Her Reluctant Viscount (Rakes and Rogues) Read online

  Her calling him family humbled him.

  Chapter Four

  Clara and I went to a museum today. Peculiar, but I thought this man to be following us. He was not. A shame really, it would have made the day more exciting. Mama always accused me of having a wild imagination. Lord Collins surprised me there. Unfortunately I am aware he is following me. He refuses to accept I will never be his.

  ~From the private journal of Josephine Adrys

  Jo waited for Clara by the post coach. She would much rather be on horseback but knew it was excessively dangerous for two women to be riding alone. Especially at night. Therefore, they had purchased seats and travelled this way.

  They would be departing in five minutes. Two more days. That’s all and she would be at the place Clara had. Her body was beginning to protest her lack of activity. She rolled her shoulders and took a deep breath, enjoying the clean country air. The further she got from London the more relaxed she became.

  “Jo!”

  Turning at the sound of her friend’s voice, Jo stepped toward her at the stricken expression on Clara’s face. Panic filled her. I never should have let her come along. I am a danger.

  “What is it, Clara? You look as if you have seen a ghost.”

  Her rounder face slightly flushed as she halted. “He is on his way up the road.”

  Panic grew like a massive flock of birds taking to the sky. He. He who? The person who wanted her dead? No, do not be foolish, Clara would not know said person’s appearance.

  Swallowing hard she wiped her hands down her skirts. “Who?”

  “Captain Bottomley.”

  “Royce?” Shite. He would make her return with him. “I have to hide.”

  “No, go. I will keep him occupied until the post leaves.”

  “What about you?”

  A kind smile. “I got part of the way. See who I said, he will help you. Write me so I know you are safe and there.” Clara urged her inside and squeezed her hand. “Be safe, Jo.”

  Jo tightened her own in response. “Thank you, Clara. For everything.”

  One final squeeze before Clara hurried back inside and the carriage headed off. Even at the next stop, Jo worried about Clara.

  “Miss.”

  She turned to find the driver behind her. “Yes?” The sun had moved behind dark clouds and the wind blew relentlessly about them.

  “We will be leaving in thirty minutes. You may wish to grab a bit of food.”

  Tugging on the cuff of her glove, she nodded. “Thank you.” Most stops had merely been the time it took to change out the horses. A longer stop would be nice. Reticule in her hand, she walked inside the inn.

  “G’day, miss,” the man she assumed to be the proprietor said. “Is it food yer after?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “We have no private rooms, but there is a nice table over here.” The man gestured with his hand.

  She followed him through the other patrons who were there. Their gazes bore into her and she stared straight ahead, refusing to be scared.

  “I will have the missus bring something right away.”

  “Thank you.” She watched him walk away before removing her gloves. Not much later, two women, one older and one younger, appeared carrying plates and bowls.

  “Here you go, miss.”

  The scent made her stomach rumble in anticipation. “It smells delicious, thank you.” Soup, bread, cheese, and a drink had been set before her.

  “You need anything and you holler. Come, Della.”

  The younger one gave her a shy smile before following her mother off. Jo picked up her spoon and dug in. Thick and hearty potato soup with the warm bread and sharp cheese made her groan in pleasure.

  The driver approached and stared at her.

  “Have you eaten, Mr. Pillster?” She gestured at the table. “Would you care to join me?”

  “I have some bread—”

  “Nonsense. Sit. We still have time and you have been so kind to take me to my destination.”

  He sat and soon finished off a bowl of soup as well. Jo paid and got some extra bread and cheese for the remainder of the trip. They shared the evening meal as well when they stopped next.

  She waited by the fire for Mr. Pillster to retrieve her. They were travelling through the night. A tall man approached where she stood, his black cloak wet with rain. He peered at her from beneath the brim of his hat and gave her a smile.

  Rake. Rogue.

  He had dark hazel eyes that twinkled in the firelight. Dark blond hair covered his head and it was—she noticed when he removed his hat—in a nice close cut. He reached out his hands to the fire and she gave a short nod before drawing on her own gloves.

  “Got cold quick.” The man spoke as he removed his sodden cloak.

  She gave a practiced smile. “Happens this time of year.” Lord, he was a good-looking man.

  He nodded. “How true.” His eyes moved over her and she could not help but want her cloak to keep her concealed. It was like he searched for something.

  Mr. Pillster caught her gaze and she sighed with relief. With a bob of her head to the man, she said, “Good eve.”

  “Leaving already?”

  “Yes. We have to reach our destination as soon as possible.”

  His gaze moved over again before he smiled slightly. Although he returned his stare to the flickering flames, she felt as though someone watched her. My imagination is a bit overworked.

  She walked beside her driver out to the waiting coach. In the distance flashes of lightning sliced through the dark. Foreboding. Telling. The man had ridden from behind her, since there was not any rain yet. The storm was swiftly approaching though.

  She settled in and with a lurch, they were off again. Here and there, she caught snatches of slumber only to be then jarred awake by booming thunder or a rut in the road. The rain had caught up to them.

  Next time she woke, it was because of Mr. Pillster’s voice. Even so, her pulse kicked up a bit before she realized who it belonged to. They no longer moved. Rain pounded the sides and she opened the door to peer out in the dark.

  “Mr. Pillster?” she called out.

  “Get up now!” his words drifted on the rainy air.

  The coach lurched a bit. They were stuck. Removing her bonnet, she stepped out and shut the door behind her. Instantly soaked, she made her way up to the horses, fighting the thick sucking mud every step of the way. Brushing wet strands from her eyes, she called to him. He squinted through the rain, holding up the lantern with his free hand. She hastened to his side.

  “Get back in the coach, miss.”

  “Nonsense. We are stuck. Let me help. I can handle the horses while you push.” He hesitated and a frown appeared. “I will not leave you to do this alone, Mr. Pillster. So we will stand here until you agree.” She blinked away the rain only to have it replaced with fresh falling from the sky.

  He handed her the lantern as she stepped up to the lead horses bridle.

  “Yell, when you are ready,” she called to his retreating figure.

  Facing forward, she stared through the rain and night to locate a best path free. There, to the left.

  “Okay, boys,” she said to the horses. “The sooner we get free, the sooner we get dry.”

  She stroked the equine’s head as she waited for the yell. Her fingers gripped the rein she held and backed up at the call from Mr. Pillster. “Come on, get up.” She pulled and felt the horses gather their strength and lean into their harnesses. No good. Again they tried. Still no forward progress. She set the lantern down on the solid ground and came back. Both hands on the gelding’s head she kissed his wet nose. Stepping so she was between both lead horses, she patted them both and got back to her original spot before urging them on again. She called and coaxed as the four horses snorted and worked as one. They were moving! She trudged by the equines until she saw the carriage in the light from the lantern.

  “Well done, boys. Well done.”

  She ree
ked of wet horse and sweat, the rain doing little to remove the scent. She did not mind. The important thing was they were no longer stuck. Still holding one long line, she peered back by the coach.

  “Mr. Pillster?” She called for him two more times before realizing she had to go check.

  After reaffirming “Whoa,” she hurried as fast as she could—not easy when one’s dress was soaked through—to the perch and set the brake. Then she lifted the lantern and headed to the back of the coach searching through the sheets of rain for her driver.

  Squinting as she continued to call, she finally located him. Mr. Pillster was on his hands and knees in the mud from which they had just escaped.

  “Mr. Pillster!” she gasped, making her way back to his side. Her kid boots were totally ruined by now. “Mr. Pillster, are you okay?”

  He lifted his head and she knew he was far from all right. His skin held a pasty tone to it and pain lingered in his eyes.

  “Let me help you.” She crouched down, sliding an arm around his waist. It took a few tries but eventually she got him to his feet. It was a good thing he was not a large man. As it was, she struggled. Lantern in one hand and Mr. Pillster on the other side she made her way back to the coach, legs shaking with exhaustion.

  “Inside, Mr. Pillster.” She hung the light up on its hook then went to open the door when he made a sound of protest. “In.” Jo spoke in a tone learned from Najja, one that allowed no room for dispute.

  She half lifted, half shoved the man in. Panting heavily once he was in, she dragged her weary body to the other side and helped him through. Shutting that door, she returned to the first side and leaned in. The faint lantern glow showed the strain on his face.

  “I have to get going.” Mr. Pillster’s words were faint and on thready breaths.

  “No, sir.” She grabbed a blanket from the opposite seat and covered him. “I will drive. You get as warm as you can. There are a few more blankets here.”

  “Can you?”

  “Yes.”

  Her answer was immediate. She closed the door before he could say another word. Her confidence did not last the short walk back to the seat. She had held the lines for a team of four but never actually went anywhere. Surely, God would forgive her lie. All she knew was the man back there could not do it. Her choices were sitting here in the storm and hope someone safe stopped first. On the other hand, do it herself. She had always been more of a do it herself type of girl.

  She wiped a hand across her face after climbing back up. The top over the seat did not stop the sidelining wind and rain from keeping her in a drenched state. With shaking hands—her gloves were not much help either against the elements—she lifted the lines, released the brake, and snapped them.

  The quartet lunged into their harness, obviously eager to be on their way as well, almost ripping the leathers from her fingers. She tightened her grip and leaned back using her body weight to help keep them under control. The storm had them on edge and they fought her for the bit.

  Time passed, her eyes stung and muscles burned with the strain. She had hauled them to a halt and stripped off her gloves for a better grip. She knew the next stop would be the last. Assuming I can make it.

  The rain continued to fall when she brought them into the small village of Halestead Moor. She could barely see her eyes were so strained but she drew up on the team in front of the first inn she saw. Her legs wobbled as she jumped down and she took a few extra seconds to ensure they would not collapse beneath her.

  By the time, she reached the first horse a young lad came around the corner. His eyes grew wide and she said, “I need a doctor.” He hesitated and she drew herself up, stared down her nose, and spoke with as much hauteur as possible. “Now boy. Fetch him.”

  Her tone must have done it despite her wet and ragged appearance. When he dashed off, she dragged her exhausted body back to the coach and opened the door. Mr. Pillster lay partially curled on the floor covered by the blankets, his thinner older body shivering.

  “What goes on here?” a deep voice questioned from behind her.

  Things exploded into a flurry of activity after she explained. An older woman came up to her and placed a blanket about her shoulders.

  “Come on, lass. You need to get cleaned up and warm.”

  Exhaustion had almost set upon her full force. “Do you know Mr. Callum Blackwood?”

  “Mr. Blackwood? Yes, he lives just past the village.”

  “Is there anyone who could take me there? Or rent me a horse?”

  “Perhaps you should clean up first.” It was almost a suggestion.

  “No thank you. I will walk if you do not know of anyone.” She reached for her valise.

  “I will arrange for a ride.” The woman walked off shaking her head.

  Jo had to lock her legs to keep upright. She could barely keep her eyes open but she refused to relax until she had seen the one person Clara said she knew. More than that though, he was the one Clara trusted.

  Soon she bounced on the seat of a wagon loaded with covered hay. The old man continually stared at her and she kept her gaze firmly ahead, well aware of the raggedy appearance she had. The wagon squeaked to a stop at the top of an apex before which a large house sat. Bag in hand, she walked up to the door as the wagon continued. The man did not even stay to see if anyone was home.

  She took a deep breath, wondering if she would not have been better off cleaning up first. A brisk knock made it a moot point. She ran her hand down her hair and winced at the feel.

  The large door opened and a man dressed entirely in black stared at her. “Yes?”

  “I need to see Mr. Blackwood.”

  A derisive sniff. “He is not receiving,” pale eyes ran over her haggard appearance, “visitors today.”

  The amount of cold disdain made her feel she was once again in the middle of a Society function. The door began to close.

  She shoved against it, swinging it back open. The butler caught unaware stumbled back.

  “Listen, here,” she said loudly. “I have travelled for days. I am filthy and tired. I was told to come see Mr. Blackwood and I am not leaving until I do.”

  Solitary clapping snapped the silence after her mini outburst. Ignoring the heated flush sliding up her cheeks, she dropped the bag and turned. The sight waiting for her kick started her heart. If God had created a darker version of Trystan Wilkes, this was him. Dark—sinfully dark—hair, brown eyes, and richly tanned skin.

  “A beautiful and impassioned speech, my dear. What is it you need to see Mr. Blackwood about?”

  His voice was smooth, aged whisky smooth, and deep. Was this him? Clara’s friend? He moved toward her with a leonine grace. She licked her lips, her hand lowering to the pocket, which held a dagger. Arching an eyebrow, she sniffed as if she were holding court instead of appearing like a wet cat and dripping all over the floor.

  “Are you him?”

  “You do not know what the man you seek looks like?” There was a mixture of reprimand and amusement in his tone.

  “If I did why would I ask?” Her response fell short, her exhaustion further erasing her manners with each passing second.

  “Shall I remove her, sir?”

  “No, you shall not,” she snapped at the butler. Swallowing, she stared at the slightly entertained brown eyes. “I have a message from Miss Clara Field.”

  Unsure of what to expect by her announcement the immediate change still surprised her. He hastened to her, his eyes wrought with concern.

  “You know Clara?”

  A sigh of relief escaped her. Surely only Mr. Blackwood would be interested in Clara’s message.

  “Yes.”

  He grabbed at her upper arm, only to freeze when she danced away. “Is she hurt? Safe?”

  “Last I saw her she was fine. She gave me a message to pass along.”

  Relief filled his features. “Pass along? You look as though you have been through hell. All that to deliver a message and she is fine?”
/>   She swayed and he caught her. Shaking a bit, she drew away and opened her reticule for the note, Clara had pressed in her hand before they split up. Jo handed it to him and sank to her knees, energy gone and cold, as he read it. She hung her head, praying for just a bit more strength.

  “Henry.” Callum’s voice brought her head up. “Prepare a room and have a bath drawn. We have a guest.”

  Before Jo could get to her feet, he swept her into his arms and headed for the stairs. She began to struggle and he tightened his hold.