into the hall carrying a candle she must have lit off the lamp. “So, where shall you search first? The bedroom, to see who is hiding under my bed?”

Her sarcasm was like a nail to the back of his head. “I’m sorry for wanting to keep you alive,” he shot back, mimicking her tone. He picked up her valise and carried it into the house. Setting it on the floor, he asked, “Do you have just this floor or is there an upstairs?”

“Another renter is on the floor above,” she said. “Mrs. Nally and her cats. I have no fears from her.” She laughed and said, “She has nine of them.”

“Nine what?” Richard asked, distracted by her leading him into a sitting room where the lamp was burning.

“Cats,” she explained, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he searched behind the settee and checked for strangers standing in the draperies.

The dressing room in the theater may have been a mess but Miss MacEachin’s home was immaculate and rather charming. She clearly didn’t own much and he suspected most of the furniture came with the lodgings. Clearly, she wasn’t a frilly sort and seemed to admire clean, modern lines…much as he did.

“Next room.” He kept his voice businesslike. He didn’t want her to gain the idea he was enjoying himself. She’d kick his other shin.

She led him into a small dining room followed by a tour of her kitchen.

“Do you have anyone living with you?” he asked.

“Other than Mrs. Nally upstairs? No.”

“You should have at least a maid,” he responded. “A wise woman doesn’t live alone in London.”

“I said I was independent,” she reiterated.

“Sometimes too much independence is dangerous,” he murmured.

“So you keep telling me.” She sounded bored.

The next room was the bedroom.

Richard’s pulse kicked up a beat. Here, the scent of her, a soft rose with that evocative undertone of spice, was very strong. And it didn’t help that the room was dominated by the bed.

The coverlet was a blue and green stripe on top, at the head of the bed, were mounds and mounds of white, lacy pillows.

A person could sleep all day in comfort in a bed like that, or do “other” things.

Immediately his mind leaped to those “other” things.

He tried to close them out, but they were there, vivid, strong, hungry.

Richard prided himself on his control. Where other men turned into beasts, he continued to do what was right, to be a gentleman, to maintain wholesomeness.

Of course, that was before he’d felt her breasts against his chest. There was a beast inside him, and it was tired of being repressed, especially around a woman as vibrantly alive as Grace MacEachin.

He turned and walked out of the room.

She followed. “Mr. Lynsted, are you all right?”

“Fine.”

“But you didn’t check behind the doors or search the drapes as you did in the other rooms.”

“What? So you could laugh at me some more?” he tossed over his shoulder as he walked through the sitting room and into the hall. At the door, he stopped. Not looking at her, he stated, “The place appears safe, but you should have a maid or companion here with you at all times—and if you tell me you have that bloody little knife to protect you, I shall break it in half.”

“You are angry.” She paused, considering him. “What did I do?”

“What have you
not
done?” he ground out. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He escaped into the damp,
cold
night air. It felt good against his skin and cleared the smell of her from his senses.

But what it didn’t do was relieve the heft of his arousal pressing against his breeches. He’d just barely made it out of her rooms without her noticing. She’d have had a heyday if she had. There would have been no end to her merriment.

And he was going to travel to Scotland with her.

Richard focused on Abigail Montross, his betrothed for the past four years. She’d never once inspired this heady sense of lust Miss MacEachin seemed to conjure at will inside him.

He knew he shouldn’t look back, but he did. He couldn’t help himself.

Miss MacEachin stood in the doorway still holding her candle.