“I need to stretch,” she whispered. “And I want to check on Jane.”
He moved his arm then, releasing her, but she had no illusions that it would be more than a brief respite.
Her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and Jane was curled up on the opposite seat, a lump in the shadows. She reached over and touched her forehead, careful not to wake her. It was blessedly cool—she had no fever, despite her sniffles.
She glanced instinctively toward the door. She couldn’t leave Jane, and they were traveling too fast for her to attempt a leap to freedom. She sat back on the seat, reluctantly accepting her fate. For now.
“Why do you think I brought your friend along and didn’t send her straight back to town?” Lucien said in a soft voice that wouldn’t disturb Jane. “You can hardly try to escape as long as she’s with me. Indeed, I’m aware of the closeness of your two families. If you ran off and left her with me I suppose I could make do with her. It might serve as an adequate revenge.”
“If you touch her I’ll cut off your hands,” Miranda said fiercely.
He laughed. “In truth, it’s you I want to touch, my precious. I’m simply a practical man who’ll make do what I have to in order to attain my ends. You have no idea just how ruthless I can be. I suggest you don’t force me to show you.”
He wouldn’t be able to see the hatred on her face. Which was just as well. What did they say—revenge is a dish best served cold? If she let the heat of her rage take hold she’d be helpless. She needed to be cool and calculating if there was any chance of besting him.
No, she thought. Besting the Scorpion was unlikely. Holding her own, refusing to let him win, was a more reasonable goal.
Why had she dreamed of him as safety? Safety from Christopher St. John? What madness was that? Lucien’s kiss, his hands on her body, had brought back all sorts of memories of Christopher’s assault on her body, all of them unpleasant. She had survived that, and survived it well, left with nothing but an aversion to that intimate act between men and women, that thing she didn’t even like to name.
So why had Lucien won? Why had she twined her arms around his neck and kissed him back? Why had her body, that most intimate part betrayed her to his knowing hands?
He was even more devious than she’d given him credit for. He was no scorpion; he was a snake, a lying, treacherous…
“And what lovely thoughts are you thinking, my darling?” he murmured softly, pulling her back against him, where she settled easily enough. Damnably easy. “Looking forward to your wedding night?”
She let him feel her instinctive shudder, but he simply laughed. “I was thinking you were more a snake in the grass than a scorpion.”
“Then you know little of scorpions, my precious. Scorpions are deceptively lethal. They avoid sunlight, and they poison their prey before the victims realize what’s going on.”
“So why are you called the Scorpion? Are you a poisoner?”
“Oh, there’s little I won’t do if the need arises. But in fact the name came from the pet scorpion I brought with me from Jamaica when I finally returned to England. I brought it as a pet, and my traveling companion took to calling me Scorpion as a term of affection.”
“A female, no doubt.”
“The scorpion? Yes. The traveling companion was not. He was a friend.”
“And where is your deadly little pet? Are you planning to unleash it on me?”
“I’m afraid Desdemona died. I was staying at an inn outside of Paris and she got loose. The landlord panicked and stomped her to death.” His voice was cool and detached, but Miranda wasn’t fooled.
“And what happened to the landlord?”
“He met with a fatal accident. On my sword.”
She shivered. Again, he could doubtless feel her reaction, but he said nothing. He enjoyed thinking he’d cowed her, she realized. That was his goal—to shatter and destroy her, not physically, but in every other way. A suitable revenge for the sister that Miranda knew nothing about.
And with sudden blazing insight she realized her one defense. She could weep and cower and moan, and ensure his victory.
Or she could embrace the adventure. She had taken social ostracism and made it a joyous life. She had reacted to abduction with calm fortitude. She was sadly lacking in the frail sensibilities most young women were prone to. She was practical, adaptable, and not one to waste too much time bemoaning her fate.
She glanced over at Jane. So he’d brought her along to keep her in line. She could think of one way to handle that. “In truth,” she said in a conversational voice, “I’m glad you brought Jane along, particularly if she’s not truly unwell. Her companionship makes things much more bearable.”
She felt him stiffen, and she almost wanted to giggle. “That’s hardly a charitable way of looking at things,” he said. “Don’t you think she’s frightened? Worried about what her parents would think?”
“As long as she’s with me she’ll be fine, and her parents have complete faith in my ability to keep her safe. We’ve gotten into a number of scrapes in the past and I’ve always looked out for her.” She smiled in the darkness, enjoying his discomfiture. “I’ll keep her safe this time, and thoroughly enjoy her company. It was indeed very kind of you to keep her with us.”
“I didn’t do it as a kindness,” he snapped, then took a deep breath, regaining his self-control. “Though of course I rejoice in my ability to bring you pleasure.” There was silence for a moment, and Miranda held her breath, waiting to see if her ploy worked.
She felt his body relax. Strange, that she had grown so accustomed to his body so quickly, that she could read his reactions. “But I’m afraid that Miss Pagett won’t be continuing our journey. I’ve made arrangements for someone to escort her back to London. She’ll be leaving us at…ah, but I think you’re better off not knowing where we’re going. I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.”
Miranda let her shoulders slump in a good show of defeat as she grinned into the darkness. She’d done it! Her first ploy had worked, and Jane would be returned, safe.
And then all she had to worry about was herself. And she knew exactly how she was going to do it.
She snuggled against him, pressing her face against the superfine of his coat. In fact, he did smell good. Leather and wool and spice and warm male skin. The battle was on. And she was not without weapons after all.
Jane had emerged from her fog and was looking about her with vague alarm. “Do you have the faintest idea where we are?” she asked nervously. “My parents are going to explode.”
“Lord Rochdale sent a note to your parents. They’ll be appeased at least for a while, and then you’ll be back home, safe and sound. They may scold, of course, but you know your parents could never be too harsh.”
Jane smiled ruefully. “But what are they going to say when they see this?” She’d pulled off her glove, and the extravagant diamond glowed even in the dim carriage light.
“You still can’t get it off?”
Jane tugged at it, but it stayed where it was, as if glued. “I was hoping a day without eating would make a difference but it seems to be there for good.” She glanced at her right hand, where Bothwell’s pitiful ring resided. “I suppose I could cut off my finger.”
“Don’t even joke about such things. Do you think Bothwell is worthy of self-mutilation?”
Jane’s face suddenly lightened, and she looked like her old self, something Miranda hadn’t seen in months. “I don’t think he’s worthy of one finger, much less my entire hand in marriage.”
“Much less your entire body,” Miranda added. “Good. I’m glad that’s settled. I was afraid I was going to have to abduct you so you wouldn’t marry such a prosing old bore.”
“He’s not that much older than we are,” Jane pointed out fairly.
“He’s old. And Brandon would have helped me carry you off. He calls him Bore-well.”
“And instead the Scorpion is the one to carry both of us off.” Jane sighed. “He’s an odd man, isn’t he? If I weren’t certain he was besotted with you I’d worry.”
Besotted, Miranda thought. She was a means to an end and nothing more. She smiled, hoping she could continue to trick her friend. “He’s promised to have people waiting to escort you back to London, though he refuses to say when. We probably won’t have much warning, but I wanted to assure you how happy I am.” The lying words were like bile on her tongue, but she forced a serene smile on her face, and to her relief Jane appeared to believe it.
“It’s all right to be nervous, Miranda,” she said, misreading the edge in her voice. “You like to pretend you know everything about…about sex and men, but really, you only have experience of an absolute rotter. I just thank God St. John is not accepted in good company anymore. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d been forced to face him.”
“At least he’s had to go to ground,” Miranda said, happy to talk about anything but Lucien.
“And no one could be further from Christopher St. John than your future husband,” Jane said, absently toying with the diamond ring. “I suspect you’ll be very happy.”
“A match made in heaven, in fact.”
Jane laughed. “Well, hardly. You forget—I know you too well. I imagine you’ll have your battles. But I think you will…”
The door opened, and Lucien stood there, blocking the early morning light. “Miss Pagett,” he said in his smooth, charming, scorpion-voice, “this is where we part ways.”
“Already?” Miranda couldn’t keep the initial squeak of pain from her voice, and she was rewarded with Lucien’s damnable smile.
“I’m afraid so. We have an oh-so-respectable dame to keep her company, one of my light traveling coaches with my second-best driver, and he’s an excellent shot, as well. He’ll keep her safe and sound until he returns her home. Come along, Miss Pagett. You’ll…” His words trailed off as his gaze fell on her ungloved hand. “That’s quite a lovely ring you have, Miss Pagett. Your affianced husband must be quite besotted with you.”
Jane turned bright pink as she tried to hide her hand in her skirts, but he was reaching out for her, to let her down, and she had no choice but to put her hands in his.
And Miranda knew a moment, a merest flash, of irrational jealousy. She started after them, but Lucien closed the door. “You’ll be staying in the coach, my darling.”
“I can’t,” she said flatly. There were a thousand things she hadn’t said to Jane, warnings, messages…
“You can.”
“I have to use the necessary.” She didn’t even blush. She would use anything as a weapon against him, and he could hardly argue. They’d been riding a long time.
“I’ll have one of the chambermaids bring you a pot, my love. You’ll stay put.”
She wanted to snarl at him. Instead she leaned out the window and called to Jane. “Tell my parents I love them. And tell them I’m blissfully happy.”
“Blissfully?” Lucien echoed with a soft laugh. “I’m honored.”
She glanced at him, and he couldn’t see her hands curled into fists in her lap. “Blissfully, my love,” she said firmly. And sat back, rather than burst into tears at Jane’s retreating back.
Not that she particularly cared. She just hoped she had the courage to break off the engagement that was now looking like a living death.
Back in her ordinary world, though, it would probably seem like the wise thing to do. Marry the man, and she’d have her own house and children. Surely she could tolerate him for that much.
She’d rather concentrate on Miranda and her husband-to-be. Something was wrong, Jane thought, though she couldn’t put her finger on it. She had no doubt at all that Miranda was in love with Lucien de Malheur, but there was something in the way of it, and she couldn’t imagine what. As for the earl, he was harder to read. If it weren’t for the way his strange, pale eyes followed Miranda wherever she was, she might have refused to leave.
And fat lot that would have done, she thought, staring into the fire as she awaited her own carriage. Lucien de Malheur didn’t strike her as the kind of man who accepted refusal any more than Miranda was the kind who meekly did as she was bid. They would have a fiery marriage. Full of adventure, Jane thought dismally. She had Mr. Bothwell.
She availed herself of her crumpled handkerchief, dabbing her eyes and her nose. It and she were in fairly bedraggled condition by now, and the thought of climbing into another carriage was her personal idea of hell. She loved to travel, but she definitely preferred a more leisurely pace, and this time she’d simply be heading back home. She had watched as the earl’s carriage pulled away, and slow tears began to slide down her cheeks. When next she saw Miranda she’d be a married woman, while Jane had little doubt that Mr. Bothwell would take one look at the huge diamond on her finger and promptly renounce her. Perhaps she’d be ruined. Miranda’s house on Half Moon Street would be vacant—she could take up residence there and become eccentric.
Or so she could only hope. In truth, she wasn’t sure she wanted to get the diamond off her hand. Once she did so, and disposed of it, then Mr. Bothwell would have every right to kiss her with his hard, dry mouth. He could continue to criticize her dress and her behavior, and even if he gave her children he would doubtless be the kind of man with strong opinions on child-rearing, ones that were ridiculous and the opposite of her own.
Two extremes stood before her: the life of an outcast or the life of Mrs. George Bothwell. It was little wonder the diamond wouldn’t come off.
She brought her handkerchief up to her eyes again, not sure if she was crying for herself or for Miranda as she disappeared on her strange bride trip. All she knew was that she hurt, inside, and her tears, instead of abating, were flowing more freely, and her disgusting handkerchief was useless against the flow….
A snowy-white handkerchief appeared in her blurred vision, and she took it gratefully, wiping her streaming eyes and blowing her nose before looking up at her savior. And for a moment she froze.
It was one of the earl’s servants—she could recognize the deep black livery. Though, he was quite tall for someone who worked with horses. Most people preferred their grooms to be small but strong, keeping the burden on the horses light. This man must weigh fourteen stone at the least.
Before he could say anything he stepped back into the shadows, replaced by the plump, cozy figure of a woman dressed in neat black clothes with a dark blue shawl around her shoulders. “Miss Pagett, I’m Mrs. Grudge. The Earl of Rochdale has hired me to escort you home. I promise Jacobs and I will take good care of you while we’re on the road.”
Jane wanted to crane her head around, to look at the man who’d given her the handkerchief, but he was gone, and she tried to school her reaction. “Who was that?” she found herself asking, when she should have been much more polite.
But Mrs. Grudge clearly didn’t live up to her unfriendly name. She smiled at her. “That? Oh, that’s Jacobs, our driver. He’s one of the grooms. Quite the likely lad, isn’t he? All the servant girls are mad for him, of course. I believe he’s married to Cook’s daughter, but that doesn’t keep him from looking about, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes,” Jane said in a hollow voice, thoroughly appalled. What was wrong with her? She’d barely had a glance at him and yet she’d felt this instinctive leap inside her, an odd sense of recognition. As if she’d recognize some womanizing servant of a man like the Scorpion.
“We only just arrived, miss,” the older lady continued, “and the horses need a rest. I’ve ordered you a good breakfast. I gather you’ve been sick, and I promise you we’ll take our time getting back.”
“We’re not that far from London, are we? I think I would prefer to return as soon as possible.”
“Bless you, miss, we’re up near the Lake District, a good two and a half days away from London.”
“We’ve only been gone overnight!” she protested.
“His lordship travels very fast, with the best horses. We’ll be needing to be a bit more careful. But not to worry, miss. Jacobs took your note to your parents himself and they were unalarmed. You needn’t fret if it takes us a few days to get back.”
And if she didn’t eat anything for those days the ring was bound to come off. That was what she wanted, wasn’t it?
No, it wasn’t. She wanted rashers of bacon and coddled eggs and toast and butter, she wanted thick cream and strawberry jam, she wanted hot chocolate and biscuits to nibble on.
And she wasn’t in the mood to face her fiancé, who doubtless would be less likely to accept her absence than her indulgent parents. Her parents knew their daughter and trusted her intelligence. Mr. Bothwell seemed to think she had only half a brain and needed to be led around like a prize calf, lest she get lost.
She yanked at the ring again, but her knuckle was getting red and swollen, so she let it be.
“Oh, what a pretty ring! May I see it?”
It was a surprisingly impertinent question from little more than a servant, but Jane would have been more than happy to have given her the damned thing. “It won’t come off. I don’t suppose you have any remedy for that, do you?”
“Duck grease!” the woman said triumphantly. “I’ll go ask the kitchen…”
“Tried it,” Jane said flatly. “Also soap, butter, hot compresses, cold compresses, yanking, pulling. It won’t come off.”
There was a speculative expression in Mrs. Grudge’s eyes. “We’ll see about that, miss. In the meantime, what can I get you for breakfast? The cook’s just made up a fresh batch of muffins, and there’s the usual—bacon and eggs, beefsteak and fried sausage and tripe.”
“Just dry toast and tea, thank you,” she said, ignoring the lovely smells wafting from what was probably the taproom.
“That’s not enough to keep a mouse alive!”
“I’ll be fine. Please see to it, Mrs. Grudge.” She could feel the tears welling up again, and she dabbed the wicked groom’s handkerchief to her eyes.
It wasn’t until Mrs. Grudge had left that she stopped to look at the cloth in her hand. It was of a finer weave than a servant usually carried, and she expected to see Lucien’s initials in one corner. Instead the man had his own initials there—J.D. Except that his last name was Jacobs. He must have stolen it from someone.
What a bold, wicked man, she thought dismally. Why had she suddenly become attracted to the saucy, totally inappropriate ones? Like the jewel thief who’d effectively married her with this damned ring. And now the cook’s womanizing son-in-law.
She shook her head. The sooner she was back home, the ring safely stowed, or tossed, or whatever seemed the best fate for something of such intrinsic value and inestimable trouble, the better she’d be. Mr. Bothwell was a good man, and she was lucky to have attracted him. Maybe he reserved real kisses for the marriage bed, and he would put all thought of jewel thieves out of her wayward mind.
She could only hope.