Wicked Promise (6 page)

Elizabeth hesitated only a moment, then walked farther into "Take as long as you like, my dear," slurred the baron, leaning precariously toward her. "Pretty little thing like you can disturb me anytime she likes." Until his arm snaked out toward her waist, she hadn't realized how near to him she was standing. "By jove, Nicky, old boy, she's a comely bit of bag—"

In an instant, Ravenworth was out of his chair, the cigar dropped onto the floor, his drink spilled onto the table. St. George's blunt hand never reached her. Instead the dark, long- boned fingers of the earl curved painfully around the man's thick wrist.

"I told you before, the girl is out of bounds to you and anyone else who comes here. I thought I made myself clear."

The baron's fleshy lips curled in a grimace of pain and Nick released his hold. Elizabeth backed away, pressing herself against a row of books. Watching her, the baron gave up a slow, lecherous smile. "Very clear, my friend. I didn't realize you had a claim on the lady yourself."

Ravenworth's mouth thinned into a tight warning line. "The girl is my ward, nothing more. Remember that, St. George, and we won't have a problem."

Elizabeth just stared. Her mind kept replaying a picture of the earl rising out of his chair with the swift grace of a panther—and not a single trace of the drunken man he had appeared.

"Elizabeth?" he said softly. "Are you all right?"

She blinked several times, dragged in a soft breath of air. "Yes ... yes, quite all right. I shall simply get my book and return upstairs."

"Fine, but do it quickly."

She didn't dawdle, just picked up one of Mrs. Radcliffe's Medieval novels she had spotted on the shelf two days ago, turned and hurried out of the room.

The sound of men's voices followed. She wondered what they were saying, but mostly she thought about Ravenworth. He hadn't been drunk—not really. Her suspicions grew more pronounced that the earl was a far different man than he appeared. He intrigued her, more than any man she had ever met.

Interest quickened her pulse as she decided, one way or the other, she would discover the truth about the Wicked Earl.

Clouds drifted by overhead, throwing the distant fields into momentary shadow. Then the sun slipped out once more and Nick felt the warmth on his face through the glass of his second-floor bedchamber window. Standing next to the dark blue velvet curtains, he looked down at the garden, watching Elizabeth Woolcot as she made her way along the gravel paths.

Today she wasn't alone. Two of the servants' children, Silas McCann's son, Petey, and Theo's little girl, Tildy, were holding on to her hands. She was telling them about the birds, he imagined, and the notion made him smile.

She's good with children, he thought, seeing her bright indulgent smile, hearing the faint sound of her laughter as little Tildy stooped to pick up a snail then hold it aloft as if she had discovered some grand prize. Someday she would make a good mother.

The notion slipped through him, tugging at his insides. Not like Rachael. Not like Miriam Beechcroft or so many of the other women he knew. More like his mother or perhaps his sister, Maggie.

Nick had always liked children. To him they were the essence of life, the true joy of living. Without them, the world was a duller, less sparkling place. He watched the children below, darting between the immaculately tended hedgerows where the gardener usually forbade them to play, and thought of the days when he had imagined his own brood playing tag among the Ravenworth shrubs and flowers, laughing and getting into mischief as he and his sister once had done.

In the months after his marriage, Rachael had been willing to do her duty, though he'd discovered that she, like Miriam, was far from the motherly type. Fate had intervened and spared her the task. A husband convicted of murder. Seven years' indenture. Rachael had moved into Castle Colomb, his estate north of London, and was living life on her own by the time he came back.

There would be no children for him, he knew, no heir to carry on the family name. For the most part, he was resigned to the fact, but it bothered him at times like these, times he watched little Petey and Tildy play and imagined what his life might have been if he hadn't killed Stephen Hampton.

A muscle flexed in his jaw. He didn't like to dwell on the subject. The past was over and done, and there was nothing he could do to change it. In truth, there had never been any choice for him, and even if there have been, he would have done the same thing.

He stared down at Elizabeth Woolcot, laughing with Tildy, her bonnet long gone, a single long dark auburn braid teasing an impossibly narrow waist, her face turned up to the afternoon sun. He frowned to recall the anger he had felt last night when St. George had tried to touch her. He'd reacted out of instinct, he told himself. She was his ward, his responsibility. It was only natural he felt protective of her.

In truth it was far more than that. Elizabeth Woolcot was the only good and decent thing he had allowed into his life in years. She deserved better than the pawing hands of a lecher like the baron, or a rake like Viscount Harding.

He would send her away if he could, if he trusted that Hampton had ended his pursuit, but Nick couldn't convince himself to believe it. He knew Bascomb's obsessive nature far too well to think he would quit when there was something he wanted so badly. Nick wasn't about to let the whoreson have her, nor any of his other sordid friends.

Not that he intended to change his way of life. He wasn't about to do that for Elizabeth Woolcot or anyone else. Why should he? He was an outcast, unworthy in the eyes of his peers no matter what he did. He had lost seven years of his life and he intended to make up for them, to indulge himself in any way he wanted.

In a few months' time, Elizabeth Woolcot would be gone, married to whatever man he and Sydney Birdsall chose for her. In the meantime, he intended to live as he had since his return to England. He had warned her of that before she had decided to stay.

Nick turned away from the window, determined to put Elizabeth Woolcot out of his mind, at least for the balance of the afternoon.

"Elias!" he called to his valet, whose long, solid frame sauntered lazily into the bedchamber. Elias Moody had been his friend through the last four years of his indenture. The kind of friend a man could count on with his life.

"Yeah, Nick?" He was taller than Nick, a big, beefy man, muscled in the chest and shoulders. He had killed a man in a brawl over a woman, but he'd served time instead for stealing the dead man's watch.

"I need a drink," Nick said. "Have Theo bring me up some gin."

"Not a problem," Elias agreed. "Me work's all done. Mind if I join ye?"

Nick grinned. "Good idea." It occurred to him he had to be the only man in England who preferred the company of his servants to most of the guests who came to his house.

E
lizabeth stroked the smooth, velvety muzzle of the little Arabian mare the earl had said she could ride. She was a beautiful horse, her coat a sleek dappled gray, darker around the eyes and feet, her head small and perfectly formed, her ears perked forward at attention.

Elizabeth loved her on sight and today she meant to ride her. Dressed in a plum velvet habit with a jaunty narrow- brimmed hat, she walked beside the groom, Freddy Higgins, who led the mare to a mounting block and helped her into the sidesaddle.

"Are ye sure ye don't want me to come with ye?" Freddy asked. He was a short man, small and wiry. In his youth he had jockeyed at Epsom Downs. His small frame was slightly stooped now, but he still knew more about horses than any man Elizabeth had ever met.

"I'll be fine, Freddy."

" 'Is lordship might not like ye goin' off by ye'self."

She leaned down to pat the mare, whose pretty little head came up. "I won't go far, just to the edge of the forest and back." Sasha blew and pawed the ground, as ready as she to be off. "I've been cooped up for so long. I'd really like a little time on my own."

Freddy smiled as if he understood. "Whatever ye say, miss."

She reined the mare away, eager to be off. It was the first time she had ridden in a while, and it took a few minutes for her legs to conform to the saddle, to find the horse's stride and tune in to its rhythm.

As she galloped along, Elizabeth smiled and tipped her head back, enjoying the feel of the sun on her face and the wind against her cheeks. She rode away from the house across the rolling fields, pausing now and then just to look over the fertile landscape. Too soon she reached the edge of the forest. She surveyed the dense copse of trees then glanced back in the direction she had come.

She had promised not to go far, but the day was so lovely she just wasn't ready to go in. Deciding to continue a little bit longer, she had just topped a knoll when a flash of something glinted in the sun and Elizabeth shaded her eyes to see. Emerging from the trees at the edge of the forest, two riders galloped down the hill in her direction.

She wondered who they were and why they were riding so fast. Surely they were tenants, or perhaps friends of the earl's, but as they drew nearer, she could make out their unkempt beards and the muddy, ragtag appearance of their clothes, and a trickle of unease filtered through her.

For the first time, it occurred to her just how far she had ridden from the house. She stared at the two approaching men and her unease turned to fear. Dear God, what if they meant to harm her? What if they were highwaymen or footpads and she was out here all alone?

They were bearing down on her now, riding full tilt, and her growing fear jolted Elizabeth into action. Whirling the mare, she leaned over the animal's neck, and the horse leapt forward, breaking into a fast-paced gallop. Now that she was riding away, she told herself, surely the men wouldn't follow.

But when she looked over her shoulder, she heard one of them curse while the other brought his riding crop down with a vicious wallop. The thunder of hoofbeats increased as their horses broke into a flat-out run.

Her heart slammed hard. Dear, sweet God! There was no mistaking the men's intent—they were trying to catch her and God only knew what they would do once they did. Elizabeth leaned farther over the mare, whispering words of encouragement, urging the little horse faster. Dear Lord, what could they possibly want with her?

With a sudden flash of clarity, she knew what she should have guessed from the start. God's breath, it was Bascomb! Or more accurately, Bascomb's men, and they were trying to abduct her! Elizabeth's stomach knotted. She had convinced herself she was safe at Ravenworth Hall, but deep down she'd been afraid the earl might try something like this.

Her hands were damp inside her kid gloves, while her mouth felt as dry as parchment. Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder. Sweet Jesu, they were gaining on her!

"Pull up!" one of the two men shouted. "Dammit, do what we tell you before you get hurt!"

Pull up? Elizabeth thought, her breath coming hard, her heartbeat thundering as loud as the horses' hooves. Not on your life! She caught a quick glance of the men, who were beginning to hem her in, shortening the distance between them. Then, on the rise up ahead, she spotted the tall spires and big stone towers of Ravenworth Hall and her hammering heart leapt with hope.

She pressed the mare. The thought of her fate at the hands of Oliver Hampton made the bile rise up in her throat. She fixed her gaze ahead, silently praying, her breathing as ragged as the mare's. A stone wall lay between her and the house, a tricky jump, since a high box hedge rested in the path just before it. Still, if she could clear the hedge, she just might make it.

Elizabeth gathered the reins, her gloves damp and sticking to her hands, her hat long gone, the braid she had coiled at the nape of her neck flying free down her back in the wind. The little mare was lathered, but she was strong and stout of heart. The hedge loomed ahead. Elizabeth pulled the riding crop she rarely used from its place beside the saddle and brought it down firmly on the animal's rump. The little mare leapt forward, took several well-placed strides, and soared over the hedge.

Sasha landed hard but stayed on her feet, and Elizabeth managed to stay aboard her. They cleared the stone wall without effort and stormed through the gate leading into the stables. Sliding the mare to a halt at the side of the barn, Elizabeth swiveled her head to look back over her shoulder. Praise God, the men had turned off to the side and were riding like fury the opposite way, into a copse of trees.

A long shaky breath whispered out and her eyes closed in relief. When she opened them again, she blinked at the sight of Nicholas Warring's tall frame standing at the horse's withers, his face a dark mask of rage.

He gripped her waist and hauled her down from the mare, his silver gaze glinting as it traveled over the animal's sweaty coat and he took in its labored breathing. Jerking the riding crop out of Elizabeth's hand, he slashed it down against his high black boot.

"What in God's name did you think you were doing? We don't treat our animals that way at Ravenworth. If I ever find out you've mistreated a horse that way again, I promise I will take this riding crop to your backside and enjoy every minute I am doing it."

She blinked several times, swayed a little on her feet. "I'm sorry. I didn't... I didn't mean to hurt her. I would never do that, I just—" She swayed again and Ravenworth caught her arm.

His expression changed, the anger instantly gone. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Elizabeth wet her dry lips. Beneath the skirt of her habit, her legs were shaking so hard she was afraid they wouldn't hold her up. "It... it was Bascomb."

"Bascomb!"

"His men were waiting. If it hadn't been for Sasha—" She shook her head, stroked the nose of the brave little mare. Something burned behind her eyes and before she knew it, tears were sliding down her cheeks. "I had to get away. There was nothing else I could do. I was so terribly frightened."