Company Of Rogues: An Unwilling Bride Part 40

A noise penetrated her tangled thoughts. Horses and wheels. Fearing pursuit, Serena whirled around.

A carriage!

No, a curricle.

A man.

No one she knew, she realized with sweeping relief.

All the same, her heart raced to be caught here alone by any man, but there was nowhere to hide. She turned forward and speeded her steps, though she knew she had no chance of outpacing the four-horse rig.

It drew closer. The large, steaming chestnuts pounded past but slowed, slowed until the curricle was alongside and matching her speed.

"May I take you up somewhere, ma'am?"

An educated voice, but he could be up to no good accosting a woman on the road. Serena just prayed he would drive on.

The curricle kept steady pace. "Ma'am?"

Oh, why would he not leave her alone? Serena turned slightly, staying huddled in the deep hood of her cloak. "I need nothing, thank you." She marched on.

The man didn't drive past. "Ma'am, it's at least two miles to the nearest hamlet that I'm aware of, it's cold, night's falling, and I suspect a storm is coming."

As if to prove his point, a few drops of icy water blew on a sharp gust of wind.

"I cannot leave you here," he said simply.

Serena saw it was hopeless that he go away, and stopped to turn and look at him. No tame wool-factor, this. A blood, she thought with despair, reeking of fas.h.i.+onable arrogance from his tilted beaver to his glossy boots. His lean, handsome face was touched by wry amus.e.m.e.nt. At her.

"I have no wish to alarm you, ma'am, but the weather threatens to worsen, and it hardly seems safe or proper for you to be alone out here. And consider my predicament," he added with a slight smile. "I've been very well trained in the gentlemanly arts, and am cursed with a kind heart. I cannot possibly abandon you. If you insist on walking, I will have to keep pace with you all the way."

Serena was seduced by good-humor and kindness. It had been such a rare ingredient in her life that she did not know how to refuse it. A knife-sharp gust of icy wind decided her. She was in desperate need of shelter.

Cautiously, she approached the curricle and raised her foot to the step. He stretched out a hand and helped her into the seat beside him.

The very feel of his hand around hers, gloved as they both were, sent a jolt through her. Lean and powerful. She was not accustomed to lean, strong young men. Her father, her brothers, and her husband were all strong men, but heavy, with hands like bunches of rough sausages.

Once, young and innocent, she had glimpsed such men as this, and giggled with her friends about them, wondering which one might be for her. Since her marriage, they had been no part of her existence. He frightened her.

He did nothing alarming, however, but urged the team up to a cracking pace again. "Where are you headed, ma'am? I'll take you to your door."

"Hursley," she said, looking firmly ahead and clutching the rail.

Now she was raised above the hedge, she could appreciate the man's concern. Bare fields stretched on one side and bleak hills on the other. There were no nearby houses. Heavy, threatening clouds were rolling in from the east and in the distance skeleton trees tossed in strong winds.

"I have to pa.s.s through Hursley," he said, "so there is no problem in taking you there. My name is Middlethorpe, by the way. Lord Middlethorpe."

She flicked a wary glance at him. She had met few lords, and none she liked. Matthew had been a mere baronet, and his friends all lower still. Wealthy, to be sure, but not of high rank. The few members of the n.o.bility who had hung around Matthew had been the desperate dregs. Another of Matthew's complaints had been that the cream of the aristocracy would not succ.u.mb to the lure of his lavish generosity.

The lords Serena had met previously had been out-and-out libertines, and she was sure that honorable peers of the realm did not pick up chance travelers out of pure charity. She looked at the road racing beneath the wheels and wondered if she could throw herself from the carriage and live...

"May I not have your name, ma'am?" he asked.

"Serena Allbright." Then she realized she had given her maiden name.

Why?

Doubtless because she wanted to wipe away all trace of her marriage. And because she shuddered at the thought that this man of fas.h.i.+on might recognize the name Riverton, might know her to be Matthew Riverton's well-trained wife. How could she know how far her husband's drunken boasting had traveled?

At least Lord Middlethorpe intruded no further, but concentrated on steering his team with casual skill along the winding, rutted lane. Serena found her attention caught by his competent gloved hands, so subtly strong on the ribbons. Eventually, her gaze traveled up his caped greatcoat to his face.

He did not look debauched. His cla.s.sical profile was quite beautiful, in fact. Since her own looks were flawed by a short nose and peculiarly tilted eyes, she had great admiration for pure lines.

Why, what an idiot she was!

Serena almost laughed out loud. She had been nervous of her rescuer's intentions when a short time before she had been planning a life of sin. Here, surely, was a candidate for protector. When-like the wool-factor and the half-pay captain-he tried to seduce her, all she had to do was succ.u.mb to his wiles and set her price.

Brought so close to it, however, her mind balked. This man might be handsome, but he was still a man. He would expect what Matthew had expected, do what Matthew had done....

But, asked her practical side, what choice do you have?

And this time, if it becomes truly intolerable, you can leave.

All the same....

Lord Middlethorpe must have detected her shudder. "Cold, ma'am?" he asked. "Shouldn't be long now. But the dashed wind's worsening."

He urged his horses to more speed. In moments, though, a rut caught a wheel and almost tipped them into the ditch. He threw himself over her to correct the balance as he hauled back hard on the ribbons.

"Sorry about that," he gasped when he had control again. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, thank you." Serena straightened, all too aware of the power of his body so briefly against hers.

Then concern over that power was swamped by concern over the power of the elements. The wind was now tugging at her cloak like monstrous hands, and even buffeting the carriage.

"Struth," muttered Lord Middlethorpe. "I feared we were in for a storm, but nothing like this. I see a farm off to our right, ma'am. Do you know if it would offer shelter?" He was shouting by the end in order to be heard over the wind.

An alarming crack announced the separation of a rotten branch from a nearby tree. It whipped past the horses and he had his work cut out to steady them again.

Serena couldn't hear his muttered words and rather supposed that was as well.

"Well?" he shouted. "I'm not sure we can make Hursley."

"I don't know," she shouted back. "I am a stranger to these parts."

He gave her an astonished look but then steered the curricle into the rough lane leading to the farmhouse. A welcome light flickered through tossing trees.

Serena had no time to worry about what he thought of her. The winds were surely of almost hurricane proportions. She saw a nearby haystack shredded to blow in the wind, and a particularly sharp gust almost tipped the curricle over.

"We'd best get out and walk!" he yelled, and struggled down to go to the frightened horses' heads.

Serena saw he could not help her, and she clambered down as best she could. Her heavy cloak was being flapped like a cotton sheet, and was as much hazard as protection.

She managed to make it to the other leader's head, and reached up to grasp the strap, as much to anchor herself as to steady the beast. It worked to do both and they fought the wind toward the farmyard.

When they staggered into the yard the force of the wind eased a little, blocked by the sheds and barns. But now, flying debris was much more dangerous. Serena let go of the horse and pulled her hood close as protection against the swirling dust and straw. She saw a bucket bowl along and collide with Lord Middlethorpe's s.h.i.+n; saw him jump under the pain.

Serena clutched onto a stone horse-trough, wondering how she was going to make it to the house.

A plank ripped free of a sagging manger and whirled just past her head to shatter against a stone wall.

Francis saw her narrow escape, and her predicament. Lord, she was quite a tiny thing. He had managed to tow the frantic horses into the shelter of an open barn, so he abandoned them and grabbed her. He s.h.i.+elded her with his body as they fought their way to the farmhouse door.

He knocked but no one would hear him in this racket, so he opened the door and pulled them both in, shutting it thankfully on the violence outside.

They were in a stark tiled corridor, lit only by one small window. Muddy boots and pattens lined it, suggesting a good number of inhabitants. Heavy cloaks and coats hung on hooks on the wall.

In comparison to the outside, the corridor was almost silent, and they were at last free of the raging wind. They both took a moment to catch their breath. With a deep sigh of relief, Serena Allbright pushed back her heavy hood and shook her head.

Francis was transfixed. Even though she was tousled and pale, he had never seen such a woman in his life.

No, he thought, that was ridiculous. He'd seen any number of beauties of all shapes and sizes.

But not like this one.

His dazzled mind absorbed blood-red hair escaping from a knot, and pale flawless features....

No, not flawless. Her lips were too full, her short nose had a decided tilt, and her eyes....

Her eyes could not exactly be called flawed. Deep-dark and huge, they sat tilted, under sensual, heavy lids. Despite the fact that he knew differently, those eyes said she was emerging, sated, from a well-used bed.

The effect was being heightened, he realized, by a most extraordinary perfume. It surrounded her, not heavily, but unignorably. It had nothing to do with the flower scents his mother and sisters wore, but was composed of spicy, musky odors that spoke of s.e.x.

He realized with a jolt that the last time he had smelled such a perfume was on Therese Bellaire, the owner of a high-cla.s.s House of Pleasure, and the most dangerous woman he had ever known.

A wh.o.r.e. Serena Allbright had to be a wh.o.r.e.

An available wh.o.r.e? his optimistic body asked.

With a conscious effort, Francis remembered to breathe. With an even greater effort, he summoned caution. He reminded himself that Therese Bellaire had been a viper who had almost destroyed his best friend, Nicholas Delaney. To find a woman such as this wandering the countryside could mean nothing but trouble.

She was looking at him quizzically. "They probably haven't heard us because of the storm, my lord. Don't you think we should tell the people here that they have unexpected guests?"

"I am wondering what to tell them, Miss Allbright."

"That we need shelter from the storm? In Christian charity they can hardly refuse us."

"I was wondering rather what to say about you. I am about my business. On my way, in fact, to Weymouth. What of you?"

She started in surprise, and he suspected that for a moment she had forgotten her circ.u.mstances, whatever they might be. "I have suffered a coach accident?" she offered tentatively.

"Then we must by all means arrange a.s.sistance for your coachman and servants."

Her lips twitched in acceptance that she had lied. "I have no good explanation to offer then, I'm afraid, my lord."

"Miss Allbright, I need to arrange for my horses, so we cannot remain here exchanging pleasantries. What do you want me to say about you?"

She raised her chin. "The truth, if you please."

He shrugged. "As you will." It was going to present a devilishly odd appearance, though.

Francis walked toward the door at the end of the corridor, but it opened before he reached it, spilling light, heat, and the welcome aroma of food. "Who be out there?" asked a gruff voice, and Francis saw the mouth of a shotgun pointing straight at him.

"No malefactors, sir," he said quickly. "We are travelers seeking refuge from the storm. You did not hear my knock."

Perhaps it was his well-bred accent that lowered the barriers, for the speaker came fully into view, proving to be a big, gaunt man with a long, black beard. Behind him Francis could see a kitchen full of people.

"Never let it be said," the man intoned, "that Jeremy Post turned away good Christian folk in their hour of need. So who be ye?" Despite the words, the tone was grudging and the eyes hard and suspicious.

In the face of this biblical presence, Francis made a snap decision. "My name is Haile, sir, and this is my wife. We will pay well for a night's shelter."

A moment later he was doubting his wisdom, and he heard a stifled protest from his companion, and yet he knew it was right. It was all too likely that this patriarch would throw Serena Allbright back out into the storm if she didn't have a cloak of respectability.

A plain mystery woman might just have been tolerated, but this erotic siren? Never.

And if he was going to pretend to have a bride, it was definitely better not to give his t.i.tle.

Forbidden.

The Company of Rogues.

Book Four.

by Jo Beverley.

New York Times & USA Today.

Bestselling Author.

To purchase Forbidden from your favorite eBook Retailer, visit Jo Beverley's eBook Discovery Author Page www.ebookdiscovery.com/JoBeverley ~.

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Publishers Weekly declared Jo Beverley "Arguably today's most skillful writer of intelligent historical romance..." Her work has been described as "Sublime!" by Booklist, and Romantic Times described her as "one of the great names of the genre."

She is the NYT bestselling author of over thirty historical romance novels, all set in her native England in the medieval, Georgian, and Regency periods. Her novels have won the RITA, romance's top award, five times, and she is a member of Romance Writers of America's Hall of Fame.