LITMIR.BIZ

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He’d felt deep sympathy for her story that Lord Rockford only married her to keep up appearances. She’d been left to ‘rot’ at his elegant country home for a year while he attended the House of Lords in London.

      She and Beau were twined together in the huge four-poster bed when Lord Rockford arrived home.

      On seeing them, the incensed lord put all his weight into beating him. “You filthy little bastard. You’re no better than your mother. I’ll have you in jail for your efforts!”

      Then he began shouting obscenities at Lady R., grabbed and slapped her.

      “You hypocrite!” she screamed. “You claimed you loved me, but you have two mistresses in London! I’ve had you investigated. You keep them in fine style while you leave me on this desolate old farm. If you forsake me for another…two others, then I shall do the same!”

      “The devil you will!” Rockford roared.

      Belatedly, Beau realized he’d been the instrument to exact revenge on her husband.

      Lord Rockford marched over, grabbed him by the hair, dragged him to the bedroom door and threw him from the room, naked as a newborn.

      The next day, on a break from his studies at Grancliffe Hall, Beau happened to gaze out the window to see Lord Rockford stomping down the front steps. Shortly thereafter, he was summoned to the library. On the corner of his father’s desk sat Beau’s neatly folded clothes. The very ones he’d shed in Lord Rockford’s bedroom.

      His father glowered at him and wordlessly stabbed a finger toward the pile of clothes. Profound disapproval wrinkled his face. Something flickered in his eyes that even then Beau recognized as the last straw. More disturbing still was the resignation on his face.

      All summer Beau had been studying with Greek and Latin tutors to prepare him for Divinity studies. Several weeks later, he found himself a midshipman in the Royal Navy.

      “Are you quite all right, Captain?” C.C. asked. “You look as though you’ve a touch of motion sickness.”

      “I’d forgotten why it’s taken me so long to return to the family pile. It finally occurred to me—individuals continue to coerce me into leaving before I’d planned.”

      Plutarch, the grouchy little cur, now sprawled on the seat between her and her maid. A small leather-bound journal lay in C.C.’s lap. Jewels sparkled on her purple fountain pen. She returned to jotting down words and numbers in purple ink.

      Without looking up, she added, “We can stop, stretch our legs, and get some fresh air, if it would make you more comfortable.”

      “I’ll be all right,” he growled. “I’ve suffered worse at sea.” He watched her long, slender fingers grasp the pen. Something didn’t look right.

      “You’re a left-hander?”

      Her writing arm jerked like a kid caught with her hand in the biscuit jar. Pink flared on her cheeks. She carefully capped her pen and slid it into her reticule. “My parents were not remiss in attempting to cure me of my disorder. I am proficient with both hands. Sitting as we are, it’s easier to write with my left.”

      Cure her disorder? He’d heard some parents considered it such. Left-handedness, he’d been told, was inborn like blue-green eyes and blond hair. Clearly it still shamed her.

      Beau shifted his gaze to the maid. C.C. had appeared concerned about discussing certain topics in front of her. Did she only keep information from this woman or was C.C. reserved with everyone? Like a ship’s captain, she certainly seemed to have command over her servants.

      The memory of their expert loading of the carriages surfaced. Understanding finally struck. Somewhat a veteran of quick getaways himself, he realized their rapid departure couldn’t have been accomplished had C.C.’s attendants not already been packed and ready to go.

      Dear God, the truth finally sank in. They’d all been waiting for her to corral him and strike a bargain. He’d been her objective all along. A chill crawled through him. While he’d been mesmerized by her beauty, seductive teasing and questions as to her sanity, she’d used more grit and audacity than a cold-eyed Caribbean pirate.

      Their departure from Grancliffe Hall had been so rapid, he’d not had time to think or even ask questions. His stomach began to roll with tension. She’d said this was a mission to rescue her family. With the effective way in which she’d coerced an agreement from him, he doubted she’d reveal this voyage’s true purpose. Rich payoffs often included ulterior motives. And something about this journey didn’t smell right.

       Chapter 7

      C.C. breathed in the clean fragrance of beeswax and inwardly sighed as the innkeeper led them to their rooms. They’d finally made it halfway to London. She rubbed her aching temple. Sharing her new, well-appointed coach with the wily captain had been anything but comfortable.

      The crafty-tongued rascal had presented a fine show of nonchalance, but clearly he felt threatened. All day he treaded the edges of propriety, alternately making her laugh and irritating her. Initially, she’d been embarrassed by her dog’s bad behavior. After the day she’d endured, she was now glad Fosco had the sense to bite him.

      This could not go on. Somehow she had to find a middle ground. They’d a long journey ahead, and she suspected his annoying insinuations would escalate until he’d worked off some of his vexation.

      “Will you join me for dinner, perhaps in half an hour?” she asked, right before the proprietor showed the captain to his room.

      “Of course,” Beau said blandly.

      She almost asked if he’d prefer a tray sent up. But they needed to build some sort of esprit de corps. It tired her to even think about parrying his sly verbal swordplay all the way to North Carolina.

      Within half an hour she’d arranged for her servant’s meals, scraps for the dogs, a hasty cleanup and now sat at a quiet table in the corner of the dining room. Dark wood paneling, small vases of flowers and candlelight gave the room an ambiance made for intimate liaisons.

      Even with the room’s warmth, a cold draft seemed to thread around her ankles. She’d never had an intimate meal with a man and certainly not at an inn. She peered around the half-filled room. Thank goodness no one looked familiar. A supper alone here with Captain Tollier would certainly set tongues wagging.

      She clasped her hands in front of her, prayer-like. Perhaps a prayer or two might help. A possibility still existed that he might refuse to take her through the blockade. Hopefully, a supper alone would allow them more freedom to talk. Given his sly remarks today, the very thought of a private conversation with him sent butterflies flitting around her growling stomach.

      By the time he entered the dining room her knuckles had turned white. He’d changed his shirt and raked his hair into place with what appeared to be fingers and water. Her jaw went slack. Few men could wear disheveled with so much appeal.

      “Good evening, Captain,” she finally managed. “Please join me. I trust you found everything you needed in your room.”

      “Yes, thank you.” He made an abbreviated bow and sat.

      An uncomfortable silence ensued. Since they’d arrived at the inn his mood had made a radical change from banter and barbs to taciturn contemplation.

      After ordering, C.C. searched for an innocuous subject of conversation. The butterflies now seemed to have grown mallets for wings. “Did you ride much as a child?” She picked up a lemon wedge and squeezed it into her glass of water, then tasted the mixture.

      The captain’s long brows drew into mismatched furrows. He sipped his ale, slowly washed it around his mouth and licked the foam from his lips. Without preamble, he drawled, “What did you do that was so unforgivable they exiled you from New York City?”

      Water caught in

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