Love With the Perfect Scoundrel Read online

  Within minutes, the sounds of Mr. Brown and the carriage horse muted and she was surrounded by silence. It was the first time she’d been alone for days—no, months. Actually, she realized, it felt like the first time she’d been truly alone for years.

  She exhaled in one long, almost endless breath, and became lightheaded. For the last month she’d thought she might burst from the pent-up emotion. She’d not dared to show an inch of sorrow, even around her sweet Cornish maid.

  During the journey, she’d been so grateful for the cold. It had numbed her limbs, which had been screaming at her to get away from Cornwall, and then London, as fast as possible. The chill had also allowed her mind to see everything with crystal clarity.

  She was not meant to be living with other people. She was completely different from other ladies. And the thing of it was, she would be entirely happy living alone as she had done most of her childhood. Her friends often mistook her love of solitude for loneliness; they didn’t understand the contentment that could be found by leaving one’s heart sheltered and one’s mind to quiet reflection. She tried to breathe, but again felt a hitch in her side from the effort.

  There—she’d admitted it all to herself. Mr. Brown had been wrong. She possessed a great defect in her character—in her moral fiber. She was weak and she approached everything in life tentatively and without any sort of passion. It was the reason she had not secured the affections of two fiancés.

  She was a retiring coward in the fruitful garden of her pampered life. And running away from her disappointments was something of an art form she had perfected. But sitting here, growing dizzy, she accepted the truth. She was never going to be able to run far enough away this time—for she could not run away from herself.

  Agony darkened the edges of her vision before she struggled against all the binding layers of impractical thin clothing. Pain hit her rib cage like an avalanche gaining momentum at the same moment she noticed a small streak of blood on her glove.

  Glancing behind her only to find the broken glass of the carriage sconce, she guessed she’d fallen against it during the accident. Now scared, she refused to examine the wound; instead she wrapped a silk mantlet around her ribs and bound it as tightly as she could bear.

  Grace knew she should be worried about her predicament, but instead she could only feel tired. And she was grateful. She hadn’t been able to sleep more than an hour or two at a time since leaving Cornwall. Then again, she’d never slept well. Surrendering to exhaustion, Grace Sheffey’s mind sloughed off her worries and flew out of the confines of this wreck of a carriage all the way to the oblivion of a deep, dreamless sleep.

  The fragile strands of consciousness lay just out of her grasp for Lord only knew how long. With a strength she hadn’t known she possessed, Grace clenched her fingers repeatedly to waken. She lay there a long time before she forced down some of the contents of Mr. Brown’s flask and coughed violently against the burn.

  Her mind blurry, she wasn’t sure if she had swooned or fallen asleep. But she wasn’t foolish enough to succumb to it again. This unnaturally dark, frigid cocoon frightened her.

  The hinges creaked as she shoved at the door above. In a rush, the door fell from its moorings, taking a portion of the carriage siding with it. Clumps of snow littered her as she toppled over from the exertion.

  The silence of the snow showering from the ever more gloomy sky clawed at her. When had the storm started? Surely, it would stop soon. Mr. Brown had said it never snowed this early in the season.

  What had happened to Mr. Brown and the driver? Lord…Perhaps they’d met with ill luck. Mr. Brown would’ve returned for her by now if he could.

  Well, she had to get out, had to start walking. No one was coming for her. She would perish if she remained here. Yet it was hard to make her limbs obey. Tears of frustration almost froze inside her eyelids as she twisted herself from the wreckage.

  Bent with weariness and the edge of pain furrowing her side, she leaned into the wind, into the gloaming, and trudged toward the main mail coach road—away from the direction Mr. Brown had taken. It was her best chance. She was certain she would find a house or village around the next bend.

  The world around her became ghostly, the flakes falling on a slant, drifting onto the heavy branches of the trees, hedgerows, and the lane, softening the ugly ruts in the road. She shivered and drew the blankets more tightly about her.

  Snow cascaded from a nearby conifer and the tawny shadow of an enormous owl emerged from the branches, its wings spread in flight. How she wished she could fly away too.

  Icy flecks invaded the tops of her inadequate half boots while Grace trudged onward. Only the crunch of her footsteps on the new snow breached the silence of the northern Peak District. Her breath crystallized in the blanket near her mouth as she tried to regulate her thoughts and her breathing.

  Just past the first turn, she realized there was no house, no village in front of her, only a long stretch of whiteness bordered by snow-powdered hedges without a telltale rise of smoke in the distance.

  She didn’t dare look up again for a long while.

  Time lost all meaning as she walked onward, her cheeks stinging, then without feeling, as hints of even-tide crept in behind the melancholy December sky.

  It was then that Grace Sheffey murmured an almost forgotten prayer from her childhood…a little something to her guardian angel begging an entree to paradise.

  Chapter 2

  Michael Ranier tugged his brushed-beaver hat lower on his head and was grateful for the protection against the heavy snowfall. An eerie calm had settled on this land, despite the outpouring from the heavens. He loosened the reins and gave his powerful mare her head so she could choose the best path in this sudden, wretched blizzard. He wouldn’t have pressed onward from the last village if all the physical features of the landscape had not proved he was close to the first view of his new beginning…Brynlow.

  Then again, the fast-forming drifts were quite effectively covering any trace of his passage. It helped quell the ill ease that had dogged him since the moment he had stepped onto the filthy English docks less than a week ago.

  Only a few miles now separated him from the mysterious property his childhood friend had left to him in his will. Poignant memories tinged his thoughts. Who would have guessed that little Samuel Bryn would one day tempt Michael from the hard-won productive life he’d cobbled together in the colonies during the last decade and a half or more?

  Michael rounded another turn in the road, grateful for the guide of the hedgerow blanketed in snow, and hoped more than anything that Sam had left him a huge pile of split wood, for it was going to take a cord of well-seasoned red oak to ease the cold from his heavy bones.

  Michael began to hum in an effort to calm and encourage his mare. After eight long hours on the road, her strength was not waning nor her spirit, but he knew she liked it when he sang to her. She whinnied and shook the melting flakes from her heavily muscled black neck.

  Michael chuckled. “Sorry sweetheart, pipes are damned near frozen.”

  He stroked his mount’s shoulder, then clucked to urge her to turn onto the northwesterly route, a long, straight, desolate roadway.

  There was something moving far in the distance. A stag, most likely. He squinted.

  He had imagined it. There was nothing there. Michael continued onward, leaning into the brunt of the storm. The effort to encourage his horse with song was stripped from him by the increasing gusts of the tempest.

  The mare raised her head and stopped, her ears pricked up. She sidestepped and her neck swung around before she snorted.

  A small hooded form leaned against an ancient, towering hemlock, its huge branches shielding the figure.

  Good God.

  He called out, “Hey…you there.”

  The hood moved toward him but the effort appeared too great to bear. His heart lurched. Everything screamed this was a person poor in spirit and material goods, two things he knew all to
o well.

  Without hesitation, Michael eased his weight onto his left stirrup and swung off, landing in a quagmire of snow.

  “Hey, are you all right? Caught by the storm, were you?”

  He reached the shelter of the tree just as the pitiable, blanket-covered sod raised his head again.

  Two soft blue eyes, drowning in the wisdom of the ages, stared straight into his soul, piercing his heart. He staggered backward.

  Why, he’d stumbled across something from heaven. No earthly eyes or flesh possessed such translucence. Beyond the fringes of the dull, worn blanket wrapped about her, pale hair shimmered silver in the fading light.

  Her gaze faltered not. “For–forgive me for being so ridiculous, but are—are you an illusion?”

  A deep chuckle rumbled within his chest. “I was about to ask you the same, miss.”

  “Well, this is a f-f-first. My prayers have n-n-n”—her teeth chattered uncontrollably—“never been answered before.”

  “I’ve never been the answer to anyone’s prayers, sweetheart.” Michael scratched his jaw and smiled. “But I’ll try my damnedest to live up to your expectations.”

  He wanted to ask what in hell she was doing out here, alone and facing the elements, but knew the importance of helping her keep whatever shreds of pride her obvious poverty allowed—and so he remained still and silent, waiting for her.

  She darted a glance around his body, spied his horse, and shuddered.

  “Shall we, then?” He held out his hand. “You would be doing me a great favor by coming with me. My ears are like two blocks of ice and I see you’ve a muffler trailing behind you I might ask to borrow.” He’d say anything to gain her trust and get her to come with him.

  “Thank you, s-s-sir.” The wind howled through the branches and she braced herself against the tree. Gathering her strength again, she reached for the thin shawl at her feet and placed it in his outstretched hand. “The carriage I was in slid into a ditch.”

  “I see.” He hadn’t seen any carriage and he would swear her eyes flicked. “Are there others?”

  “My companion went for help l-l-long ago, but he didn’t return. I was waiting for the mail coach.”

  Hmmm. He wasn’t sure he believed her story. No gentleman…No. No man would leave a woman behind to fend for herself. “There won’t be a mail coach in weather like this. In any case, I believe we’ll find shelter nearby.”

  “Are you lost too?”

  He smiled. “Will you trust me if I tell you the truth?”

  She tilted her head and was apparently too polite to utter her opinion.

  “Perhaps, a trifle,” he admitted. “But I’ve good directions and an excellent horse, who has yet to fail me.”

  He had a nearly primal urge to pick her up in his arms, get her in front of a fire, offer her warm food, and comfort her. “Let me help you onto my mare.”

  She appeared vastly embarrassed. “I don’t ride very well. Actually, I never learned.”

  This was no surprise. Many poor could not afford the luxury of a horse. “You’ve nothing to fear. My horse is gentle despite her size. She doesn’t bite and she’s always well behaved. The same cannot be said of me, however—when someone is stalling.” He offered his hand once again to help her negotiate the deep snow.

  “I’m sorry to be so craven.”

  “It’s the cold. It scrambles the mind. But we mustn’t waste any more time.” He looked about. “The weather is getting worse by the minute.” He hoped she wouldn’t scuttle away like a feral animal in distress.

  She glanced at his outstretched hand again and finally grasped it; his great paw engulfed her tiny one. Two steps forward and she floundered in a small drift, her balance as offset by the frost-filled air as her mind.

  Without a word, he leaned in, grasped her about the waist and under the knees to haul her delicate form against the wall of his chest.

  Her breath left in a rush. “Really, this isn’t necessary. I’m perfectly capable of—”

  “I have it on the best authority that not walking another step was part of your prayer. Well, I know it would be part of mine—if I was in your position.” God, she was so wraithlike in his arms, and an animalistic surge of protectiveness flooded him. She was dangerously light and would freeze to death if he didn’t get her out of the elements in short order.

  She struggled when he approached his mare. “Put me down. I can walk very well here on the road, thank you.” She climbed out of his arms onto her own two feet and rearranged her blankets. “I will follow the trail you blaze.”

  He stared at her and then shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” Her eyes bloomed with fear.

  “You’ll have to keep your voice low.”

  “Whyever for?”

  “You’re hurting her feelings.” He tilted his head toward his mare, praying humor would help.

  She glanced at the animal then raised her eyes to meet his. He was sure she would refuse again.

  “Oh, for goodness sake,” she said quietly, her face drawn. And suddenly he noticed, despite the fading light, a slick, dark area on her snow-dusted blankets…a place that was blood red. The time for polite cajoling was over.

  In one easy motion he regathered the reins in one hand and grasped the saddle’s cantle to remount. Before she could utter another word, he leaned down and hauled her up to sit in front of him, her legs dangling to one side. He didn’t dare try to examine where the blood was coming from—the elements were too harsh and she was too cold.

  He should have seen the signs. Clearly, her mind was half lost to a freezing daze. In fact, she was now an inch closer to oblivion thanks to her obvious fear. He unbuttoned his heavy, long coat, deeply slashed on the sides for riding, and pulled her close to his heated body while refastening the closures.

  “Put your arms around me, sweetheart,” he whispered into her temple while he turned her to face him better. “Hold on tight, now.”

  She was making sounds of distress but tentatively grasped his sides. Michael transferred the reins to one hand to gather her more firmly against him.

  His horse remained as rock steady as he knew she would. The mare was smarter than most humans alive, and he would trust her with his life. Hell, he already had, on numerous occasions. He’d never considered even once the thought of leaving her behind when he’d returned to England.

  His horse lurched forward, plowing through the mounting layer of snow, while the woman now held onto his sides with a death grip.

  “That’s it. Get closer—as close as you can. There now. No need to talk. We’ll be there in a trice.” He kept up the stream of comforting commands as his mare negotiated her steps.

  An enormous blast of wind barreled down the long roadway and momentarily stole away his breath. He hunkered inward and grasped the waif closer still. It was then he noticed the most evocative scent emanating from her. He lowered his head and breathed deep, letting the heady fragrance wash through his senses. There was the hint of spring, of lilies of the valley, and the rains of March, and something else…of femininity—and of luxurious affluence. Who in damnation was this young woman? He exhaled and realized he didn’t even know her name. She slumped against him then, in exhaustion, or from loss of blood, he knew not which.

  For Christ sakes. What had he gotten into now? He was lost within the eye of a blizzard near Yorkshire with an injured, mysterious woman. Actually, if he was honest, this was nothing more than the usual madness fate had always tossed his way. Fate was surely a woman determined to flummox him at every twist in the uneven road of his damned life.

  Sioux neighed and tossed her head. “I know, sweetheart, I know. It never fails…” He clucked encouragement, and at the haunting sound of the wind, he sang low—a song from his childhood.

  The last thing Grace heard as the black veil of unconsciousness overtook the riot within her mind was the most beautiful voice singing above her, surely from the heavens. For once, she slumbered in peace—not to
ssing and turning like a leaf caught in the battering winds of autumn. How ironic it was that this could occur on the back of a mammoth horse while lost within the powerful grasp of the most daunting, immense man she had ever encountered.

  He held not the carefully cultivated, jaded countenance of a lord. He appeared carved from the raw brawn of daring, with a side helping of rugged instinct. And those eyes…those audacious, lion-like eyes that fronted verve and intelligent cunning in the wicked ways of the world.

  She should be terrified. She should be on her guard. But she was too weak to feel any of it. Her heart filled with the most illogical sense of security given her predicament, and it warmed her all the way down to her marrow.

  Chapter 3

  Finding Brynlow required greater fortitude and patience than Michael had anticipated. The barkeep at the last inn had not been jesting when he had said it was lost in a forgotten corner of Christendom. Yet, it was perfect. By the hazy radiance of a waxing crescent moon behind cloud cover and the still falling snow, Michael discerned the pale stone house tucked away in a stand of silver birch trees, the pastoral scene warming his heart.

  He weaved his mare through the branches to find two large barns hidden beyond. Crystallized ice cracked and broke free as he dismounted and slid the woman off in one long motion to prop her against the stable’s door once inside. She moaned when he disengaged her from his warmth.

  Carefully lighting a nearby lantern, Michael made short work of rubbing down and settling his horse in the comfort of a stall, then hefted his saddlebags and the semiconscious form of the woman to make his way to the dwelling.

  It was obvious from what he could see of the inside of the small manor that Sam had had the wherewithal to establish the place with many creature comforts. Stopping to reposition the woman within his arms, Michael noticed a note on the small table beside the front stair.

  Dear Mr. Ranier,