The Wicked Truth. Lyn Stone
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character—or rather, the lack of it.
A guilty thought worried its way up from the back of Neil’s mind. She might be running from him after that intimidating little speech of his. Terrorizing women wasn’t a thing to be proud of, and Elizabeth Marleigh had definitely been terrified.
“She deserved it!” he said aloud. “Fractious twit.” Who did she think she was to play fast and loose with the earl of Havington? She’d admitted her willingness to give over that Thurston fellow, whomever he was. Hopefully, she’d be showing poor Terry the gate next. The lad would get over it, of course, but not if they became locked in a meaningless marriage.
Neil could see how Terry had become entranced, though. The girl was a goer—wicked as sin, but with the innocent air of a schoolroom miss. Who could resist that? If he didn’t know all she’d been up to, Neil admitted to himself he might have… No!
He certainly had more sense than to involve himself with another like her, even temporarily.
Emma Throckmorton had been enough to make a man swear off women entirely. Well, almost entirely. Neil hadn’t had the slightest urge to commit himself to more than a quick night’s pleasure in the last six years. No, he had learned his lesson quite well, thank you. The moment he found himself looking cow eyed at a woman again he’d take a bloody scalpel to his wrists and be done with it. Less suffering that way.
This Marleigh woman might be one of the most beautiful he’d seen in some time, but beauty meant nothing. Her hair was odd—a lovely color, red-gold, but no longer than a finger’s length all over her head. He had to admit the feathery curls set off those liquid brown eyes entirely too large for her face, that pert nose with its flaring little nostrils and the generous mouth enclosed by dimples. The whole of it came together like a well-written sonnet—marvelous to admire but imperative to leave alone.
Devil it all! Her face counted for little but good skin and a fortunate arrangement of features. And body parts, of course. Oh yes, luck favored Lady Marleigh in that respect as well. She possessed a slender bone structure that would age quite well. Dainty women were the worst kind, in his opinion, for a man to tangle with. Neil catered to the robust type himself, women who were sturdy enough to look after themselves, women who didn’t rouse his protective instincts. He and his nephew would both do well to stay away from the likes of Elizabeth Marleigh.
His thoughts ran on along the same lines until he felt the carriage pull to a stop. Instantly alert, he stuck his head out the window and met little but dense fog. Only small, wavery blobs of light penetrated the gloom.
Oliver leaned over the side to speak. “Inn up ahead,” sir. Think it’s th Dowdy Maid. Th’other rig pulled up just now so I stopped outa sight. Whatcha want ta do?” The driver shifted his close-fitting cap and scratched his head.
“Pull up beside the stables and wait. Maybe they stopped to eat.”
“No, sir,” Oliver said. “They’ll be in fer the night. Stable lad’s unhookin’ the team and her man took her bag inside.”
“Well, keep the team hitched. I’ll be going back to town shortly.” When they reached the stables, Neil alighted, left his puzzled driver and approached the inn.
Stepping just inside the doorway, he carefully kept to the shadows. Elizabeth Marleigh’s back looked tense and ramrod straight as she argued with the innkeeper. “I must have a private room, sir,” she said.
“Sorry, there ain’t none available. Ye’ll have to sleep in the common.” The man eyed her with suspicion, probably because she was not attended by a chaperon or even so much as a maid. It just wasn’t done, even in these enlightened times, Neil thought. At least not by respectable women.
“Oh, but you see, my husband is joining me later tonight. He’ll be expecting his comfort when he comes to meet me.” She turned on the charm. Very convincing charm, Neil admitted. Of course, the coin she pushed forward didn’t hurt her effort any. He could imagine the batting eyelashes even though he couldn’t see them.
The man pointed up the stairs and handed her a large key. “Number three.”
With a nod, she hefted her leather valise and headed up the stairs.
So her husband was joining her, eh? Neil thought about Terry’s insistence that he meant to marry the woman come hell or high water. Could Terry be meeting her here? If not, why hadn’t she simply declared earlier that she had already terminated their relationship?
Lord, he’d stumbled on their elopement in progress!
This demanded drastic action. He had to do something before Terry arrived, something to stop this tragedy from taking place and ruining his nephew’s future.
Neil slipped back out into the swirling fog, virtually feeling his way to the carriage.
“Oliver, when I go back inside, pull up in front and leave the door open for me. Hold that lantern over here.”
The driver complied as Neil reached in for his medical bag. He extracted a small, brown, stoppered bottle and pocketed it, stowing the bag under the seat once more.
“I’ll have a patient with me. When we come out, I want you to drive west to Bearsden, posthaste. No stops.”
“All th’ way to Middlesex? In this soup? But, sir—”
“I know the place is not staffed, but we’ll need privacy. Absolute quiet.” Neil shot the man a pointed look that dared him to question the business any further.
“Aye, as ye say, sir. Bearsden ‘tis then. Posthaste.” He saluted with a tug of his cap and a sly, gap-toothed grin.
Neil reentered the inn and looked around the taproom. The Marleigh driver hadn’t come in, probably intending to sleep in the stables. Neil approached the burly keeper. “I’m to meet my wife—short woman, reddish hair, dark eyes. Which room?”
The man squinted and pursed his lips. “Maybe she’s here, maybe she ain’t.”
Neil sighed, plopped two guineas on the bar and cocked his head. “She’s been quite ill, the poor dear, in hospital until yesterday. Did she seem all right?”
“Can’t say. Don’t care. Third room on the right, top o’ th’ stair,” the man said, hefting the coins in his hand.
The stairs creaked under Neil’s weight, and he fingered the bottle in his pocket as he climbed. At the third door he stopped, saturated his handkerchief with the concoction, re-stoppered the bottle and knocked softly. He heard her answer, “Yes?”
“Hurry, darling, you must hurry! He’s coming!” he whispered frantically, hoping she’d take him for his nephew.
It worked. The door opened a crack and Neil pushed his way through. She opened her mouth to scream and he covered her face with the wadded linen. She fought him, struggled wildly for a few seconds and then collapsed against his chest. Quickly, he lifted her deadweight in his arms and laid her on the bed.
How light she was, like swan’s down. So delicate. He turned her this way and that until he had her securely bundled in her cloak. Then, cursing, he awkwardly shut her overstuffed suit-case and carried them both downstairs.
“A relapse,” he explained to the wide-eyed innkeeper. Managing the door latch with some difficulty, Neil exited the inn with his burden, dumped her into the waiting coach and climbed in behind her. He arranged his little charge in a comfortable position as Oliver barreled through the fog toward Middlesex.
The tiny witch would have a hell of a headache when she woke up, but nothing compared to the one she’d probably give him. What did one do with a shameless, greedy female secluded in a deserted old manor house to make her want to stay awhile?
Neil dismissed his scruples and smiled. The possibilities seemed deliciously endless.