It Happened One Autumn by Lisa Kleypas
Silence, and then a maid’s frightened reply from within. “Milord…the countess bade me to tell you that she is resting.”
“I’ll send her to her eternal fucking rest,” Marcus roared, “if this door isn’t opened now.”
“Milord, please—”
He drew back three or four paces and hurled himself against the door, which shook on its hinges and partially gave with a splintering sound. There were fearful cries in the hallway from a pair of female guests who happened to witness the astonishing display of raging frenzy. “Dear God,” one exclaimed to the other, “he’s gone berserk!”
Marcus drew back again and lunged at the door, this time sending chunks of paneling flying. He felt Simon Hunt’s hands grasp him from behind, and he whirled with his fist drawn back, ready to launch an attack on all fronts.
“Jesus,” Hunt muttered, retreating a step or two with his hands raised in a defensive gesture. His face was taut and his eyes were wide, and he stared at Marcus as if he were a stranger. “Westcliff—”
“Stay the hell out of my way!”
“Gladly. But let me point out that if our positions were reversed, you would be the first to tell me to keep a cool—”
Ignoring him, Marcus swerved back to the door and targeted the disjointed lock with a powerful, accurately aimed blow of his boot heel. The housemaid’s scream shot through the doorway as the ruined portal swung open. Bursting into the receiving room, Marcus charged toward the bedchamber, where the countess sat in a chair by a small hearth fire. Fully dressed and swathed in ropes of pearls, she stared at him with amused disdain.
Breathing heavily, Marcus advanced on her with bloodlust racing through his veins. It was certain that the countess had no idea that she was in mortal danger, or she would not have received him so calmly.
“Full of animal spirits today, are we?” she asked. “Your descent from gentleman to savage brute has been accomplished so very quickly. I must offer Miss Bowman my compliments on her efficacy.”
“What have you done with her?”
“Done with her?” Her expression taunted him with its innocent perplexity. “What the devil do you mean, Westcliff?”
“You met with her at Butterfly Court this morning.”
“I never walk that far from the manor,” the countess said haughtily. “What a ridiculous asser—” She let out a strident cry as Marcus seized her, his fingers wrapping around the pearl ropes and tightening them around her throat.
“Tell me where she is, or I’ll snap your neck like a wishbone!”
Simon Hunt seized him from behind once more, determined to prevent a murder from occurring. “Westcliff!”
Marcus closed his hand in a harder grip around the pearls. He glared without blinking into his mother’s face, not missing the flicker of vindictive triumph that lurked in her eyes. He did not take his gaze from hers even as he heard his sister Livia’s voice.
“Marcus,” she said urgently. “Marcus, listen to me! You have my permission to throttle her later. I’ll even help. But at least wait until we’ve found out what she’s done.”
Marcus tightened the tension of the pearls until the elderly woman’s eyes seemed to protrude from their shallow sockets. “Your only value to me,” he said in a low tone, “is your knowledge of Lillian Bowman’s whereabouts. If I can’t obtain that from you, I’ll send you to the devil. Tell me, or I’ll choke it from you. And believe that I have enough of my father in me to do it without a second thought.”
“Oh yes, you have him in you,” the countess said raspily. As his hold on her necklace loosened marginally, she smiled with malevolent enjoyment. “I see that all pretenses of being nobler, better, wiser than your father have finally vanished. That Bowman creature has poisoned you without your even being—”
“Now!” he roared.
For the first time, she began to look uneasy, though no less self-righteous. “I will admit, I met with Miss Bowman this morning at Butterfly Court—where she told me of her intentions to run away with Lord St. Vincent. She has decided to elope with him.”
“That’s a lie!” came Livia’s outraged cry, while a burst of agitated female voices came from the direction of the doorway…the wallflowers, who seemed to be vigorously denying the statement.
Marcus released the countess as if he had been burned. His first reaction was a piercing relief that Lillian was still alive. However, the relief was followed immediately by the awareness that she was far from safe. In light of St. Vincent’s need of a fortune, it made perfect sense for him to abduct Lillian. Marcus turned from his mother, never wanting to look at her again, unable to bring himself to speak to her. His gaze locked with Simon Hunt’s. Predictably, Hunt was already making rapid calculations. “He’ll take her to Gretna Green, of course,” Hunt murmured, “and they’ll have to travel east to the main road in Hertfordshire. He won’t risk traveling the back ways and getting mired in mud, or having the wheels damaged from broken road. From Hertfordshire it will be approximately forty-five hours to Scotland…and at a speed of ten miles per hour, with occasional stops for fresh relay horses…”
“You’ll never overtake them,” the countess cried with a cackling laugh. “I told you I would have my way, Westcliff!”
“Oh, shut up, you evil hag!” cried Daisy Bowman impatiently from the doorway, her eyes huge in her pale face. “Lord Westcliff, shall I run to the stables and tell them to saddle a horse?”
“Two horses,” Simon Hunt said resolutely. “I’m going with him.”
“Which ones—”
“Ebony and Yasmin,” Marcus replied. They were his best Arabians, bred for speed over long distance. They were not as lightning-fast as thoroughbreds, but they would endure a punishing pace for hours, traveling at least three times as fast as St. Vincent’s coach.
Daisy disappeared in a flash, and Marcus turned to his sister. “See that the countess is gone by the time I return,” he said curtly. “Pack whatever she needs, and get her off the estate.”
“Where do you wish me to send her?” Livia asked, pale but composed.
“I don’t give a damn, so long as she knows not to return.”
Realizing that she was being banished, and most likely exiled, the countess rose from her chair. “I will not be disposed of in this manner! I won’t have it, my lord!”
“And tell the countess,” Marcus said to Livia, “that if the slightest harm comes to Miss Bowman, she had better pray that I never find her.”
Marcus strode from the room, shoving through a small crowd that had gathered in the hallway. Simon Hunt followed, pausing only to murmur briefly to Annabelle and press a kiss to her forehead. She stared after him with an anxious frown, biting her lip to keep from calling after him.
After a lengthy pause, the countess was heard to mutter, “It matters not what becomes of me. I am content in the knowledge that I have prevented him from befouling the family lineage.”
Livia turned to give her mother a half-pitying, half-contemptuous glance. “Marcus never fails,” she said softly. “Most of his childhood was spent learning to overcome impossible odds. And now that Marcus has finally found someone worth fighting for …do you really think he would let anything stop him?”
Chapter 25
D espite her fear and worry, the residual effects of the ether caused Lillian to sleep as she sat with her head resting against the side of the velvet-upholstered wall of the carriage. The eventual cessation of movement caused her to awaken. Her back hurt, and her feet were cold and numb. Rubbing her sore eyes, she wondered if she had been dreaming. She willed herself to awaken in the quiet little bedroom at Stony Cross Park…or better yet, the spacious bed she had shared with Marcus. Opening her eyes, she saw the interior of St. Vincent’s carriage, and her heart plummeted.
Her fingers shook as she reached out to lift the window curtain with a clumsy motion. It was early evening, the dying sun casting a last harsh glitter through a scant grove of oak trees. The carriage had stopped in front of a coach
Aware of a movement on the seat beside her, Lillian began to turn, and stiffened as she felt both her wrists being caught neatly behind her back. “What—” she asked, at the same time that cold metal rings were snapped smoothly around her wrists. She tugged at her arms, but they were fastened securely. Handcuffs, she realized. “You bastard,” she said, her voice trembling with fury. “You coward. You bloody—” Her voice was muffled as a wad of fabric was shoved into her mouth, and a gag was gently cinched over it.
“Sorry,” St. Vincent murmured in her ear, not sounding at all penitent. “You shouldn’t tug at your wrists, pet. You’ll bruise them needlessly.” His warm fingers closed over her icy fists. “An interesting toy, this,” he murmured, a fingertip slipping beneath the metal cuff to stroke her wrist. “Some women of my acquaintance have a great fondness for it.” Turning her rigid body in his arms, he smiled as he saw the angry bewilderment in her expression. “My innocent… it will be a great pleasure to tutor you.”
Pushing at the gag with her dry tongue, Lillian could not help reflecting on how beautiful and treacherous a creature he was. A villain should be black-haired and wart-covered and as monstrous on the outside as he was on the inside. It was vastly unjust that a soulless beast like St. Vincent should be graced with such handsomeness. “I’ll return momentarily,” he told her. “Be still— and try not to cause trouble.”
The smug ass, Lilian thought bitterly, while the rising pressure of panic caused her throat to tighten. She watched without blinking as St. Vincent opened the door and swung down from the carriage. A gathering semidarkness enclosed her as evening fell. Forcing herself to breathe regularly, Lillian tried to think above her fear. Surely there would come a moment, an opening, when she would have a chance to escape. All she had to do was wait.
Her absence at Stony Cross Park would have been noticed many hours ago. They would be searching for her…wasting time, worrying…and all the while, the countess would be waiting in silent complacency, satisfied in the knowledge that she had handily dispatched of at least one troublesome American. What was Marcus thinking at this moment? What was he—no, she couldn’t allow herself to dwell on the thought, for it had caused her eyes to sting, and she would not let herself cry. St. Vincent would not have the satisfaction of seeing any evidence of weakness.
Twisting her hands in the cuffs, Lillian tried to figure out what kind of locking mechanism fastened them, but in her current position, it was useless. Relaxing back against the seat, she glared at the door until it opened once more.
St. Vincent climbed back into the carriage and signaled the driver. The vehicle jolted slightly as it was drawn to the yard behind the coaching inn. “In a moment I will take you upstairs to a room where you can see to your private needs. Regrettably we haven’t time for a meal, but I can promise you a decent breakfast on the morrow.”
When the carriage stopped once more, St. Vincent grasped her waist and pulled her toward him, his blue eyes glittering appreciatively at the glimpse of her breasts through the thin chemise, while the front of her dress gaped open. Covering her with his coat to conceal the sight of the handcuffs and gag, he slung her over his shoulder. “Don’t even think of struggling or kicking,” she heard him say, the sound of his voice muffled by the layer of broadcloth. “Or I may decide to delay our journey while I demonstrate precisely what my paramours find so delightful about handcuffs.”
Held in check by the credible threat of rape, Lillian held still as he carried her outside the carriage, crossing through the back courtyard of the inn to an outside staircase. Someone he passed must have asked a question about the prone woman slung over St. Vincent’s shoulder, for he said with a rueful laugh, “My light-o’-love is a bit tap-hackled, I’m afraid. A weakness for gin. Turns her nose up at good French brandy and goes for blue ruin, the little pea wit.” The comments elicited a hearty masculine guffaw, and Lillian simmered in mounting fury. She counted the number of steps St. Vincent ascended… twenty-eight, with one landing between the flights. They were on the upper level of the building, with one door that led to a row of rooms inside. Nearly smothering beneath the coat, Lillian tried to guess how many doors they might have passed as St. Vincent proceeded along the hallway. They entered a room, and St. Vincent closed the door with his foot.
Carrying Lillian to the bed, he carefully unloaded her, removed the coat, and pushed back the wild locks of hair that had fallen over her flushed face.
“I want to make certain they’re hitching up a decent team,” St. Vincent murmured, his eyes as brilliantly faceted as gemstones, and just as cold. “I’ll return soon.”
Lillian wondered if he ever felt a genuine emotion about anyone or anything, or if he simply moved through life like an actor on a stage, manufacturing whatever expressions served his purposes. Something in her searching gaze caused his slight smile to fade, and his manner turned businesslike as he withdrew something from the inside of his coat. A key, she saw, with a sting of sudden excitement in her chest. Pushing her to her side, St. Vincent unlocked the handcuffs. She could not prevent a sigh of relief as her arms were freed. Her emancipation was short-lived, however. Gripping her wrists, he controlled her arms with maddening ease, lifting them to the iron rods of the bed’s headboard to refasten them. Although Lillian tried to make the task as difficult as possible for him, she had not yet regained her strength.
Stretched before him on the bed, with her arms over her head, Lillian watched him warily, her mouth working beneath the gag. St. Vincent raked her prone body with an insolent glance, making it clear to both of them that she was completely at his mercy. Please, God, don’t let him… Lillian thought. She did not look away from him, nor did she shrink, sensing somehow that part of what had kept her safe from him so far was her lack of visible fear. A painful knot gathered in her throat as St. Vincent lifted a practiced hand to the exposed skin of her upper chest, and stroked the edge of her chemise. “Would that we had time to play,” he said lightly. Watching her face, he slid his fingers to the curve of her breast and fondled until he felt the nipple harden at his touch. Shamed and enraged, Lillian breathed rapidly through her nostrils.
Slowly St. Vincent removed his hand and stood back from the bed. “Soon,” he murmured, though it was unclear whether he meant his return from the inn’s stable yard or his intention to sleep with her.
Lillian closed her eyes and listened to the sound of his footsteps across the floor. The door opened and closed, followed by the click of the lock being turned from outside. Shifting on the mattress, Lillian craned her neck to squint at the handcuffs that secured her to the bed. They were made of steel, welded with a chain in the middle, and engraved with the words Higby-Dumfries #30, Warranted Wrought/British Made. Each cuff was fastened with a hinge and separate lock, affixed to the chain with tangs that had been bent through the locking bolt ends and welded to the bodies of the cuffs.
Squirming higher on the bed, Lillian managed to grasp one of the pins that had remained in her tumbled coiffure, and pulled it from her hair. She straightened the pin, curved one end of it with a twist of her fingers, and inserted it into the lock, prying for a tiny lever inside. The end of the hairpin kept slipping off the lever, which turned out to be quite difficult to trick. Swearing as the hairpin bent from the pressure, Lillian extracted it, straightened it, and tried once more, while steadily exerting pressure with the back of one wrist against the inner rim of the cuff. All at once she heard a sharp click, and the cuff fell open.
She sprang from the bed as if it were on fire, and scrambled for the door with the handcuffs dangling from one wrist. Ripping off the gag and spitting the sodden wad of cloth from her mouth, she tossed the articles aside and set to work on the door. With the aid of another hairpin, she picked the lock with practiced skill. ?
Conscious of her disheveled gown and open bodice, Lillian yanked the edges of her gown together as she hurried to the building’s interior staircase. Her heart hammered painfully, and her head filled with noise. She was suffused with a mad desperation that made her feel capable of anything. It seemed that her body obeyed some force outside her own will, causing her feet to fly along the stairs with reckless momentum.
Reaching the bottom, Lillian rushed into the main room of the inn. People halted in mid-conversation, turning toward her with mildly startled expressions. Spying a large desk and a grouping of chairs in one corner, with four or five well-dressed gentlemen standing in a half circle nearby, Lillian approached them hurriedly. “I need to speak to the innkeeper,” she said without preamble. “Or a manager. Anyone who can help me. I need—”
She broke off abruptly as she heard her name being called, and glanced over her shoulder, fearing that St. Vincent had discovered her escape. Her entire body stiffened in battle readiness. But there was no sign of St. Vincent, no betraying gleam of golden-amber hair.
She heard the voice again, a deep sound that penetrated to her soul. “Lillian.”
Her legs quivered beneath her as she saw a lean, dark-haired man coming from the front entryway. It can’t be, she thought, blinking hard to clear her vision, which must surely have been playing tricks on her. She stumbled a little as she turned to face him. “Westcliff,” she whispered, and took a few hesitant steps forward.
The rest of the room seemed to vanish. Marcus’s face was pale beneath its tan, and he stared at her with searing intensity, as if he feared she might disappear. His stride quickened, and as he reached her, she was seized and caught in a biting grip. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her hard against him. “My God,” he muttered, and buried his face in her hair.