Taken by the Wicked Rake. Christine Merrill
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had made it barely fifty feet when he caught her. He was annoyingly clean, having taken the time to pick his way slowly on the higher and drier ground, while she had blundered through the worst of the mud. He glanced down at her, where she had fallen again, wet and dejected at his feet. ‘Are you quite through?’
Truth be told, she was. It was clear that she would not escape him shoeless and with no idea of her location or destination. But all the same, she made another lunge away from him.
He caught her by the last bit of rope still trailing from her waist, and pulled her back as easily as if he was controlling a dog on a lead.
She turned and struck out, scratching at his face.
He swore and gave a shove, pushing her down on her back in the mud. The impact jarred through her, causing more shock than damage. Then he yanked her upright, until her face was close to his own. ‘I have no desire to do that again. But if you persist in that behaviour, I will take whatever steps are necessary to subdue you. Do you understand?’
She opened her mouth, trying to scream at him from around the gag, and reached to remove it. But he caught her hands to stop her, smiling at her efforts. ‘A nod will be sufficient. I have no intention of unmuzzling you until I am sure that you will not bite. And as for screaming to attract attention? I have taken you to a place so remote that no one will hear you, even if you cry out.’
At his words, the reality of her situation struck her again. She was very much alone, in a strange place with a strange man. He was smiling at her, but there was no warmth or friendship in his face. His look said that he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. And for whatever reason, he wanted her.
After her fall, the soft net of her evening gown was soaking wet, clinging to her skin in ways that revealed more than she would have liked. The cold night air cut through it, making her shiver. But Salterton stood close enough to her that she could feel the heat of his body, and his hands were warm and dry, just as she remembered them from the ballroom. His grip on her wrists was not gentle, but neither did it hurt her. And for a moment, her mind tricked her into thinking it was not for restraint, but out of possessiveness that he held her, as though this touch was a shared pleasure—the first of many. And then, she remembered it for what it was, and struggled against him.
It did her no good. He was so solid and still that it was like fighting against a statue. At last, he grew tired of it, and said, ‘You strike me as being smart enough not to expend effort to no purpose. Your attempt at escape and your pitiful cat scratching is more amusing than anything else. Let me give you a word of advice. If you cooperate with me and give me no more trouble, you will be returned undamaged to the arms of your family. But if you resist, that may not be the case.’
She went still, as well, turning her rage inward to calm her body and her mind. As he had done before, he’d seemed to speak to her without words. He still smiled at her, but there was something, a hint in the darkness of his eyes that said, I am not as unmoved by you as I appear. Do not tempt me. And do not try my patience.
As if to confirm her fears, he raked her body with a slow, interested gaze, lingering in ways that no gentleman should linger. Then, he released her wrists and held out a hand, as if he were a gentleman, offering to help her back to the wagon.
She gave another little shiver, as though she could shake his eyes from off her form, and tried to loosen the wet cloth where it clung. Then she ignored his outstretched hand, walking with difficulty, for the torn fabric of her dress bunched and tangled around her legs.
He shrugged and grabbed the rope at her waist, giving a sharp tug on it as if to remind her who was in control. Then, with no further offers of help, he led her back to the wagon, returned to his place in the driver’s seat and waited for her to climb in beside him.
She glared at him, for he must know that she could not get up onto the seat without his help.
‘You seemed eager enough to manage before. I could help you. Or I could tie your leash to the backboard and let you run along behind. Or shall I leave you here, just as you are? You could congratulate yourself on the success of your escape. And if you are lucky, you might be found and rescued before you die of exposure.’
She dropped her gaze and waited for him to decide what he wished to do, unwilling to show any sign that he might take for weakness or cooperation. At last, he reached out and pulled her up to sit beside him. Then he retied the rope about her, binding her arms again and tying the other end to his wrist.
‘This is much friendlier, is it not? And so much easier to prevent further attempts to leave me. He gave the rope around her waist a small tug to tighten the knot. ‘You may struggle as you wish. It will not break. And it will not cut your tender English skin. It is silk. The same rope that hung the Earl of Leybourne, when your father let him die for a murder he did not commit.’
Was this what it was about? The Earl of Leybourne? Was Salterton some kin of his? She had met William Wardale’s children, and none were anything like this man. She had meant to shower him in a tirade of abuse, behind the muffle of the gag in her mouth. But all she could manage was puzzled silence.
He was staring at her, awaiting a response. And then he laughed out loud. ‘If you could see the look on your face. It is most amusing. I will remove the gag now, so that you may argue with me as you wish to. You will tell me that your father is innocent. That you think I am a villain. And that I shall pay dearly for this dishonour to you. I have had business with your family before, and I have come through it all with a whole skin. Though you rant and rail, it shall be the same again, I am sure.’
He reached over and yanked down her gag, pulling the handkerchief out of her mouth, and tossing it into her lap. She glanced down to see, in some relief, that the thing had been clean before he’d forced it upon her. And there, in the corner, the initials S and H.
He nudged her. ‘Go ahead. What have you to say for yourself?’
‘Stephen Hebden?’ Despite her family’s attempts to keep her in the dark, she had heard his name.
She knew she had guessed correctly, for he started a little as she called him by his real name. And then, he collected himself and returned to taunting her. ‘Some call me that. You may think of me as Stephano Beshaley, bastard son of Kit Hebden and Jaelle the Gypsy.’
So this was the man that her brothers had been warning her about. And she had fallen easily into his clutches, just as they had feared. It annoyed her that she had proved herself to be the naïve girl everyone thought her to be. If she had any wit at all, she would need to use it to escape from this situation, for the man at her side was smarter than she had given him credit. She stared at him, trying to divine his true character and wondering how she might separate reality from facade. ‘Your half sister Imogen told me of you. You are the Gypsy child that Amanda Hebden raised as her own.’
He rocked back in his seat as though a simple statement of fact bothered him more than the abuse he was expecting. ‘I am no longer a child. And I do not consider a few years of room and board to indicate any maternal devotion on the part of Hebden’s gadji wife.’ Hebden’s eyes blazed with a cold merciless light. ‘After my father was no longer alive to protect me, my stepmother and her family could not get rid of me fast enough.’
Was that pride in his voice, that his father’s family could not hold him? Or had their rejection hurt him? Because she could not believe that the feud between the families was all the result of a little boy’s injured feelings. She hazarded a guess. ‘If you did not like them, and they did not like you, then it was probably for the best that they sent you back to your mother and her people.’
‘Sent me to my mother’s people?’ He snorted. ‘They sent me to a foundling home and forgot all about me. When the Gypsies offered me a place, I returned to them with pride. And the Rom are not—’ his sneer deepened ‘—my mother’s people. They are my people, now. And they accepted me, even though I was a half-breed gaujo, whose mother was not alive to plead for my admittance to the tribe.’
‘Your mother had died, as well?’ she asked.