The Scoundrel and the Debutante Page 11

  “Where are we going?” she asked, peering into the waning light of the day.

  “We are stopping for the night,” he said firmly. “The horse is spent.”

  “But...but there is no inn! No shelter!” Prudence cried, alarmed. She hadn’t even considered the possibility of it—he’d said a village was close at hand.

  “What is it, Prudence? Have you never slept beneath the stars?” he asked, sounding a bit jovial.

  “No!” she replied, aghast. She could feel his chuckle reverberate against her back as he reined the old horse to a stop and hopped off her back.

  “Come down,” he said, and without waiting for her reply, he lifted her off. When he had her on the ground, he put his hands in his pockets and removed a cheesecloth from one, and an old, oil-stained flagon from the other. Prudence stared at the offerings. “Meat and bread,” he said, handing her the cheesecloth. “And ale.”

  “You bought it?”

  “Not exactly,” he said with a crooked smile. “I’ll say only that a barmaid offered to help me.” He had a gleam in his eye. “Help me gather wood for a fire.”

  She gathered wood, her thoughts filling with explicit images of just how he might have convinced a barmaid to give him these things.

  Mr. Matheson proved himself very efficient in the making of a camp. He rubbed sticks together to spark kindling as she’d once seen a gamekeeper do, and in moments, they had a roaring little campfire. He removed their bags from the horse and slapped her rump, sending her downstream to graze and drink. He laid his coat on the ground for Prudence to sit. She rummaged in her bag and found her spencer, and donned that, then drew her knees up to her chest and sat before his fire. She watched him remove his gun from his boot and stuff it into the back of his trousers.

  He speared the meat on a stick and held it over the fire to warm it. Grease dripped and sputtered in the fire. He handed Prudence the stick. “Eat it,” he said.

  Prudence did as he bade her. The gristly, greasy meat was perhaps the best she’d ever tasted—she hadn’t realized how ravenous she was.

  He offered her the flagon of ale. She eyed that with a bit more trepidation.

  “You do drink ale, don’t you?” he asked.

  She’d drunk ale perhaps twice in her life. “Yes,” she said, and took the flagon from him.

  The ale was much better than the meat. It sluiced warm through her, fortifying her against the chill that was beginning to settle around them.

  When they’d devoured the food he’d managed to get them, Prudence indelicately wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “I’ll just wash my hands,” she said, and moved to the brook. She squatted beside it to clean her hands, and in doing so, looked down at the pale blue gown she was wearing. Lord, it looked as if she’d found it in the woods. Patches of dirt and horse hair were smeared across the muslin, and nettles clung to her hem. She adored this travel gown, but doubted that even Hannah, her mother’s longtime maid and caregiver, could remove the stains from it.

  She washed her face as best she could, pushing errant strands of her hair away. It felt as if she had a bird’s nest in her hair, and she thought she would at least find the ivory combs in her bag and repair it as best she could.

  When she came back to the fire, Mr. Matheson was lying on his side, his legs stretched long. He’d been watching her, she realized, and his eyes had taken on a different sheen. They seemed darker to her now. Stormier, perhaps. Whatever was different, it made Prudence shiver. She lowered herself to his coat, sitting on her knees. Mr. Matheson didn’t speak; he rose up and touched the corner of her mouth. It was a small touch, hardly a touch at all, but his finger lingered there, and his gaze didn’t leave hers, and the touch, that look, were all a shock of light through Prudence. She felt a bit outside of herself. She was driven by something she couldn’t even name, but it had to do with that kiss under the tree in the village, it had to do with the way he was looking at her now. It had to do with a yearning so deep and vast that she felt adrift in it.

  She wrapped her fingers around his wrist as far as they would go and pulled his hand from her mouth. And then Prudence shocked herself by taking his forefinger in between her lips. She touched the tip of her tongue to it like a candy and sucked lightly.

  Mr. Matheson drew a long breath. His gaze fell to her mouth and lingered there, his expression changing. He looked hungry, as if he could devour her as easily as he’d devoured the bread. Prudence’s heart began to flitter in her chest. As astounding a thought as it was, she thought she would like that.

  Mr. Matheson slowly pulled his finger from her mouth. He gripped her fingers, squeezing them, as if warning her. “Sit back now.”

  But Prudence didn’t move. She was mesmerized by the look in his eye, by the set of his mouth.

  His eyes dropped to her lips. “Unless you are prepared to face the consequences, sit back now.”

  Prudence knew what consequences he meant, and it frightened her. Not because she feared them, but because she didn’t fear them at all. What she feared was her willingness to ignore propriety and virtue. Hadn’t she caused enough trouble for one day? But what was the point in limiting herself now? Perhaps more important, the idea that she would never have this chance again began to snake its way through her thoughts.

  Mr. Matheson sensed her hesitation to move back as he’d commanded her, and shook his head. “You’re careless, aren’t you, just like my sister.”

  “I am not your sister,” she said to his mouth.

  A lopsided smile of appreciation appeared on his lips. “No, you’re not.” His gaze wandered down, to her spencer. “Have a care, Prudence. There will be a young man who comes along—”

  Mr. Matheson suddenly scrambled to his feet, squinting into the shadows that had moved in around them.

  “What is it?” Prudence asked, jumping to her feet, too.

  He put a finger to his lips, indicating she should be silent and stepped forward, scanning the trees around them. She saw him tense just as three men emerged from the woods, spread out a bit, so that there was no possibility of running past them. Prudence’s heart began to pound.

  “Wha’ have we here?” The one who spoke was tall as a tree and was missing some teeth. “A lovers’ tryst?” The other two men, who were just as bedraggled as the tall one, laughed.

  Prudence felt ill. The horrible tales that Mercy used to tell her were rearing up in her memory.

  “Good evening, sirs,” Mr. Matheson said, bracing his legs apart, his hands fisted at his sides. “I’d ask you to dine, but as you can see, we’ve nothing to share.”

  The tall man’s gaze slid to Prudence. “Don’t ye, indeed?” he drawled as his gaze moved over her.

  Prudence thought she might vomit. She must have made a sound of distress, because Mr. Matheson gripped her arm and pulled her to stand behind him. “As I said, we’ve nothing to share,” he reiterated, his voice deep and angry.

  The tall man moved closer, and his two cohorts circled around them. One of them stooped to pick up Prudence’s valise.

  “No!” she gasped, then heard the sickening thud of fist on bone. Mr. Matheson had apparently hit the tall man squarely in the face when she’d cried out, knocking him to the ground. He leaped on him before he could gain his feet.

  Prudence shrieked as the two men began to roll about on the ground trading punches, rendered almost immobile with her fear for Mr. Matheson’s safety. Especially when the tall man’s two companions pulled Mr. Matheson off him.

  But Mr. Matheson was not ready to end his fighting. He took a swing at one of the two men, connecting with his jaw with such a crack of bone on bone that Prudence thought she might be sick. That man tumbled to the ground, his hands covering his face. Mr. Matherson continued to fight all three of those men, managing to strike them all and to dance just out of their reach. In the melee
, his pistol fell and scudded across the grass. Prudence dived for it, picking it up before any of the other men had noticed.

  But tackling three grown men at once was all too much for Mr. Matheson—and with some difficulty, the two men finally caught hold of Mr. Matheson’s arms and held him while the tall man hit him in the stomach.

  Prudence panicked then, fearing Mr. Matheson would be killed, and without thinking, she screamed.

  That scream brought all four heads around as if they thought someone else had joined them.

  “Are you mad!” Prudence shouted at them. “Do you think his lordship will waste a single moment finding who has done this to his guest?”

  The tall man’s fist froze midswing. He slowly turned toward her.

  “That’s right,” she said heatedly, nodding with great enthusiasm as she hid the gun in the folds of her gown. “This man is the guest of Lord Cargyle!”

  “Prudence, don’t—” Mr. Matheson tried, but one of the men ended whatever he might have said with a punch to the ribs.

  The tall man laughed. “Cargyle, you say, pretty? He be miles from here,” he said, slowly advancing on her. “No one to hear yer screams.”

  Prudence couldn’t catch her breath. She suddenly brought the gun up, pointing it at the tall man before he took another step. “Or yours,” she croaked.

  The gun served its purpose—he hesitated and lifted his hands. “Put the gun down, pretty,” he said. “Ye don’t know how to use it—”

  “But I do,” she said. Her voice was hoarse with fear. “My father, the Earl of Beckington, made sure of it.”

  With a hoot of delight, the man looked back at his companions. “Beckington, is it?” he repeated, and bowed grandly...but his gaze was on her gun.

  Prudence cocked it as Mr. Matheson had shown her how to do.

  “Prudence, don’t—”

  “Shoot him?” she finished quickly. Her heart was pounding so hard now that she was shaking. “Let him go,” she said to the tall man. “Let him go now, or I will shoot you square between the ears!”

  “Will you now,” the tall man said, and grinned in a lascivious and disgusting manner. She knew instinctively that he sensed her fear. He began to move toward her again. “I like a lass with a bit o’ fire in her.”

  “Prudence!” Mr. Matheson shouted at her, which was followed by another sickening thud of fist on bone.

  Prudence was frightened, but she was also very angry. She was suddenly reminded of the lesson Lady Chatham, a grand dame of Mayfair society, had told Prudence and the other debutantes who would be presented at court. “It will not do to look as if you might faint,” Lady Chatham had said. “Clasp your hands at your back and squeeze them tight to keep from shaking.”

  Prudence did that now, clasping her hands so tightly around that gun that it felt as if the metal was cutting into her skin. She lifted her chin, looked the man in the eye, just as she’d met the king’s eye. “Take one more step, and I will shoot you, sir. That is your only warning.” She sighted him with the gun pointed directly at his head.

  The tall man’s gaze narrowed. He studied her, clearly debating. “Give me the gun.” He lunged for it at the same moment Prudence fired. She couldn’t say what part of him she hit, only that she’d hit him—he screamed and fell to the ground. His companions dropped Mr. Matheson and ran for him. In the chaos, Mr. Matheson managed to get to his feet. He struck out at one of the men with a knife, slashing across his arm.

  “Get him up, get him up!” one of the men shouted, and they helped the tall one to his feet. He was clutching his arm as they half dragged, half pushed him back into the woods.

  Prudence stood there, the gun pointed ahead of her, trembling badly.

  “Prudence? Put the gun down,” Mr. Matheson said hoarsely.

  Her gaze moved from the trees to him. He was on two feet, weaving. The knife he’d pulled from the air clattered to the dirt. And then he collapsed down to his knees. “Oh! Oh!” she cried and scrambled for him, catching him before he toppled over, sinking to her knees with her arms around his shoulders.

  “That’s right,” Mr. Matheson sputtered, wincing with pain, his arm across his abdomen. “Run, cowards.”

  She couldn’t make out all of Mr. Matheson’s injuries in the low light of the fire, but one eye was swelling and his nose was bloodied.

  He wrapped his fingers around her arm, and she noticed the state of his knuckles. “Help me up. I don’t want to die sprawled here like a drunk,” he said, wincing as if the words caused him pain.

  “You can’t die,” she said frantically, and with both hands, grabbed his arm, pulling him up. “I won’t allow it! Please, Mr. Matheson, please!”

  He managed to keep himself upright and grinned at her as she helped him stagger to his feet. “See? Right as rain,” he said breathlessly, and threw a heavy arm around her shoulders. “Where’s the gun? We should keep it close, I think. And the knife, if you can find it.”

  She dipped down and picked up the gun. Mr. Matheson swayed unsteadily as he made sure it wouldn’t fire. “Well done, Prudence Cabot,” he said. “I think you saved our hides. Speaking of which, where is the nag?”

  Prudence looked frantically about. “She’s here, still eating.”

  “Smart thieves—they knew better than to take her.” He stumbled; Prudence caught him with an arm around his waist. She managed to drape his arm over her shoulder. She struggled under his weight but was able to direct him to a tree and help him down. He settled with his back against it. His breathing was shallow as he attempted a smile for her. “I didn’t leave an arm or a leg behind, did I?”

  She shook her head. “It’s my fault,” she said, swallowing back tears. “It’s my fault we ever came upon that tavern.”

  “I won’t argue that,” he said, and stroked her cheek. “But fortunately for you, I don’t hold a grudge.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Matheson,” she said, her voice full of the despair she felt.

  He groaned and closed his eyes. He must hate her now for having stolen onto the stagecoach. If she hadn’t, he would be safely on his way to Weslay, and she would be waiting for Mr. Bulworth to send his man for her. Prudence felt awfully stupid—what had seemed like such an amusing and harmless stand against propriety this morning now seemed the most frightening and foolhardy thing she’d ever done. She was very fortunate they’d not killed Mr. Matheson. Stupid, stupid girl!

  “Give me some whiskey, will you?” he asked. “I have some in my bag.”

  Prudence scrambled up and hurried to the place she’d last seen the man with her bag. But there were no bags. She whirled around, trying to see past the light of the fire. “They’re gone!” she cried. “They took our bags!”

  “Goddamn it,” he uttered.

  She picked up the knife and returned to his side, knelt beside him and put her hands in the pockets of his coat, which was still lying on the ground. She found a handkerchief and used it to dab at the blood around his nose. “You need a doctor.”

  “I’m sure I look much worse than I truly am. Horrible, is it? Terrifying?”

  “Terrifying,” she agreed, and tried again to wipe the blood from his nose, but he caught her wrist and pulled her hand away, laced his fingers with hers as he rested his head back against the tree.

  “I’m so very sorry, Mr. Matheson,” she whispered again.

  “Yes, well,” he said, wincing deeply as he moved to one side, his hand going to his ribs. “I don’t know if I’ll die tonight, but if I do, I would like to leave this earth hearing my given name on your lips.”

  “You won’t die.”

  “That’s certainly my sincerest hope, but one can never know when hospitality is extended so violently. I once heard of a fellow who dropped dead two days after a fight.”

  “Two days!”

  �
��You see? My demise could come at any moment. So give this dying man his wish and say it, Prudence,” he said, taking her hand in his. “Say my name.”

  “Roan,” she said. “But you won’t die, Roan. You won’t.”

  “Ah, at last,” he said, and smiled as he closed his eyes. He rested their hands on her knee. “You astonished me tonight. Very brave and clever on your feet.”

  Prudence smiled sheepishly. She hadn’t been brave, she’d been rash. She looked at his hand atop hers, battered and bloodied. “But...but what am I to do now?” she whispered as she tried to clean the blood from his knuckles.

  “Do?” He opened one eye, put his hand on her shoulder, gripping it, pulled her forward, then drew her near enough that he could put his arm around her. He tugged her into his body and held her there, his weight sagging against hers. He set the gun and handed it to her. “You fire if they come back, and this time, hit him square between the eyes, will you?” He sighed and closed his eyes. “In the meantime, I’ll think on it.”

  “They’ll kill us if they come back.”

  He said nothing.

  Prudence sat up to look at him. “Mr. Matheson? Roan?” She jostled his shoulder. It was no use—his eyes were closed. The man had fainted. Or had he died?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ROAN WAS BENT over the neck of his favorite horse, Baron, flying as fast as the stallion could run across the fields at his family’s home in New York. He was certain he would be too late to warn the lumber train that the wheel would come off the wagon as they headed down into the Hudson Valley. But he and Baron were presented with obstacle after obstacle—fallen trees, swollen rivers, a fence too high for Baron to vault. As he neared the road, Roan saw that the wagons had already started down the hill. He opened his mouth to bellow at them at the same time the strong odor of manure enveloped him—

  Roan awoke with a grunt.

  He blinked against the dark light, his gaze finding the embers of what was left of the fire. He wrinkled his nose at the offensive smell, courtesy of the nag, who stood only a few feet away. Roan grimaced at the stiffness in his body; the shooting pain in his side. That damn Goliath might have broken his rib. But Roan’s heart and his lungs appeared to be working. Nothing more than a few painful bruises.