Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
H e felt a soft hand on his face.
“Miss Ryder?” he whispered.
No. That wasn’t right. “Celia.” But he wasn’t sure he’d managed to say her name aloud. And it didn’t matter, because now her mouth was on his.
There was a very good reason why they ought not to be kissing. It was just that he couldn’t for the life of him remember exactly what it was. He groaned as her lips played over his. The delicious tickle as she gently urged his mouth open, and her naughty tongue meeting his, had him instantly and almost painfully hard.
He’d drifted off for only a few minutes. And this was the most unexpected awakening of his life. The warmth of her breasts against his chest, her hands sliding down his sides… Part of him longed to seize her, pull her close, and roll her onto her back.
But the other part of him didn’t dare move, lest she change her mind. And so, he lay still as her lips found the hollow in front of his ear and her hands moved slowly up his body. She caressed his hair, pushing it back. Her exploring tongue found its way into his ear. A ticklish explosion of sensation and wetness shot through his body, straight to his groin. He groaned again. It was taking all he had to let her control the pace of this slow, wordless firelight seduction.
Her gown was much more low-cut than he’d noticed it being earlier—which struck him as strange. Surely, he would have… but no. He couldn’t focus on such a detail now. As she moved over him in the dim, flickering light he knew that everything between them was perfect, and that they returned each other’s desire.
Did he dare reach for her? He seemed strangely paralyzed. Things he’d wanted to do with her tumbled through his mind—the possibilities that had tormented him on lonely nights: her bent forward over his desk, whimpering in pleasure… or with her legs around him, up against the wall of his study.
Already he could imagine her shudders of ecstasy, her gasps of surrender. He was more aroused than he’d ever been in his life—yet he couldn’t break free of this strange trance.
And then her hand slid down his chest and over the front of his breeches. But the pressure was far too light. “Celia,” he pleaded. He could bear it no longer.
He reached for her. His hand flailed in air and closed on… nothing.
What the devil…?
He was on the floor of a room that he didn’t recognize. The fire was almost out—and someone was shouting.
Where was he? Was this France?
The light of a lantern glanced off unfamiliar panes. A horse whinnied. He flung himself at the window. Three men ran past, clutching lanterns that swung wildly. “They must have gone through the stables!” called one.
This wasn’t France. It was Kent.
“Stay here.” He jerked one arm into his jacket. “Something is happening outside. It may be Wilkes and his men.”
There was no answer.
“Miss Talbot?”
It seemed to take far too long to light a candle from the last embers of the fire. He held the guttering new flame high—and saw nothing but sheets.
The bed was empty. She was gone.
He pelted downstairs, nearly skidding on the landing, sick with dread. Had Wilkes’s men broken in and taken her? Even in his sleep-fogged state, he didn’t see how it was possible. He’d been on the floor between the bed and the door. They would have had to come through him to get to her.
“Your lordship!” The innkeeper’s hair was a frizzy halo around his terrified face. His nightshirt billowed around his belly. Every candle in the place was blazing. “Housebreakers! They forced open a window in the kitchen! Jeb seen 'em creeping up the back stairs!”
“Send for the local constabulary.” Despite the sick tightness in his throat, he was accustomed to giving orders. “Have you seen my—my wife?”
“Your wife?” His mouth fell open. “Your wife is missing?”
Keynsham forced himself into what he hoped was an appearance of calm. “No—no. Not missing, no. She set out early.”
“ This early? Without you, your lordship?” He looked confused and disbelieving. “But… where would she go?”
How he wished he knew that. Fortunately, before he could say anything else stupid, one of the inn servants rushed in. “The stable door was open, but they didn’t get away with any of the horses!”
Someone pounded on the inn’s thick, wooden front door. Keynsham threw open the bolt. Outside were several lantern-carrying men, clearly villagers. One was armed with a sturdy cudgel. “What has happened, Mr. Hart?”
“Jeb saw a man on the back stairs. He ran out across the stable yard. Big fellow.”
The big fellow . Of course. “You and you.” Keynsham began organizing the men into search parties. “Take the other side of the road. You and you, come with me.” He must force himself to focus on the task at hand—and not on a mental picture of Celia kidnaped and terrorized.
Carrying torches, he and the men with him fanned out across the fallow field behind the inn. The lights of the little village—early candles in the windows of alarmed villagers—receded behind them. A few tatters of mist were all that remained of the fog, and the moon was setting.
How could she be gone? She hadn’t cried out. There was no sign of a struggle. She couldn’t have simply vanished.
Unless… she’d left of her own accord.
That was the answer. Even knowing that Wilkes was out there, hunting for her, she’d decided to slip away—alone, and in the dark. Because of him. Because he hadn’t told her about his obligation to Miss Spry. Because Miss Talbot had learned of it in the worse possible way. Because she no longer trusted him.
Because he’d ruined everything.
Oh, he could make excuses for himself. That he hadn’t meant to kiss her. That his attraction to her had momentarily overcome his judgement.
But she’d been under his protection. He’d questioned her about her past, and then—when she’d been vulnerable, he’d kissed her. He’d pulled her down onto the bed with him.
How far would he have let things go? Would he have said anything, if the cursed ring hadn’t fallen out of his pocket?
He didn’t know. What he did know was that he’d given her every reason to leave. And he, of all people, should know that once Miss Talbot made up her mind to leave—she left.
How long would it be before he saw her again this time? Would he ever see her again? He wasn’t even certain that he deserved to.
The sky began to lighten. His footsteps slowed, then stopped. This search was futile. Wilkes and his thugs hadn’t dragged Celia out of the inn. She’d left on her own. And he couldn’t blame her. He ought to have been by her side, helping her. Instead, he’d made her feel that she must flee from him, too.
As to where she’d gone, he had a very good idea: She would want to get as far away from him as she could, as quickly as possible. And she had a history of taking stagecoaches. She would have made for the coaching inn on the London road—the one that the farrier’s apprentice had mentioned.
And meanwhile, Wilkes’s gang had returned to scour the area nearest to where they’d lost them. This village inn would have been an obvious target. All he could do was hope that because his carriage wasn’t there, but at the farrier’s, they might have been thrown off the trail. And that might buy Celia enough time to escape from Wilkes.
He said a brief prayer to anyone who was listening: Please, keep her safe . A light breeze was rising. The sky lightened a degree. He was standing amidst the broken hedgerows and tumbledown sheds of London’s relentless expansion. The market gardens were already busy with workers in the chilly pre-dawn.
Smoke rose from some of the sheds that stood amidst the plots of vegetables. The glow of small fires dotted the field, putting him in mind of an army encampment. He realized that people must be so desperate for shelter that they were sleeping in these tiny wooden shacks.
The sun’s first rays caught the feathery tops of carrots, making a green haze above this strip of land. A man in a dirt-streaked smock passed him, pushing a wheelbarrow laden with freshly dug new turnips.
Keynsham turned and began making for the inn. The moment the horses were re-shod, he and Young would set out. If Celiahad taken a stagecoach, someone at the inn might remember her. With luck, he and Young could catch up with her.
Because the moment Wilkes worked out that Celia had left on her own—and Keynsham couldn’t afford to think that he wouldn’t—he’d make the same search. There was only one way to make this right: He must find Celia before Wilkes did.
She must disappear, and never see him again.
Shame burned deeper into her with every passing minute. Why had she been so… so stupid?
She’d always known that she was allowing herself to dream of a man that she couldn’t have. But her dreams had seemed harmless. Only look where they’d led her: Very nearly into ruin. When all along, Keynsham had been betrothed to another lady.
She was a fool. A fool .
The cold spring night air was a bracing shock as she slipped out of the inn. Just past the end of the tiny village, she found what she wanted: A country lane that led west, in the direction of the main London road.
Only a few wisps of fog were left. Fortunately, the way wasn’t muddy, and for the first mile or so, a half moon provided enough light to see by. She hurried along, desperate to put distance between herself and Keynsham.
But now the moon was setting. And she had the sudden, prickling intuition that something was wrong.
Perhaps it was the same sense that made a mouse freeze when an owl was hunting. All she knew was that there was a change in the air. She moved to the edge of the road, where it was overhung by the bare boughs of an old orchard. But the darkness no longer felt protective. Someone was out there… someone who meant her harm.
Wilkes . She didn’t know how, but she knew that he was coming. And he wasn’t far away. She slipped over the tumbledown remains of an old stone wall and knelt behind it. A moment later, the twin lanterns of a carriage appeared at the bend in the lane.
She ducked lower on the cold ground. The creak of the harnesses and the horses’ breathing were loud in the still air. The coachman spoke to the team. Their hoofbeats slowed from a trot to a walk.
She could picture Wilkes as clearly as though she could see into the carriage—his hair slick with pomade, a jeweled stickpin in his neckcloth, lounging against the squabs. Were the curtains open? Was he looking out? Did he sense her presence the way that she sensed his?
The weight of terror on her chest made it hard to breathe. At any moment, she was certain, the carriage would stop. She’d hear the squeak of the springs as the coachman climbed off the box, the click of the door latch, the clunk of the steps being let down… and then Wilkes’s boot upon the road.
Then there would come the inevitable moment when the beam of a lantern would find her, huddled behind the pitiful protection of a few stones. Tears of fear slipped silently down her face. Everything was frozen in the instant before something terrible would happen…
But then a barely perceptible breeze passed through the orchard trees. Like the gears of a clock clicking forward, all at once the sky lightened by a degree. She thought that she heard a voice within the carriage—Wilkes’s voice.
The coachman clucked to the horses. “Walk on.” The carriage rolled forward, picked up speed and disappeared down the lane.
Long after the sounds of it had faded, her knees shook too much to hold her. She sat, shaking, as the rising breeze and stirring birds signaled the approach of dawn. Finally, she rose and, listening for any sound of Wilkes’s carriage returning, took to the lane again and hurried onward.
The farrier’s boy had said that the nearest coaching inn was the Bullock. When she reached the main road between London and Southampton, there it was—a cluster of lit windows to the left of the crossroads. But it was too soon to relax her vigilance. She hadn’t escaped yet.
Only a half hour later, the clatter of a heavy carriage drawn by four horses announced the arrival of a stage. A southbound coach swept into the yard. She hung back in the shadows as dazed-looking passengers made for the coffee room or the conveniences. Fresh horses were already being led out as the team was unhitched. To Celia, each second was bloated into an eternity by her fear that Wilkes would reappear.
She couldn’t stay here a moment longer. The coachman exited the inn, wiping his mouth on the back of his cuff. She paid the fare. The rested horses stamped, eager to move. She stumbled blindly up the step into the coach, took her seat, closed her eyes, and prayed that there would be no hailing voice before they started.
The coach jerked into motion. The shadowy arm of the stable block, a low dark shape against the fading stars, disappeared behind them. Then they were on the open road. The four-horse team picked up its pace, and in moments they were thundering south.
She’d done it . Just for the moment, it scarcely mattered where she was going. As long as the coach was in motion, she was nowhere in particular, and she didn’t have to think about Keynsham, or her fears, or her heartbreak, until later.
The sky turned orange, then blue. The stage pulled into inn yards and out again. Horses were changed. Passengers got off and new passengers got on. Not long after noon, she got out and lingered in a coffee room until the coach rolled out of the inn yard without her.
If Wilkes managed to trace her—and she was certain that he would—he’d learn that she’d purchased a ticket that would take her all the way to the end of the route, to Southampton. She had to hope that it wouldn’t occur to him that she would alight before then, on the outskirts of a nondescript market town. And if her luck held, and she managed everything perfectly from here on out, she could disappear again.
All the coffee rooms she’d been in since this morning’s pre-dawn start were beginning to blend together in her mind. This one was notable only for its dirty windows and the greasy rings on the un-wiped tables. Two or three people were conducting a loud argument in the inn’s kitchen.
She forced herself not to think of Keynsham. People were always watching and criticizing a lady’s behavior. If she did anything slightly out of the ordinary, she’d be memorable. She couldn’t afford to be memorable. She couldn’t afford to have anyone recall a crying young lady seated by herself in the coffee room.
Instead, she took out the letter that she’d purloined from Mrs. Lewes’s desk at the agency and sat reading the few lines over and over. There were few details, and the address written at the top almost made her lose her courage.
Then again, what choice did she have? Indeed, her only hope was that because she’d stolen the letter, there would be no other candidates for this position. And perhaps it made no difference. After all, it was beginning to seem that Wilkes could trace her almost anywhere.
She swallowed hard and stared out the grimy, fly-blown window at the chickens scratching in the dirt. A few minutes later, they flew and scrambled away as another stage—this one on its way to Portsmouth—drew into the inn yard. The passengers swarmed into the coffee room. For a quarter hour, the place was near pandemonium. An elderly lady squabbled with a man who seemed to be her son. Two boys helped an older man hoist a trunk onto the coach roof. Another man was loading ducks in wicker crates into a cart.
The call came for departure and the passengers all rushed back into—and onto—the coach, leaving behind tables piled with plates of greasy-looking food. A maid in a stained apron and gown moved sullenly through the room, collecting what remained to take back to the kitchen—where, Celia suspected, it would be reheated and served up to the next passengers.
An hour dragged by. Finally, another coach arrived. She watched as the passengers flooded in, eavesdropping on their conversations to be certain of the stage’s destination. She hadn’t realized until this moment how terrified she’d been that she might be stuck here overnight—alone—while Wilkes and his men searched for her up and down the road.
The coachman was downing the last of a tankard of ale as she approached him. “Yes?” he said, in the harassed tone she’d come to associate with people who lived in the capital.
“One inside place to London, please.”