Secluded with the Rogue

Chapter 3

Three

B lood flaked Ned Morgan’s bulbous nose, and a fresher streak oozed from a cut above his purpling eye. Rosalyn had managed to duck, weave, and thread her way through the dispersing crowd, ignored by Morgan and Cathmore who were busy tossing combatants into the deepening snow.

It was all rather exhilarating, now that she’d remembered her real quest.

Oh, she’d failed with Mindy, but what did that signify? Logan’s bid must have prevailed, because the girl stood making cow eyes at him, not at all unhappy with her bigamous, adulterous state.

She spotted Nelly trailing after Ned Morgan, who between tossing patrons, bellowed at the scullery maid. That poor creature slunk about with a broom and a mop avoiding eye contact with all but the broken crockery littering the floor and the brown ale puddled everywhere.

Rosalyn caught her maid’s arm.

Nelly’s gaze swept over her, distant, almost haughty. “Ned’ll need help.” She shook off Rosalyn’s hand and turned away.

A red haze clouded her vision as the full impact of Nelly’s betrayal hit her. She was alone—no rescued Mindy and child, no maid. And no place to stay the night.

She pressed a hand to her chest. No matter. She had spent her childhood in these parts. She would find shelter somehow.

“Miss Rosalyn.” Cathmore appeared next to her, not a bit of his clothing disheveled. “I told you to wait in the…” He took a deep breath. “Never mind. My coach is outside. You cannot stay here. I’ll take you and your maid to my home, Brockton Manor.”

The breath left her body again and a pounding started in her ear.

Brockton Manor? He was the new lord of Brockton Manor?

She carefully uncurled her fists, calmed her face, and drew in a steadying breath. “No,” she said.

“You cannot mean to remain here.”

“I have a place to lodge.”

“I can convey you?—”

“No.”

His face held no amusement now. In truth, she couldn’t read his expression.

She tried to copy him, pushing down a rising panic. She would find shelter. The people of Glen Murray weren’t entirely heartless.

He’d disapprove of her plans, of course he would. He would try pressing her to go with him, wanting to manage her. Or, perhaps he wanted her at Brockton Manor for…

Heat rose in her, and she pushed it down. That kiss had been astonishing, but she wouldn’t lose herself in a man, especially not this man who lived what should be her life, in what should be her home.

In any case, that kiss, had made his dishonorable intentions perfectly clear. There was no need for her baser instincts to aid him.

Plus, there was still the matter of her ring. She’d find it and then locate a place to stay.

He reached for her, and she drew back.

“If you’re worried that I would renew my overtures, I assure you, you’ll be safe, even without an official chaperone. Your honor will be well guarded by my meddling, overbearing housekeeper, Mrs. Sullivan.”

Rosalyn dropped her gaze. At her mother’s death, and years later when she’d left Brockton Manor for what ended up being the very last time, she’d cried buckets of tears in Mrs. Sullivan’s arms. She’d dearly love to feel those arms around her now.

She blinked, firmed herself, and looked back up, into eyes that still revealed nothing. “If my honor must be guarded by a meddling housekeeper, your intentions are quite clear.”

D amnation. Her words were a slap—if he was honest, a well-deserved one. Kissing an innocent—and he believed she was that—had been out of line.

He’d sampled more than his share of gently bred widows, or those who wished they were widowed, carefully honing a reputation that had mamas of the ton hiding their daughters from him. He’d avoided the traps set by the ton’s mamas.

But the papas had been less protective. The immensely wealthy son of a tradesman, raised with all the trappings of a gentleman, was fair game for some insipid daughter of a cash-strapped lord. With the grant of this blasted title, the predatory papas had become more aggressive, more numerous, and more refined.

His late father had done the hard work of raising the family fortunes. He’d made it clear his son’s job was to raise their social standing by marrying a peer’s daughter.

He’d dodged that fate, absenting himself to visit their distant businesses, only to receive letters haranguing him about the need to marry well. He’d absented himself again when the Corsican resurfaced, heading for Belgium to fight. He’d been lucky to survive and return home, still avoiding a society marriage.

Father had nagged up to the end, and death hadn’t relieved the pressure; it had added a heavy push of guilt to honor a death-bed promise. He must marry a peer’s daughter, not a mysterious, red-haired, bluestocking beauty like Rosalyn.

Though right now, that lady glared at him with the haughtiness of a duchess.

While he struggled to keep from laughing, she turned away and her sharp gasp cut the air. He followed her line of sight to where her maid stood daubing at a cut on Morgan’s face. The girl’s rolled up sleeves revealed plump little forearms and sturdy wrists, and her sash propped up breasts ready to burst from her low bodice.

“Well now,” Morgan murmured.

“You’ve quite a cut, sir.” The girl’s speech had thickened into the local accent.

“From here, are you?” Morgan said. “We have met, I think.”

“Oh, aye, you remember that night?” Her eyelids fluttered. The brash girl took his hand and studied the blood streaking across a clump of gold on his little finger.

Next to Hamish, Rosalyn huffed, her mouth dropping open as she watched the bold bit of muslin lead Morgan around. The maid filled a wash pan, slid the ring from Morgan’s finger, and placed it on the bar.

“Well now.” Morgan purred like a tame lion while the girl cleansed his hands.

Across the room, glasses crashed and the scullery maid screamed. Hamish glanced her way and saw her flailing in a puddle of ale, glasses rolling around her.

Morgan rushed over cursing the woman, with Rosalyn’s hussy maid in pursuit.

A cold draft of air streamed in bringing his coachman with it.

“Milord, I’ve settled Mr. Logan, his lady, and the babe, and…” He sighed.

Hamish read the rest of his meaning: The snow was deep and getting deeper.

“I’ll be right out.”

He turned back to find Rosalyn. Clearly the maid had set her cap for the innkeeper. She’d have a bed here, probably Morgan’s, but he knew the man, and Morgan would not be inclined to give Rosalyn shelter.

He spotted the lady in question just as she’d reached the abandoned bar. She picked up the bloodied ring, examined it quickly, and dropped it through a slit in her skirt.

The brandy in his otherwise empty stomach roiled. So , the high and mighty miss was a thief. He was usually a better judge. Thieves held no interest for him, not even one as pretty as this. He’d leave her to Ned Morgan’s justice.

He turned on his heel and hurried out to the waiting coach. The door opened to Logan and Mindy’s furious embrace, and he slammed it.

“Joining you up top, Cheevers,” he said, hoisting himself.

With a flick of the reins, they pulled out.

The horses had only picked their way as far as the edge of the road when the front door of the inn opened and they heard Morgan’s unmistakable bellow.

He craned his neck watching as a bundle of black cloth flew out, followed by a smaller dark mass, and a hard, dark object. The larger bundle stood, brushed itself off, picked up the snow-damp mantle and shook it out. A glint of copper sparkled in the twilight before she pulled up her hood and extinguished the shimmer. She found her valise, straightened, stared hard at the coach, and turned decidedly in the opposite direction.

Foolishly, away from the village and her only chance of shelter.

Rosalyn, or whoever she was, had lied about her purpose in visiting Glen Murray. And lied about the maid being Mindy’s cousin, since neither Mindy nor the maid had exchanged a word or a glance. The auction was a chance to pick pockets or steal. Perhaps the maid had stayed behind to warm Morgan’s bed and then pick him clean, while her supposed mistress waited elsewhere.

Since his father had acquired Brockton Manor, he’d become acquainted with the area and most of the families. There were no towns or villages or even hovels for miles in the direction Rosalyn was heading. If Morgan had caught Rosalyn stealing, she was lucky to get away with her life, but she would surely freeze to death before she reached shelter.

His instincts roused, the way they had through torments at school, his business endeavors, and his brief military career.

“Stop, Cheevers.” He clambered down from his wet seat.

O h heavens, it was so cold .

Rosalyn wrapped her cloak tighter and then patted again the slight lump in her pocket. She’d feared it lost when that vile man tossed her into the snow. As soon as she could, she would fasten the band around her neck with a ribbon.

For now, she must think about where to stay the night. The town was the other way, of course it was, and as soon as the new Lord of Brockton moved his dawdling coach down the road, she would turn back that way.

She stepped into a drift, cold snow seeping over the top of her half-boots and soaking her skirts and trudged on. Before she could reach the road, she heard the rustle of wool and shuffling snow behind her.

Heart pounding, she tried to quicken her steps. If it was Morgan—well, he would kill her if he noticed the ring missing and if he found it on her. He might take his revenge on Nelly, as well but she hoped not. She counted her blessings she’d never confided that bit of family lore to her maid. With any luck, the maid’s shameless behavior would distract Morgan until she herself was safely out of reach.

As the footsteps drew closer, a shiver went through her. She flipped back the hood of her mantle and glanced back.

Cathmore. The insufferable man would not leave her alone, and his long legs were carrying him through the heavy drifts at a far great speed than her own limbs could ever achieve.

A great wave of heat flared in her. How dare he follow her?

“What do you want, sir?”

“You will freeze to death.” He closed the distance between them, and then she was swept up and floating, and headed back in the direction of his waiting coach. “You’re coming with me. We know we shall not have to worry about your virtue.”

Rosalyn squirmed. “You will put me down now !”

“I will not.”

“Oh, perhaps you can force me into your carriage.” Of course, he could, the witless barbarian. “But don’t think to molest me. You will not take liberties with me.”

“Will I not?” His smile chilled her and heated her again. Dear God, he was carrying her off to the manor, and once there…

Once there, she wouldn’t be friendless. “I’ll throw myself upon your Mrs. Sullivan.”

“You may try, but I warn you, she is an excellent judge of character. She’ll wonder why a single woman traveled all the way to Glen Murray in my company.”

Rosalyn swallowed tears. Seeing it from Mrs. Sullivan’s point of view, well, the dear lady would be shocked. She’d let a man she’d only just met kiss her, a man not her husband, a rogue , and she’d kissed him back with a great deal of enthusiasm. And then she’d committed a theft.

No one would understand that she’d stolen back her father’s promise. No one else knew Papa had promised the ring to her.

Cathmore was right. Mrs. Sullivan would not see it her way. This arrogant, high-handed lord had ruined her reputation in one afternoon. He had ruined the last Montagu.

She must find a way to escape him, or he would take the very last thing she had, what was left of her innocence. Her hand rested on the hard knot of the ring, and she prayed for the promised luck.

H e handed her into the coach and climbed in behind her.

“What’s she doing here?” Mindy asked.

Hamish sent his former aide a look. Logan bent to whisper in his new bride’s ear, silencing her.

The girl minded Logan, but for how long?

Naive, inexperienced, and lonely, Logan had been an easy mark. Mindy was pretty, but a flirt, and a restless complainer under Morgan’s roof. He doubted her feelings for Logan, but hoped he was wrong. He hoped this repayment of his debt to Logan would bring the man happiness.

But he doubted it.

“Are you warm enough?” Hamish asked of all assembled.

“Yes, my lord,” Logan said. He handed over a heavy blanket. “The lady will need this. Mindy and I will share the one.”

And no doubt the covering would provide them some privacy.

Hamish shook out the rug and turned to Rosalyn.

“Would you like to share this blanket, milady, or will you have it all to yourself?”

“I thank you, but you may have it all to yourself, my lord.” She turned away and stared out the window.

She had tried for a patronizing tone, but her chattering teeth made him want to chuckle. He doubled the blanket and spread it over her, leaning purposely too close to tuck in the sides. Under the wet wool, she smelled of lavender and soap, no heavy perfume like a bird of paradise, no smell of the kitchen or laundry, no stench of the unwashed like a common thief.

His pulse quickened, and he thought briefly of tossing the cover over both of them, and exploring, as Logan was doing with Mindy.

A strand of that glorious hair peeked out from under her hood. Hair that red was rare in these parts. A portrait of a lady with shimmering red hair in just the same shade still hung in the master’s dressing room at Brockton Manor. Long a widower, his father had enjoyed studying the last Baroness Montagu. He’d teased that Hamish could move her to the portrait gallery when he had his own lady to replace her.

He examined the lock of escaped hair, and the curve of Rosalyn’s cheek, and the delicate sweep of her nose, suspicion dawning.

Mrs. Sullivan had been at Brockton Manor forever. She would know the answer.