My Scandalous Bride

  "Laura, don't go," Leighton begged. "I'm not the villain you should fear."

  "I can take care of myself." She slipped the pistol into her cloth purse and hung it around her wrist.

  "I've been doing it for longer than I care to remember."

  It was true. Ronald had spoken of his sister in glowing terms. He mentioned her competence, her good sense, and her skills, and before he met her, Leighton had formed a picture in his mind of a brusque, broad, homely woman. Ronald had requested that, in case of his death, Leighton care for his sister, and Leighton had been determined to do just that. He'd give her a pension and keep her in comfort for the

  rest of her life.

  Then Farley had ushered her into his office for the first time, and Leighton had been knocked back on

  his heels. It wasn't that she was gorgeous or sweet. Quite the opposite. She was too short, too thin, too fierce, too ... right for him. The wanting had shaken him to the core. He'd always kept his passion well

  in control. He chose mistresses for their experience and he planned to choose his wife for her suitability.

  Laura was not particularly suitable. She dressed well, but that was because she was a seamstress. A seamstress! And poverty obviously hovered close. Her father was the younger son of a baron with not even a knighthood to give his name a title. But for Leighton, these matters were trivial compared to his desires. He planned to find and arrest Ronald's killer and present him to Laura as a nuptial gift. She

  would have him then. That would vanquish the shadow of suspicion from her gaze.

  Instead Jean slipped through the trap set for him, and on entering the inn, Leighton had been hailed as Laura's bridegroom by Ernest.

  At that moment, his whole life changed. The calm, rational, duty-bound man he was became an opportunist, and he'd forcefully seduced an innocent.

  He grinned. And he still couldn't work up one shred of regret.

  After donning her redingote, gloves, and hat, Laura walked to the settle and picked up the diary.

  At that reminder of Ronald and his fate, Leighton's smile faded. "Laura, please don't do this. Leave

  me tied if it makes you feel safer, but don't go out tonight."

  Going to the door, she twisted the knob. "It's locked again." She glanced back at him in scorn.

  "Did you instruct Ernest to make sure I couldn't easily escape?"

  Bristling, he said, "I can control you without any man's help."

  She inserted the key in the lock and turned it, then looked back at him stretched naked and defenseless.

  "I can see that."

  "I'll find you, Laura," he said, and he meant it.

  CHAPTER 6

  Leighton's promise echoed in Laura's ears as she walked down the hall. I'll find you. Yes, he probably would, but not tonight, and that would give her a much-needed reprieve. She'd take a horse from the stable and go to another inn to catch the stage back to London. She'd wiggled her way through the government bureaucracy until she found someone to listen to her concerns, and if they told her

  Leighton was the Seamaster, well. . .

  Oh, he was the Seamaster. What was the use in fooling herself? He was the Seamaster and he no

  doubt hunted Jean just as he claimed.

  But he couldn't get him tonight, and tonight she needed to get away and try to accept the fact she lusted after the man who'd sent her brother to his death. Oh yes, she lusted after him, but she also wanted him to pay with at least a measure of mortification.

  Pausing at the top of the stairs, she listened, but heard nothing. Carefully she crept down, avoiding the squeaking step. The fire had burnt to almost nothing in the taproom and the complete and eerie silence spooked her. She wanted to run back to her chamber, to the safety that Leighton represented, but she stiffened her spine. She was, after all, a Haver, and worthy to carry the banner of her father and her brother.

  Then a burst of shouting from the kitchen made her stumble backward and she found herself on the

  top landing again.

  Two men. Ernest and ... another.

  "Those are important papers!" the unknown shouted.

  While Ernest answered, "Ye can't have my lord."

  Something crashed, glass broke, there was a hoarse cry, then silence. Laura hastily crept down the

  stairs, keeping to the wall, listening with all her might.

  That unknown voice spoke again, this time lower and with enough menace to make the hair stand up on Laura's head. "I can have anything I choose," he said. "Need I remind you that should your beloved Earl of Hamilton discover what you've been doing with me, he'll tack your ears to the stocks?"

  Laura put her hands to her mouth to stifle her gasp. Ernest didn't reply to the man's accusation; he didn't rush to deny it. Then she heard an explosion of sound, like air escaping a clogged passage, and someone gasping in deep breaths. She'd seen enough violence done on the streets of London to recognize this.

  The unknown man had been choking Ernest.

  "They took my cargo, those damned government men, and there are some very important papers which

  I must recover."

  Ernest recovered himself enough to croak, "Ye and yer papers! It's all a cover, isn't it, this smuggling? Ye're spying fer the Frenchies, ye are."

  Laura made it across the taproom to the doorway by the kitchen in less time than it took the unknown

  to laugh.

  "What if I am?" he said. "You've been well paid for your assistance."

  A spy. A French spy. Jean.

  Laura leaned against the casement and listened, her heart pounding, her breath short.

  "I'm an honest, God-fearing Englishman, I am, and I never agreed to help a Frenchie."

  "Honest?" Jean mocked. "Smuggling's not honest."

  "In this part of the world, it is." Ernest sounded firm and sure of himself. "My father did it, my grandfather did it, and my great-grandfather did it, but we never—"

  "Well, you have now."

  Laura heard the click of steel and her hand went to her purse where her own pistol rested.

  "Hey!" Ernest's voice rose an octave. "There's no need fer that!"

  "We're going to go upstairs now, get your lord, and when we're done with him Leighton will get me

  my information without a qualm."

  "He'll never help ye." Ernest sounded as scornful as possible for a man facing a gun. "A Leighton's

  honor is above all things."

  "Normally I would agree with you," the unknown said. "But Leighton has a lady in that room with him. Her name is Laura Haver, and while I doubt they're truly married—"

  "They wouldn't lie to me!"

  "—I've seen how Leighton looks at her." The unknown chortled until he snorted. "He'll cooperate with me."

  Laura stepped back, shocked. She recognized that laugh. Farley. It was that little worm, Sir Farley Malthus, the one who ushered her into Leighton's London office with such obsequious grace and laughed at her desire to find her brother's assassin. He'd taken her aside one day and told her how ludicrous she made herself, pretending that a mere woman could influence the grand workings of English government. She'd hated him for it at the time, hated him even more for his insinuation she only sought an illicit union with Leighton, but she never imagined such a fussy little gossip could be a traitor and a murderer.

  Again she touched the pistol in the purse. But no, that wouldn't do. She only had one shot, and assistance waited in the stable. Quickly and quietly, she made her way to the outer door and eased it open. As she stepped outside, she heard voices in the taproom. Swinging the door almost closed, she fled toward the stable. The mud clung to her skirt and sucked at her boots. Ronald's diary hit her knee and the book

  came flying out of her pocket.

  She didn't stop to get it. It was a memento of her brother, but her brother would have told her to rescue the living, and so she ran harder, right into the dark stable. Pausing, she listened, but she heard nothing behind her. She h
ad escaped without being spotted.

  She groped her way along the stalls. A man waited within, Leighton said, but how would she know if it was the right man? Might not Farley also have stationed someone in here to take care of any unwanted intruders? She sighed, her breath a frightened exhale, when something small and living hit her from the side. She tumbled over, smacking the wall, and small hands reached for her throat. She knocked them aside as a boy's voice demanded, "Where's m'lord? Tell me what happened to m'lord."

  When she didn't respond at once, the boy's hands grappled with her again.

  "Ye're a woman!" He sounded disgusted, now. "Are ye that woman he saw on the cliffs?"

  "Are you the man he left stationed here?" she countered, wondering what to think.

  "What's it to ye?"

  Of course, a boy to carry messages would be better than using a man, and it would keep him out of harm's way, too. "If you are," she said cautiously, "he might be in need of help."

  The boy sprang off her. "What have ye done with m'lord?"

  "I haven't done anything with him, but there are two men in the inn who will hurt him if you don't go

  get assistance."

  "I'll save him myself."

  She snagged him as he started to run out the door. "Leighton sent me down here with specific instructions that you're to go for help." It was a lie, but she saw no other way to satisfy him. "He wants me to stay."

  "Ye?" The boy sounded scornful. "Why would he want a girl when he could have me?"

  "Because I have a gun."

  The lad paused, then answered, "That's a choice reason. Do ye know how to shoot it?"

  "Indeed I do."

  "How do I know ye're telling the truth?"

  Laura committed herself to Leighton with her next words. "Because I work for the Seamaster."

  The boy's indrawn breath told her of his awe, and he answered, "That's good enough fer me."

  He was out the open door like a barn owl swooping toward the open air, and when Laura stepped out

  she couldn't even see his form as he raced across the heath.

  Looking up at the inn, she could see the light from the bedchamber where Leighton lay, tied and naked. This wasn't what she'd imagined when she tricked him. Now she would do anything to have him free because for all her knowledge of firearms and for all of her practice with the targets, she'd never shot a man and feared to do so now. She feared it all: going upstairs, confronting two men bent on murder, seeing the accusation in Leighton's eyes. Because of her, Ronald's murderer might go unpunished. Because of her, he might murder again, and this time it would be Leighton—and she couldn't stand to

  lose both men she loved to such wickedness.

  For just a moment, she covered her face with her gloved hand.

  What stupidity, to love a lord when she was nothing but a seamstress and a commoner. He'd made it

  clear he welcomed her into his bed, but she wasn't stupid enough to swallow his talk of marriage. Now she would go up there, and save his life or die trying, and if he wanted her to remain with him as a mistress, she'd do it. She only had the strength to leave him once, and she'd already tried and made it

  only as far as the stable.

  If she didn't save him .. . well, she knew herself well enough to recognize all the signs of rampaging infatuation, and she knew she'd die at his side.

  Such resolutions made a mockery of her fears, and she tucked her chin into her chest and marched toward the door of the inn.

  Crossing the yard, she swerved at the last moment and looked in the windows. The taproom was empty. The door still stood off the latch, just as she'd left it when she fled, and she stuck her head in. Nothing moved. Stepping inside, she left the door open in case the help she'd sent for arrived and wanted to make a quick entrance.

  Light spilled down from upstairs and she listened, straining her ears. Voices sounded up there, and

  moving like a wraith, she crossed the floor.

  Farley's voice rang out. "Untie him!"

  Grasping the hand rail, Laura climbed the stairs and moved down the hall.

  "I'm trying. I'm trying." Ernest sounded surly. "M'lady's quite a woman. These knots are well done."

  "You don't have to tell me that." Leighton sounded cool and almost amused. "I've been struggling to

  free myself ever since the first time I saw her. I doubt I'll ever get free."

  Laura paused just beyond the square of light that marked the floor outside the chamber door.

  "Cut the damned things!" Farley snarled. "We haven't got time for this nonsense."

  "Haven't got a knife," Ernest said.

  There was a troubled silence as Farley thought. Then he said, "Here. Use this one."

  Laura heard the clatter as he threw it. Someone cursed. Ernest, she supposed, as he scrambled on the floor.

  Farley warned, "Don't imagine you can take me out with a puny thing like that knife."

  Moving a step at a time through the shadows in the hall, Laura adjusted her position, trying to see in

  the door.

  "I don't see why you're in such a hurry, Farley," Leighton said. "It's not far to the smuggled goods.

  I could give you directions ..."

  "You'll take me yourself. That's the only way your men will give me what is mine."

  Leighton continued as if Farley hadn't spoken. "And I wish you'd stop waving that gun around. What harm do you think I can do to you? My God, man, I'm naked and trussed like a Christmas goose."

  Laura winced at the image, then moved far enough around that she had a view of Farley. He stood with his feet planted firmly, the pistol held in both hands in a manner that bespoke great familiarity with it.

  He kept the barrel steady and pointed straight at the bed as he said, "I don't trust you, Leighton. You always have a confederate hidden somewhere or another."

  It was her cue. Stepping in the door, Laura said, "So he does."

  He reacted almost too quickly. The pistol swung at her. The roar of her pistol mixed with Leighton's anguished shout.

  One of Farley's legs collapsed. He fell sideways, but even as he landed he was aiming at her again. Leighton came off the bed, severed shreds of her robe tie clinging to his wrists. Laura threw herself on

  the floor as Leighton smashed into Farley. The pistol discharged, then flew into the air as Leighton knocked it away.

  "Laura!" Leighton's shout left her ears ringing, but his hands turned her over as gently as if she were a fragile china piece.

  "I'm fine." She wasn't. She'd hit the floor so hard she'd knocked the breath out of her lungs and bruised her elbows, but the bullet hadn't struck her, and that was all that mattered.

  Leighton's sharp eyes observed her, then, satisfied, he rapped, "Ernest, secure that blackguard."

  "Got 'em, my lord." Ernest's knee rested on Farley's windpipe until, out of air, Farley stopped clawing at Ernest. Examining the oozing wound Laura's bullet had inflicted in Farley's leg, Ernest added, "Nice shot, m'lady."

  Wanting to set matters straight, Laura began, "I'm not—"

  Leighton picked her up and cradled her in his arms, muffling her protest with his vigor and the impact

  of his large, bare body. Then he lifted one finger. "Listen."

  Outside, she heard the jingle of horses' tack and the movement of their hooves in the mud of the stable yard. Boots pounded through the taproom and up the stairs, and she realized with a rush of horror their rescuers had arrived. Unfortunately, they'd arrived too late to rescue anyone and they'd arrived too early for Leighton to dress himself in a scant semblance of respectability.

  Leighton and Laura were compromised.

  "Leighton." She pushed at him. "Let go of me!"

  "Keefe," he reminded her, and brushed her hair away from her face. "You banged your forehead."

  She touched it and brought her hand away, expecting by his concern to see blood. There was nothing,

  and it ached only a little. "It's fine. I'm fine. You've got
to—"

  The pounding boots reached the doorway, and a brisk male voice called, "Sir!" A young man Laura recognized from Leighton's London office skidded into the room, pistol raised. He stopped cold at the sight of the naked Earl of Hamilton crouched on the floor with a woman in his arms. "Sir?" The gun wavered.

  "Everything's first rate, Robinson," Leighton said. "Put your firearm away."

  Someone bumped Robinson in the back, and he stumbled forward.

  A boy of perhaps thirteen looked around, spotted Laura, and pointed. "It's her. She's the one who sent me."

  "Did you go get help, Franklin?" Leighton asked.

  Franklin clenched his skinny fists and placed them on his hips. "Yes, m'lord, the woman told me to."