Captain Corcoran's Hoyden Bride. ANNIE BURROWS
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She laid her knife and fork down with precision, reaching for her wine glass and taking a ladylike sip. Thank heavens she had grown so adept at remaining outwardly calm. That she had so many years’ practice in keeping up appearances, no matter how severe the strain she endured.
Even if, as now, real fear was gripping her.
‘Well, what is your answer?’ Captain Corcoran said impatiently after she had remained silent for several moments. ‘Surely you must see the advantages of the position I am offering you? It is not as though you can have anything to go back to London for, or you would not have applied for work as a governess in the first place!’
No, nothing awaited her in London except certain degradation. For her father’s career there had followed the same path as it had in every other city they had ever visited. An initial flourish to persuade the citizens he was wealthy, entrée into several of the less select gaming clubs, and then the rapid descent into horrendous debt. Only this time, her father had been so lost to any sense of decency, he had attempted to sell her to some … lecher.
Had sold her!
Lord Matthison had sent his servant to her lodgings with the money, and instructions that she was to deal with him directly in future. So much money, there was no mistaking his intent.
It had been the last straw. The final outrage that had made her sever all ties from her scandalous father for ever.
She had vowed then and there that she would never trust a man again.
How right she had been. She lifted her head and regarded Captain Corcoran coldly. She had escaped from London’s sewers, only to fall into the clutches of another such as Lord Matthison.
In fact, worse. At least Lord Matthison had been completely open about his intentions. This man had as good as kidnapped her, then taken pains to inform her that all his staff were utterly loyal to him. And that he would have them flogged and dismissed should any of them take pity on her, and help her escape!
Her heart beating fast, she patted her lips with her napkin. She was not going to let him see how scared she was. That would be fatal. She had learned long ago, given the numerous precarious positions to which her father had so frequently exposed her, that nothing inflamed a potential predator more than the knowledge his victim was afraid.
‘Your proposition has taken me by surprise,’ she said, proud of the even tone of her voice. ‘May I have some time to think about it?’
When he frowned, her heart beat so fast that she began to go light-headed. If he was the type of man who was not averse to using violence in his dealings with women, her appeal would go unheeded. He could swing her over his shoulder, heave her upstairs to one of his bedrooms, and …
She flinched from picturing the awful deed. She had to fill her mind with something other than the fear that threatened to blot out all ability to reason. Think, Aimée, think! How on earth was she to get out of this?
She took a deep breath, reminded herself she had escaped from sticky situations before. Ever since her shape had first started to change from that of a girl to a woman, she’d had to evade the groping hands of the drunken lecherous men who made up her father’s coterie.
Though the Captain was not drunk. Nor was he simply an opportunist, trying to make sport of a defenceless girl who had strayed into his path. No, he had coldly, calmly, planned this seduction!
But his mistake would be the same as all other men made: in underestimating her determination to thwart his vile schemes.
‘Very well,’ he grudgingly conceded. ‘You may have until the morning. But no longer. I have no time to waste.’
Outwardly calm, she got to her feet. Captain Corcoran did so too. Aping the gentleman, she mentally sneered.
‘Thank you, Captain,’ she said graciously, inclining her head as though she fully intended to think about his disgusting proposition.
The moment she left the dining room, she saw her way to the front door barred by Nelson. Lounging against the far wall, his arms folded across his chest, he no longer looked like the amiable, salt-of-the-earth character with whom she had fleetingly felt a connection. His stance, and then the over-familiar grin he bestowed upon her, put her in mind of the kind of men employed to guard the doors at brothels.
And he insisted on escorting her upstairs.
But she refused to give him any indication that she resented him guarding her, and her ruse was so successful that, the moment she was inside the room with the door shut, she heard him go straight back downstairs.
Probably to report back to his master, she thought, opening the door a crack, and peeping out. But the Captain did not hold all the cards. She could still employ the element of surprise.
Since nobody else seemed to be about, she darted out of her room and leaned over the banister rail to check that the downstairs hall was clear. It was! Now or never, Aimée, she told herself, her heart pounding with terror of discovery. And she ran swiftly back down the stairs and straight to the front door.
She had no need to waste time collecting anything from her room. Long before leaving London, she had sewn most of the banknotes Lord Matthison had sent to her into her stays. And the hem of her petticoat was weighted down with guineas. She could buy anything she needed later. If only she could get well away from her captors!
To her intense relief, when she clawed at the handle, she found the front door was neither bolted, nor locked, and it swung open easily on well-oiled hinges.
The cold wet air that gusted into the hall made her gasp. But she did not regret the lack of a coat. Retaining just enough presence of mind to shut the door quietly behind her, to prevent her flight being detected for as long as possible, she slipped out into the rain and ran. And ran.
Only for a few seconds on the gravel drive, because it made too much noise. Then along the grass verge, though it was treacherously slippery. She made it to the twin stone pillars at the end of the drive. Then, with her tortured breath rasping in her throat, across the lane and into the woods, where a branch promptly slapped her in the face. As she recoiled with a yelp, it raked over the crown of her head, tearing the pins from her oh-so-carefully-arranged hairstyle. Her braids came tumbling over her face, but she kept on running. It was almost pitch black under these trees in any case. It was only after she had been crashing through the undergrowth, heedless of the branches snagging at her hair, and the brambles tearing at her skirts, that it occurred to her she had no idea where she was running to.
She had long been prepared to take flight at a moment’s notice.
But she had thought her flight would be in London. From Lord Matthison.
Not out here in the howling wilderness, where there were no signposts to tell her which way to go. No convenient alleys to duck into. No rooms to rent with no questions asked if the price was right. Just trees, she panted, and brambles and rain and wind and mud.
She stopped. And bent over slightly from the waist to get her breath back. And her powers of reasoning.
The lane.
If she kept close to the lane, she could probably make her way back to the King’s Arms. The innkeeper had tried to warn her to stay away from Captain Corcoran and his henchmen. And, after the way Captain Corcoran had berated him, the man would be only too pleased to do him an ill turn.
It was only a matter of finding her way out of the woods and back to the lane. And praying that her absence would not be noticed for some considerable time.
Chapter Three
But her luck was out.
The shadowy blackness surrounding her resolved itself into distinct shapes as light streamed into the woodland. From the opened front door of the house.
She