Scoundrel Ever After (Secrets and Scandals) Page 6

  “So you simply ran away.” Again his breath tickled her neck, causing a shiver to cascade down her spine. She tried to keep herself stiff, lest he become aware of her reaction to his proximity.

  “We had a plan—we were going to America. My mistake was in telling my parents that in the note. They were able to track us to an inn on the way to the coast where we’d planned to book passage on a ship.” Memories of that awkward evening crowded into her mind, but she pushed them away.

  “Who financed this excursion—you or the blacksmith’s son?” He asked the question in a way that inferred he already knew the answer. Damn him for asking, for reminding her of her poor judgment.

  The familiar heat that accompanied recollections of her failed adventure crept up her neck. She was glad he couldn’t see her face. “I did.”

  “And what happened to the blacksmith’s son?”

  Her jaw clenched, but she forced the words out. “My parents let him go off to America—they paid his passage.”

  He pulled his hands back from her waist so that he only barely gripped her sides. “How convenient for him.” He splayed his palms against her ribcage. Though the shift in his touch was subtle, she felt suddenly and wholly caressed. Then his mouth was close against her ear, closer than it had ever been. “If I ever find my way to America, he’d best watch his back.”

  There was no quashing the appreciative tremor his words provoked within her. She only hoped he didn’t feel it.

  Chapter Four

  THOUGH THEY WERE tired and hungry, Ethan had forced her to ride to the outskirts of Reading. They’d found a small inn where they’d pretended to be a young couple by the name of Miller. Such a ruse had required them to rent just one room, which also happened to be all the tiny facility had to offer.

  Ethan liked the place because it was on a quiet lane with an easy escape route. Their bedroom faced the road and he left the window open so he could hear anyone approach.

  Dinner had been a simple affair of beef and potatoes, but both he and Audrey had satisfied their hunger. Then they’d retreated to their chamber, a small square room with a bed, a fireplace, a spindly table with implements for washing, and one chair.

  Audrey strode directly to the pitcher on the table and poured water into the washbasin beside it. “Time to tend your wound. Sit.” Her tone was so adorably commanding that he allowed himself to be managed.

  The chair was situated near the fire, which had been stoked by the innkeeper while they’d eaten. His arm was sore, but he’d become accustomed to the dull ache, and it was better than the sharp pains he’d endured last night as he’d fought to keep them safe.

  She came to his side and helped him out of his coat. He winced as the garment moved over his injuries. She’d tied his cravat before they’d gone into the inn earlier, and now he unthreaded the linen and pulled it from his neck. She took the cloth from him and set it over a hook on the wall where she’d hung his coat.

  Now his shirt would have to come off. He looked up at her standing beside his chair. Her gaze was focused on the hearth behind him, giving proof to the discomfort she felt. But what was causing her discomfort? It could be any number of things, and he had no indication she shared the undeniable attraction he felt in her presence. What a bloody nuisance that was too. This entire escapade would be a damn sight easier if he didn’t like her or find her alluring. He wished he could put her at ease, but the fact was he needed her help. “You’ll have to assist me with my shirt again.”

  She nodded imperceptibly. “Put your left arm up.” He did as she bade and she eased the garment up his arm and over his head so that only his right arm was still encased. Then she slid it from him without causing him even the slightest discomfort.

  “Well done.” He looked up to find her watching him.

  Her cheeks pinked. Then she snapped her gaze to his arm as she worked to undo the bandage she’d affixed that morning. Presumably. He had absolutely no recollection of anything she’d done.

  She pressed lightly at his flesh, causing him to bite his cheek and to question why he hadn’t asked the innkeeper for a bottle of brandy. “I think the poultice the innkeeper’s wife used last night is working. And she was kind enough to give me a small jar.” She pulled the medicinal from her skirt pocket.

  He looked over at the wound—or wounds; he actually had two, he recalled—seeing them for the first time. His eyes widened in surprise. “I slept through someone sewing my flesh together?”

  “Not exactly.” She went to the basin where she dipped the edge of a towel into the water. When she returned, she cleaned around the stitches of the knife wound. The gunshot’s graze looked like it had barely pierced his skin, for a long, red welt was all that remained.

  She opened the jar and smoothed some of the liniment over his injuries. “You swore even worse than you do when you’re conscious. You condemned both me and the innkeeper’s very pleasant wife to a fate worse than hell. I shan’t repeat the specifics.”

  This made him feel a bit better, or maybe it was the slight humor playing about her lips. “How long do the sutures need to remain in? And who will take them out?” He didn’t fancy trying to cut them out himself.

  She retied the bandage around his arm, her slender fingers working deftly. “She said maybe as long as a fortnight, but that I would be able to tell, and she told me how to remove them.”

  “I see. And how did this estimable woman come about her medical knowledge?”

  She peered at him, her aqua eyes luminous in the firelight. “You don’t trust anyone at all, do you?”

  “No. But you admit it’s odd to find a woman with the ability to stave off putridity from setting in. That knife wound cut fairly deep, did it not?”

  She grimaced as she tied off the bandage. “It did. We were very fortunate that she was able to help you. Don’t question a gift from Fate.”

  He wouldn’t, particularly in his current predicament. “I should like more of them.”

  “Wouldn’t we all?” she murmured. She moved away from his chair and stood before the fire. “There’s only one bed.”

  He knew this would be a problem, but didn’t care to sleep in the chair or on the floor. His entire body was aching and sore from the events of last night and from spending all day riding a horse. He hadn’t ridden that much since his father had taken him to his country estate, and that had been fifteen years ago.

  “It’s big enough for both of us,” he said. “I promise to keep my hands to myself. It’s not as if I can move very well.”

  She glanced at him, her gaze briefly landing on his bare chest. She wrung her hands, then smoothed them down the folds of her skirt. Apprehension and anxiety radiated from her and filled the tiny room.

  “I’ll sleep on the floor.” She didn’t look at him. “You should take the bed.”

  “Horse—” He caught himself before swearing again. He really needed to stop doing that around her. “Nonsense. There’s a blanket at the edge of the bed. Roll it up and put it between us as a barrier. Will that suffice?”

  She snuck a quick glance in his direction. “I suppose.” She still sounded doubtful.

  What he was about to ask wasn’t going to help matters, but it had to be done. “I, ah, I’ll need your help removing my boots.”

  Her head snapped up. “Oh.” She came toward him and he prayed she wouldn’t kneel at his feet. He recognized he was attracted to her, but he hadn’t taken things further in his mind. He hadn’t allowed himself to feel outright desire. But then, dear God, she kneeled, and for the first time, his body tightened with lust in her presence. He forced himself to look away and steeled his nerves for her touch.

  Her fingers wrapped around his calf and drew the boot from his foot. Then she repeated the action on the second leg and quickly stood. By the time he dared look at her, she’d retreated to the other side of the bed and was busily rolling up the blanket.

  After she’d placed the barrier in the middle of the bed, she crawled beneath the cove
rlet. “Sleep well,” she said as she turned to her side.

  He was about to ask why she was sleeping fully clothed, but decided even he wasn’t that much of a brute. She was a chaste young woman and he would let her be.

  For the hundredth time, he asked himself what the hell he was doing with her. She was a chaste young woman whom everyone probably thought he’d kidnapped. Or at least Bow Street would think that. What did anyone else know of her disappearance? Dread curdled his gut.

  Did his brother think he’d kidnapped her? They’d only just reached some sort of accord. Ethan hoped Jason would give him the benefit of the doubt. Logically, however, Ethan had to ask why he would. Ethan had given Jason very little reason to trust him and had made it clear he couldn’t trust anyone in return.

  Jason’s fiancée, Lydia, was Audrey’s closest friend. She had to be overwrought with worry. He grimaced against the twinge of regret. He wished there was a way he could communicate to them what had happened and that Audrey was safe, but he daren’t send any correspondence. Bow Street was too close.

  Ethan stretched his legs out and slid down the chair until the back of his head rested against the top.

  For the first time in over a decade, he had no firm plan. His father had died when Ethan was ten, leaving him and his mother with nothing save the small house he’d purchased for her when Ethan had been born. The house would’ve been a decent legacy, if his mother hadn’t sold it to settle debts. When she’d joined his father in death four years later, Ethan had been cast into the world alone with only his mother’s former lover, Davis, to guide him. With no money and no prospects, Ethan had consented to train as a thief-taker at Davis’s side. Until Ethan had been forced to choose his own life over Davis’s.

  Ethan had spent the years since living by that creed—survive at any cost. He still lived by it, or he might not have killed that highwayman. An image of Audrey’s terrorized expression stole into his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut to banish it. He’d tried to change, dammit. He wanted to change. He’d established a relationship with Jason, the only family he had left, and he wanted it to continue. It was the whole reason he’d executed the failed plan to take Gin Jimmy down. The permanent removal of Gin Jimmy was the only way Ethan could be truly free of the criminal life he regretted.

  Disgust knifed through him. The future he wanted with Jason was gone. The minute Ethan set foot back in London, he would be arrested for murder, tried, and likely hanged. Or, mayhap Gin Jimmy’s men would get to him first and his fate would be far worse. Since neither option was acceptable, that left leaving the life he wanted behind.

  But for what? Jaunting around the countryside with Audrey?

  He pushed himself up from the chair and went to the bed. She was still on her side with her back to him, the coverlet pulled to her ears. Her dark curls were drawn up, but several of them had escaped their pins. They lay in stark contrast against the ivory pillow beneath her head. He longed to loop his finger through one of them and satisfy his curiosity regarding its softness. Since the days of their secret waltzing lessons, he’d admired the beauty of her hair, which seemed to have a mind of its own with the way it unerringly escaped from any proper style.

  He lay down on the bed and stretched out his aching muscles, save his arm, which wouldn’t put up with such activity.

  She was a proper young lady. Who’d escaped London with him, and had opted to continue along with him for the sake of adventure. Had she really tried to run off to America? He could imagine her sailing for an unknown land, her hair exhibiting a similar independence and working its way completely free from its reins, blowing haphazardly and beautifully in the salty breeze. He could join her, start anew in America.

  What a load of horseshit. He was Ethan bloody Jagger. No, Lockwood. Son of a viscount and brother to a viscount. He was not going to run off with his tail between his legs. He wanted the life he deserved, the life he’d just begun to taste at his brother’s side.

  He turned and looked at Audrey sleeping. And imagined the life he might’ve led if his father hadn’t died. Or if his mother hadn’t died and left him with nothing. Or if Davis hadn’t recruited him. Or if he hadn’t so easily and thoroughly allowed himself to be corrupted.

  Looking back, it seemed everything was destined to happen as it did. No matter how much he wanted things to be different, he couldn’t change who he was, who he was likely always meant to be: a criminal.

  AUDREY AWOKE JUST after the sun rose. She wasn’t typically an early riser, but she also didn’t typically share a bed. With anyone, let alone a man. The barrier she’d placed between them was still in place. She peeked over it. Mr. Locke was on his back, his good arm flung above his head, his dark lashes fanned against his cheeks. She stared at those lashes, marveling at how long and luxurious they appeared, completely unfair for a man to possess. Audrey wished hers were that spectacular. Instead, they were just brown and somewhat nondescript. Like the rest of her.

  In repose, Mr. Locke looked younger. His ink-dark hair was thick and in need of a trim. His beard was longer still, and Audrey was surprised to find she still found it attractive. Despite the growth of hair, his chin was squared and strong. He might look youthful in sleep, but he also exuded a power and magnetism that was undeniable. At least to her.

  Mr. Locke’s eyes shot open and he was suddenly on top of her. He’d rolled like quicksilver, pinning her to the mattress.

  She gasped—both with surprise and with the shock of his masculine body pressed atop hers. He was hard and muscular, and for the first time in her life she felt dainty and impossibly feminine.

  His gray eyes focused on her, but she couldn’t immediately discern what he was thinking. Then his brow arched and he drawled, “Good morning” without sounding the least bit apologetic.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said, trying desperately not to blush in his presence for the thousandth time.

  He stared down at her, studying her face. His hands were on either side of her head while his hips were settled firmly against hers.

  She squirmed beneath him, which only served to heighten the closeness. Shards of heat sparked between her legs, and made her want to invite him to do more.

  He rolled off her, gently, so that his hips brushed hers as he retreated to his side of the bed.

  She jumped up, eager to put space between them. “Was that necessary?”

  He massaged his bandaged arm. “We’re in a precarious situation. I’m on my guard.”

  “You thought I posed a threat?”

  “Not you exactly. I didn’t immediately process who you were. Forgive me if I’m not used to waking up beside beautiful young society misses.” He swung his legs off the side of the bed.

  He thought her beautiful? Warmth suffused her. He’d paid her similar compliments when she’d taught him to waltz, had flirted with her, but she’d written it off as a gentleman’s charm. He was ridiculously handsome, and men who looked like him flirted with everyone. Well, everyone except her.

  She fetched his shirt and helped him don the garment, working to keep her gaze averted from the muscles rippling in his back and chest and arms. He had muscles everywhere. It was very disconcerting. Once he was covered, she took a deep, sustaining breath. Much better.

  She brought his boots over and tugged them up his calves after he’d stuck his foot inside. “I’d best tie your cravat again.” She slid the linen around his neck and adjusted the collar of his shirt.

  He stared at her intently, his eyes boring into her with a heat she felt all the way to her toes. Was it purposeful? Was he flirting with her again? She wasn’t sure she could bear it. No one had ever flirted with her until him.

  She dropped her gaze to the cravat her clumsy fingers were trying to knot. “Please don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  She chanced a glance at him and was sorry for it because his gaze had only intensified, if that were possible. Plus, he’d arched his brow again in that frustratingly provocative m
anner. “Oh, never mind.” She knew she mumbled, but she deeply regretted drawing attention to her discomfort. The constant blushing was bad enough.

  She finished her work as quickly as possible and helped him don the coat. At last, they were ready to leave.

  “What about your hair?” he asked.

  She’d been so flustered, she’d forgotten all about her own toilette. Of course her hair would be a disaster, but she had no brush and she’d lost more pins than she had left. A small glass on the wall revealed a completely disheveled mess. She now doubted the veracity of his flirtation—he was surely bamming her. No one would find her attractive, least of all a man like him.

  She pulled what pins remained out of her hair and looked about for a place to set them.

  He appeared beside her with his palm open. Three hairpins were already lying there.

  She looked up at him. “Where did you find those?”

  “In the bed.” The mere mention of the word bed threatened to send heat up her neck again, but she managed to keep it at bay. “I’ll hold the others while you make repairs. I’m sorry you don’t have a brush.” The fact that he sounded genuinely apologetic only made things worse. Why did he have to be so gentlemanly when she was perfectly aware he was probably no gentleman?

  She deposited the pins in his hand. “Thank you.” Trying to work her hair into a serviceable knot was nearly impossible, but she managed to secure it, at least for now. Doubtless, when they got on their way, it would begin its inevitable descent.

  “Ready?” he asked, going to the door.

  “Yes.” She followed him out of the room and down the narrow stairs to the small common area.

  The innkeeper’s wife greeted them and offered them a modest repast of potatoes, ham, and bread. When they were finished and preparing to leave, she approached Audrey with a small bag. “This is for your luncheon,” she said warmly. “And I also have these for you.” She handed Audrey a bonnet and a . . . brush.