Secluded with the Rogue

Chapter 4

Four

I n fair weather, it was no more than a quarter hour ride to Brockton Manor, but the weather slowed their travel, the coach slipping over ruts and skidding, even at their tedious pace.

At the sharp bend that led into the Manor property, the coach slid and lurched, and suddenly tipped. Rosalyn’s corner dropped with a sharp jolt that knocked out her breath and left her with the wicked lord atop her. She gasped and choked, struggling to breathe.

“ Blast it !” His curse rattled into her ear. He wedged a hand under her back, easing his weight from her. “Are you hurt, Rosalyn? Of course, you are, with a big ox pressing you. Does anything hurt?”

“Can’t…breathe,” she gasped.

“Easy breaths.” He grabbed for a handhold, pulling away more, and she took in a great gulp of air. “There you go. I’m sorry I crushed you, my dear. There’s no defying the force of gravity. Logan, are you two—three—all right?”

The babe took that as his cue to wail, and the coachman rattled the door.

“The other side, Cheevers,” Cathmore boomed, “else you’ll pull us over.”

Her breath returning, Rosalyn patted her pocket and drew comfort from the ring.

“Are you injured?” Cathmore asked again with real concern. “Can you move everything?”

“I am fine, I think.”

“Turn your head for me,” he said.

“I’m fine, sir,” she said, but she turned her head and waggled her arms and legs until he was satisfied.

“Bad luck, this, I’m afraid.”

“But good luck, sir, if no one was hurt.”

A boyish smile flashed before he hoisted himself to confer with the coachman. She couldn’t hear all his words, but his tone was clear. Without berating, blaming, or insulting, Cathmore determined a plan of action, and issued his orders.

Unlike her father. His bellowing would have been heard in the next county. With servants, Papa had not always been just, fair, and kind, not even when he was not in his cups.

Cathmore’s behavior gave her hope. From where she sat now, she could see naught of the Manor, but there would be acres of parkland and bare trees, all covered in white. It wasn’t far to the main house, but closer still was a guardhouse. There were other structures as well, scattered about the property, small shelters she’d sneaked off to whenever she could. Only the elderly groom, dear old Joseph, had ever found her out, and he’d never once tattled. She tucked the blanket against the cold and wondered if Joseph was still alive and living at Brockton Manor.

It was so terribly cold just sitting here. They could take shelter at the guardhouse now. She opened her mouth to suggest it, then remembered that she was playing a stranger. Besides, Cathmore might have torn down all the outlying structures. Even in Papa’s time, they were ancient.

She pulled the blanket close and gave thanks. Her circumstances could be worse.

A n hour later, she found herself in those worse circumstances, alone in the propped-up coach with Cathmore. Concerned for the baby, he’d sent Logan and Mindy and the child along first in the small sleigh the coachman had fetched, a sleigh that could barely accommodate the two adults.

A gentleman would have sent the two ladies together. She was perfectly capable of managing the horse. To his credit, Mr. Logan had politely and quietly suggested as much, but the dark lord shook his head and shot her a look that froze her toes a little more.

She’d been a fool to succumb to his kiss, but…it had been marvelous. Just once, she’d experienced a pleasure she’d heard other girls, wickeder girls, whisper about.

But other pleasures? No. Devil take the man if he thought he would seduce her. The kiss must be the end of it. She drew the blanket tighter and surreptitiously fingered the ring again.

“Alone at last,” he said.

Wishing she could shrink herself into invisibility, she held her breath.

He shifted on the seat next to her. “How come you to be without your maid tonight?” His tone was measured, not seductive.

She eased out a breath. She’d prefer an interrogation to the other sort of problem. “There was no room for me at the inn.”

“Ah. A veritable Christmas Eve tale. I imagine Ned Morgan would never have room for you after interfering with his auction.”

“You seek the answers you already know.” She couldn’t keep the irritation from her voice. “He should thank me for driving up the bids.”

“It was not much higher than the agreed-upon price.”

A throbbing started up behind her eyes. Of course . And she wasn’t a complete idiot—the words hadn’t surprised her. “Why the farce of an auction? Why not a straight bill of sale?”

His eyes glittered in the gloomy interior, assessing, neither friendly nor unfriendly. “It is an ancient convention of the common people, Miss Crompton, like hand-fasting used to be, and the conventions must be followed precisely to be accepted.”

The condescending manner annoyed her. “Accepted, but in no way legal.”

He shrugged. “Only the very rich and the very patient have the wherewithal to endure a divorce.”

“But Morgan sold his own child.”

“His own child? Are you sure?”

Rosalyn looked down at her gloved hands. The cow eyes directed at Logan, the groping and fondling under the blanket—Mindy had met Logan before.

“Amazing what we can learn when we watch and listen.”

The arrogant… She directed her gaze to the stark landscape. Logan and Mindy, Nelly and Ned Morgan—for surely that had been planned in advance as well.

And now Cathmore and Brockton Manor. What a foolish endeavor she’d stumbled into.

And yet, she had the ring. Surely, it had appeared for a reason. It was a sign. She hadn’t been meant to save Mindy. She’d been meant to get back this little piece of her father who’d loved her and her mother so much.

The frigid wind had eased, and the falling snow made everything softer and brighter.

She might run now, run away from this coach, and this man, and never have to see her old home. She’d find a shelter. She’d make a fire before she froze, and on the morrow, she’d find her way to another inn. A lovely grand manor house was no longer for her.

She was naught but a spinster, one who’d at least been properly kissed.

Sighing, she shook herself. She was a spinster with a small living, one who gave her time to the scruffy, bedraggled castoffs of London’s peers and poor. She’d find her way home, put her ring into safekeeping, and hire one of the older girls to replace the duplicitous Nelly.

“Who are you?” Cathmore asked.

His intrusion startled her. “I told you my name.”

“You told me a name.”

Heat sparked in her cheeks. Luckily, he wouldn’t be able to see it in the dark coach. “I am Rosalyn Crompton. I am a spinster, with a small living from an aunt. I told you, I live in London.”

“Where in London?”

If he knew that, he could track her down. She sealed her lips and looked away.

“I suppose I could obtain both your true name and residence from the woman you said was your maid. I imagine she’ll still be with Ned Morgan when the weather clears.” He shifted again in his seat. “You kiss very well for a virtuous spinster, Miss Crompton.”

Rosalyn’s stomach lurched and she gulped in air.

“Are you quite all right?” he asked.

“You are no gentleman. I’m getting out.” She reached for the door, but he threw out an arm and blocked her way.

“Sit down, my lady,” he said. “I was raised as a gentleman, but perhaps you’re right. After all, my father began his working life running errands at a mill. His father before him farmed, and his father ran the Highlands in a kilt.”

“So, you are not really a lord.”

“Oh, I am. I didn’t lie.”

Grrr . That was pointed enough.

“Why the grant of a title? Your war service?”

He sighed. “Let us say, my father found a way to put his wealth in service for the good of the Crown. And you have distracted me very adroitly. Let us go back to that kiss.”

Her hands fisted. “Let us not.”

Outside, jingling bells grew louder. The sleigh was approaching.

“Very well,” he said. “We will defer the matter until later, and perhaps it is more a matter for action than discussion.” He gave her a cocky, glittery-eyed smile.

She would definitely need Mrs. Sullivan’s assistance.

R osalyn stood in the middle of the frigid Rose Bedchamber, assaulted by sights, and emotions, and memories. The heat from the struggling fire didn’t reach much beyond the grate, but she wouldn’t huddle near it when there was so much else here to warm her.

This was her mother’s bedchamber. That Cathmore, the vulgar barbarian, would think to have her sleep in a room that connected with the one he must certainly be using angered her.

And excited her a little, as well, but she must, must, must put that emotion aside.

Cathmore had escorted her to the manor’s front door, whispered instructions to the servant who greeted them, and driven off to the stables. As it turned out, the servant, Sally, was a kitchen maid, and not much more than a child. The chatty girl had promised Mrs. Sullivan would be along shortly.

She pressed a hand to her chest. The chamber’s draperies and upholstery appeared to be new, but the furniture, the colors and the patterns were the same, and all seemed as elegant and unsullied as when Mama had occupied the room.

She wouldn’t sleep here, but just for a moment, she wanted to fall into the memories engulfing her. She’d practiced her letters at that table and listened to stories on that window seat. She’d crawled onto that big bed with its toile hangings and sipped from her mother’s cup of hot chocolate. She’d spent day after day here in the months of her mother’s illness.

Or actually, she’d discovered later, it had been her mother’s confinement. Mama had died in that bed, giving birth to the stillborn heir.

She brushed back a tear and went to answer the soft knock at the door, pausing before turning the key. If it were Cathmore… No, he would no doubt make a swashbuckling entrance through the connecting dressing rooms.

She opened the door to a small, rounded woman with kind, tired eyes and soft gray hair that never quite stayed in its bun.

“Mrs. Sullivan,” she said. “You have to help me. I cannot stay here.”