The Road to Ruin Page 5

  “These will need to be delivered to the docks. Pay for their passage north and give instructions that they are only to be handed on to Scottish fishermen, the rougher the better.”

  “Then what?” Hobson asked.

  James stood, flicked open his watch and met the gaze of his oldest and most trusted friend. “It is two o’clock now; if we can be on the road within the next few hours we’ll have a good head start. If Anthony does discover her missing before then, he can give chase. He’ll say she has retired, ill, I imagine. That way she can choose to return to the Marriage Mart if indeed this story of preferring the sea is the hogwash it smells like.”

  “So we are for Gretna?” Hobson asked.

  “Forget Gretna for the moment. We’ll head in that direction but once we cross the border we’ll let Daniella navigate.”

  “And if she is leading us into a trap?”

  “If we see it in time, we make for Gretna and wait it out in a public place full of both English and Scottish witnesses. If her father took Amelia and Mother to draw me out, if this is some kind of revenge attempt, he will either wait for us or meet us halfway.”

  “Why don’t you just compromise and marry her? Then her father will have to give the women back. He won’t hurt his little girl’s husband or his kin.”

  “Firstly, she is a pirate and a hoyden, not the wife of a marquess. Secondly, you assume Captain Germaine has a moral compass where I think he would be just as happy to see his daughter widowed to inherit my money. I would play into his hands and get myself killed and all he would have to do is drive the knife in.”

  Hobson’s eyes opened wide for a moment and then he guffawed loudly. Once his laughter died down, he grew serious. “How do you think he worked out that it was you who stabbed him that day? He weren’t exactly asking questions.”

  “That stupidity was my own fault. I identified myself in the hopes he would find his conscience and let us live without a fight.”

  “By all reports, he does enjoy a fight. What makes you think you’ll be the victor in this one?”

  “How many battles have I lost?”

  “None.”

  “If the man had brains at all, he would never have invited me into a fray.”

  “You can’t win them all, James.”

  He smiled then, a cold tightening of his lips. “Oh yes I can.”

  *

  Daniella was far less than prepared when the door to her prison opened and once again Lasterton filled the doorway. Clean-shaven and dressed more like a king than a servant, he peered down his nose at her. “You have ten minutes to refresh yourself and then we leave.”

  No please or thank you? “You can’t expect me to cross the country in this gown.” She had liked it because it was daring and made her feel beautiful and desirable but here, with him, she was just cold and half-dressed.

  “There is another gown waiting for you.”

  “Whose?” she asked, as she narrowed her eyes at him.

  “My sister is a different shape from you but it will have to do.”

  “I do hope she doesn’t object to you lending her clothing to a stranger.”

  He shrugged but his shoulders were tense and a fleeting wariness flickered in his eyes for a moment before he answered. “She and my mother are travelling the continent. I dare say she’ll purchase a hundred more and discard all the others as unfashionable upon her return.”

  Daniella bit her tongue against a sharp reply about English women having far more allowance than good sense but she couldn’t afford to fight with him. It was already going to be difficult sitting across from him in a carriage for near on two weeks. If they set off on bad terms it would be that much harder. “Very well, if you’re sure she won’t mind.”

  By the end of fifteen minutes, Daniella swore and cursed fashionable ladies as though they were responsible for all the trouble she now found herself in. Twisting this way and that, stretching her arms over her head, behind her back, across her shoulders, she still couldn’t reach the row of tiny buttons that marched mockingly up the back of the pale blue gown. Holding her breath didn’t help either since her stays had already done their job of pulling her tight.

  The gown was quite low in the neckline and was cinched just below her bust to drop to the floor around her ankles. She couldn’t even do up most of the buttons and then pull the dress up because it was too small for her. The sister must be a very tall, very slender Amazon.

  A knock startled her so she cursed the door as well as the man who almost certainly stood on the other side.

  “I need a few more minutes,” she called through clenched teeth.

  “We need to go now.”

  “Well, I’m not ready.”

  The handle on the door turned but it held since she’d locked it from the inside.

  “Miss Germaine, open the door.”

  “Not yet,” she huffed and renewed her struggles in earnest. She could wield a sword in waves higher than a ship, yet a little row of pearls was going to prove her undoing.

  “Open the door this instant.”

  She ignored him, her fingertips finally touching the edge of one button. More seconds passed but she was able to push one more through the impossibly small corresponding hole. A sigh of relief escaped her as she let her arms relax so the blood could flow again. The dress sagged everywhere it wouldn’t if the damned thing had laces or was her own size.

  “I’m coming in there, Daniella. If you have a leg out of the window, I will drag you back in.”

  Not for one moment had she considered escaping the house, just the nuisance gown. “I just need a little more time.”

  The lock clicked and he barged in, his eyes going first to the still-closed window and then to her, where she stood before the basin. He raised his brows but didn’t ask, didn’t say a word.

  “I can’t get the bloody buttons done up on this bloody dress that doesn’t bloody fit!” she exploded, turning in a frustrated circle, her arms once again wrapping around her body.

  “Language, Daniella,” he admonished with half a grin. “Why didn’t you ring for the housekeeper?”

  “I don’t need help; I’ll be done in a moment.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” he muttered. “Turn around.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Turn. Around.”

  His tone was so commanding, so demanding, she could do nothing else but comply. He really did sound like a general.

  At the first brush of his warm fingers against her shift, she twitched. Their situation was most improper. She smiled.

  “You are not supposed to enjoy this,” he murmured, bending to his task so that his hot breath whispered over her back.

  “Enjoy what? I don’t think I’m going to be able to breathe deeply again for days. Surely your sister has a wider dress than this one?”

  “No. This is the most, ah, commodious I could find.”

  Daniella felt short as a squab, as her bare toes were swamped by the frilled hem. “Do you stretch her on a rack?”

  She wasn’t prepared for his chuckle. If she had been prepared, she would have thought of something else before his warm breath skated over her skin and a blush heated her cheeks. Before all she could think about was melting into him and thinking how to make him chuckle again.

  Damn. Those were the kind of thoughts that saw her stranded in London in the first place.

  Making eyes at a deckhand had evidently been the proof her father needed to finally see her as a woman rather than a child and to therefore ship her off to the capital to find a husband before she found more trouble. What would the captain make of her blushing at her abductor?

  “I do not. Amelia is, to her horror, naturally very tall and very slim.”

  “English men are attracted to buxom women,” she said matter-of-factly before thinking the better of it.

  “Many of us are, yes,” he replied as the last button slipped home.

  She turned slowly, her breath held more fr
om anticipation rather than the too-tight dress. “Oh?” That one word came out more a squeak than the sophisticated question she meant it. He was so close, the flecks of honey glinted in the brown around his pupils.

  He shook his head. She followed the action with eyes that surely betrayed her.

  “I’m sorry. That’s the response I always give Amelia when she complains about being gangly. She is rarely grateful for my honesty.”

  So he talked to her the same way as to his sister? Even though disappointment drooped her shoulders, there was a part of her that was not unhappy he treated her thus.

  “You said we were out of time?”

  “We do have to be on our way. The horses will grow restless and soon the streets will fill with servants and such.” He turned and walked out of the room without waiting to see if she was finally ready or if she would even follow.

  She wanted to drive a knife into his shoulder then and there. Daniella drew a breath in, exhaled, counted to five and stared at the window. She knew she wouldn’t make it far but it looked enticing nonetheless.

  By the time she reached the bottom of the curving staircase, Lasterton stood with her slippers dangling from his fingertips, irritation pinching his features. She fought the urge to poke her tongue out at him.

  The front door opened and Hobson’s head appeared. “The bags are strapped. We’re ready to go when you lot are.”

  Her captor nodded once and started for the door. “Put it around to the staff that if anyone asks for me once we’re gone, I’m on my way to Scotland via the North Road.”

  She slipped her feet into her shoes then followed him across the hall.

  “Wait behind the door while I check for passers-by,” he said, and she nodded.

  At his signal, she ducked under his arm and pattered down the front stairs to the waiting carriage. Hoof beats sounded down around the corner—she froze, but Lasterton, right behind her, grasped her about the waist and tossed her into the shelter of the conveyance, then jumped in before she had even decided which way was up.

  “You need to be gentler with the miss,” a female voice admonished from across the small space as the carriage lurched into motion.

  “She could have climbed in herself,” Trelissick pointed out with a shrug.

  Once Daniella could see again she threw a glare at the marquess, but he was busy looking out the window at the passing buildings beginning to be lit by the rising sun. She guessed it to be somewhere around six in the morning. Sitting across from her was Mrs McDougal. Some more conciliation could only help her cause.

  “Thank you for thinking to bring me a chaperone. It isn’t necessary, but it is a kindness.”

  This time he did turn his gaze to her but it was too dark for her to read his eyes. “Mrs McDougal is here solely to ensure I don’t have to marry you if we should be seen by members of the upper echelons.”

  She drew in an outraged breath. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I am not the marrying type.”

  Mrs McDougal huffed but obviously knew better than to speak for her master.

  “You’re never going to marry?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Probably not.”

  “What are you going to do for the rest of your life?”

  “Now that my father has retired, I plan to take charge of The Aurora and sail the seas. I won’t need a husband to see that happen.”

  “Your father may have objections to that.”

  This time it was her turn to shrug. “He’ll come around to my way of thinking.”

  “You do know you don’t rule the world, don’t you?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “In the month I’ve been watching you, you haven’t taken a care for anyone else’s welfare or social standing at all. Your behaviour reflects poorly on your brother, indeed on everyone you associate with. There are others to consider when you sell your virginity in a warehouse on the docks.”

  She gulped. She stuttered. Her cheeks warmed. “You don’t understand.”

  “Oh, there you are wrong. I understand you think you know better than everyone else. I understand you value your reputation with no more than a passing thought. I understand you have been indulged for far too long. It’s little wonder your father dropped you off and then staged his own death to be rid of you.”

  *

  James should have stopped talking. He should have closed his eyes and pretended to sleep until their first stop. But something in him had snapped and he couldn’t patch it up. How the hell was he to have predicted what would happen when faced with the smooth expanse of her back emerging from her shift? She was his hostage—at best his collaborator—not his mistress.

  In the four weeks he’d watched her, he hadn’t once looked at her as anything but a means to rescue his mother and sister. Why now, after kidnapping the girl, did his desires have to awaken? He shuddered. The easiest way to lose all he held dear was to think of Daniella Germaine as anything but a hostage. The next was to make her furious. He watched as she drew herself upright on the seat, her back straight and her pert little chin in the air.

  “My father,” she spat, “did not wish to be rid of me. He wishes for me a better life.”

  James rolled his eyes—anything to lift them from where her chest rose but the dress did not. “So life on a pirate ship isn’t as glamorous as one is led to believe?”

  “Privateer ship,” she corrected, her passion and fire only adding to her allure.

  “Oh yes, I apologize for not making the distinction.” A snort from his left and he turned his raised brow on Mrs McDougal, who fought laughter with an impish grin.

  “There is a difference, you know.”

  “I know the difference but I wonder if you do? In the history of boats on the sea quite a few have claimed to be privateers but most were nothing but pirates with special letters from this king or that. Did your father have any such letters?”

  Daniella nodded in triumph. “He did.”

  “From whom?”

  “The King of Spain.”

  James shook his head and made a tsk tsk sound. “He hands those things out like sweets so he can expand his coffers with ill-got gains. I’ll tell you if the English were to capture your ship, or even the Americans, that piece of paper would be burned along with the rest of her.”

  Her look changed from triumph to fury again and she crossed her arms in defiance.

  James closed his eyes and rested his head against the squabs. For the first time in his life he wished his sister, Amelia, was rounder. At least then her dress would have fit Daniella instead of squashing those breasts inwards and upwards. He made a mental note to retrieve a pelisse or coat from the luggage at the first stop. He made another to ensure his sister wore a fichu in all of her gowns in the future.

  Daniella didn’t argue with him anymore as the coach rattled its way through the streets of London heading north. The only sound came from Mrs McDougal’s knitting needles ticking as she worked on what loosely resembled a scarf.

  The last twelve hours had been such a drain on his nerves and his temper. He hoped the weather stayed clear and they made good time so he could be rid of the troublesome chit all the sooner. How could any young lady think it a good idea to sell her innocence, even if the sale were staged? There were shameless members of the demimonde who wouldn’t behave as rashly as Miss Germaine. When he got back to London, he would seek out Pendleton and box the pup’s ears for his encouragement of her scheme.

  If he made it back to London.

  As much as James didn’t want to dwell on the morbid side of what he set out to do, he had to face the fact that if this went wrong, he would be going back to his home in a timber box with a ball in his heart or a blade in his back. If Miss Germaine didn’t betray and murder him, he was sure her father would have a good crack at it. Amelia and his mother were dear to him but if he had a daughter and someone made off with her, held her for ransom, he would be out for blood too. Thoughts of young women being trea
ted badly led his mind to wander to the other virgins from the auction block and he swore, his eyes opening wide. He hadn’t sent warning to Wigby at his estate to expect them. Damn the fool girl.

  Lord, he hoped the captain really did want her back once this was all over and done with.

  *

  Sir Anthony Germaine rubbed a hand over his brow and sighed. He’d had the night from hell and hadn’t yet retired, the glass in his hand long since empty and the sun high in the morning sky. Not for the first time he thought about packing up his London townhouse and moving far away. Somewhere he could be accepted for the man he was rather than the tales of his father’s past. There had to be some part of the world the Germaine name wasn’t known.

  Of course, the events of the previous night made it impossible for him to run anywhere.

  Anthony flexed his toes and had to bite his tongue against sudden and blinding pain in his ankle. Broken. That was the doctor’s educated guess. Stupid. That was his cousin Darcy’s opinion. Irreparably soiled. The young lady’s father’s words. The young lady he had fallen on when he’d attempted to climb over a balustrade in a garden to avoid another woman’s furious glares. He’d hit the ground hard, smashed his ankle on a boulder unseen in the dark and collided with the once honourable Miss Something-or-rather. Elmira? Alvira? He’d never seen the chit in his life, but all in the space of ten seconds, they had become affianced.

  Never mind that it was a mistake, a misunderstanding of monumental proportions. She had been alone in the garden and when she shrieked, a passer-by (a vicar strolling with his wife no less) had discovered the pair in each other’s arms. Elmira. Yes, that was her name. She had instinctively reached out to steady him as he barrelled into her. They hadn’t been hugging or kissing or any other such scandalous action. He hadn’t even caught her name until her father was summoned and her mother cried while the miss herself just stared at everyone in confusion. Was she a simpleton or had she been merely swept up in the madness the same as he had?