The Rake's Irish Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 2) Read online

  “When are we going to stop for the night?” asked Bridget wearily, startling him. They’d scarcely spoken since their argument about Fallow.

  “If we keep going, we may catch them up by dawn.”

  “We may also miss them completely,” Bridget said. “We can’t wake up every inn we pass in case they stopped there for the night.”

  “Don’t exaggerate.” He wished she didn’t make so much sense. She had more or less convinced him that Fallow wouldn’t harm Sylvie, but her willingness to forgive the villain—Colin wasn’t about to change his mind about that designation—infuriated him.

  “We’ll have to stop and eat soon anyway. Why not get a few hours’ sleep?”

  His stomach growled. Must she be so very reasonable?

  “Not only that, I am not a male with an infinitely large bladder,” she said. “As you may have noticed, I have to use the necessary more frequently than you. I cannot stop and squat at the roadside in the middle of the night.”

  He stifled a grin. No shrinking violet, his Bridget.

  Except that she wasn’t his. He didn’t even want her to be his. “Oh, very well. There’s no point risking accidents and highway robbery. We’ll catch them soon enough.”

  Before long they fetched up at an inn, and after a mediocre but ample dinner, retired chastely to separate chambers for the night.

  She reappeared in the coffee room, packed and brisk and ready to depart, when the sky had scarcely begun to pale to a dull gray. She had even bought a basket of wizened apples and fed some to the new team. Another point in Bridget’s favor, she was no slug-a-bed.

  For the thousandth time, he reminded himself that it would be best not to think of her in terms of any kind of bed.

  “Sleep well?” he asked.

  “No,” she said.

  Bridget wished she could attribute her restless night to worry about Sylvie, but she preferred not to lie to herself. Sylvie was safe enough in Martin’s care, and no matter how traitorous Mary Joan had proven to be, she was a competent nursemaid.

  Colin seemed as irritable as Bridget this morning, but at her crotchety retort, he gave a harsh crack of laughter. Had he too pondered a far more interesting, if unrestful, sort of night?

  No, why would he? Stupid man, he thought she still loved Martin Fallow. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

  She hoped to God they would make better time today. She wanted this journey over with.

  Colin settled into his corner and brought out a book.

  She peered at the title. “Myths of the Irish?” she asked, astonished.

  “I bought it the day after you climbed in my window,” he said. “After that death threat of yours, I wanted to know a little more about the banshee.”

  “Death . . . threat?”

  “The note you pinned to my bedclothes. The banshee is a harbinger of death, is she not?”

  Bridget broke out laughing. “Oh, dear me, no! Yes, she warns of death, but when I came to you all those years ago I was foretelling the, er, ‘little death’. This time I merely wanted you to remember that you promised to speak with me.”

  His dimples surfaced. “Not to offer me another little death or three?”

  She smothered a groan. Why must those dimples affect her so? “No, as you know perfectly well. I wish you hadn’t brought this subject up.”

  “I didn’t bring it up. You did.”

  “We should do our best to avoid such discussions.”

  He snorted, but the dimples vanished again. He opened the book and to all appearances became absorbed in it.

  Bridget brought out her knitting. What a pity she wasn’t making something more demanding than a muffler, for the simple rows, back and forth, left her mind far too free to roam between two subjects: bedding Colin (which would never happen again) and Martin’s motives (which she couldn’t for the life of her understand).

  Their approaching stop in Harborough posed a different sort of worry. “I’m known there,” Colin said, “and so is my sister.”

  “Does she travel regularly on this road?”

  “Not anymore, but she went to school near here. Since you wish to avoid scandal, you’d better stay out of sight.”

  “An excellent notion. I haven’t decided where to settle, and for all I know it may be near here.”

  “No, this is too far from my estate,” he said. “I don’t want my daughter living so far away from me.”

  “I cannot live near you! Everyone will think I’m your mistress. Nor can you visit regularly even if I’m farther away, for the same reason.”

  “Damn it all, Bridget—”

  “Stop interfering in my life!” she cried. “I’m used to taking care of myself and my daughter. How would you feel if the rug were pulled out from under you? If suddenly every decision was made by someone else, everything paid for by someone else? If you had no control over your life?”

  He’d been slouching low in the seat, his long legs spread before him, but at this he sat up. “Did it never occur to you that you’re not the only one whose life has been turned topsy-turvy? Out of the blue, I now have a daughter. I never meant to have children, but now I don’t have a choice.”

  “You certainly do have a choice,” she retorted. “I never expected you to—”

  “What you expected is irrelevant. She is my flesh and blood, and therefore I am responsible for her whether I like it or not. Whether you like it or not.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset your life,” she protested. “I only wanted you to . . .”

  “To acknowledge that she was my child and then go merrily on my way. What the devil do you take me for?” Before she could manage a reply, he said, “I know, I know, a useless care-for-nobody, and you were right to some extent, but I had no reason to be anything else. And damned boring it got to be, I promise you.”

  She couldn’t think what to say.

  “Not only am I responsible for Sylvie, but she has been snatched away by a—a man of dubious motives. If that’s not loss of control, I don’t know what is.”

  “You don’t give any sign of feeling you’ve lost control,” she said, trying to appreciate his avoidance of the word villain. “You’ve been incredibly cool and efficient in dealing with everything.”

  “What choice was there?” He crossed his arms. “Just don’t go about assuming you’re the only one who’s a victim of circumstance.”

  They pulled up at an inn in Harborough, and reluctantly, she stayed in the coach, ears a-stretch. Soon Colin climbed back in and they set off. “Nothing new. We’re making headway. I told the postilion to push hard, even if it means changing horses more often.”

  “Good.” The sooner they caught up with the others, the better. The sooner she got Sylvie back, the sooner she could find a way to take control of her life again.

  But that would be difficult without Colin’s cooperation. She must make him see reason about the future. Perhaps if she knew more about him and his family, she would find a rational solution to their problem. Perhaps she could pose as his sister’s friend, or the friend of Lord Garrison’s wife, or . . .

  She didn’t like any of these ideas—they involved more lies, and Sylvie would have to lie as well. But there must be something she could do . . .“Tell me about your sister. Did she marry a local man?”

  He grimaced. “She is unmarried and likely to stay that way.”

  “Then if she’s not yet out, she must be at home.”

  “One would think so,” he said, his voice tinged with bitterness. “She didn’t have a come-out.”

  “Because of bereavement?”

  “No.”

  “Then why not?”

  He gazed out the window, but she could see that he was looking at nothing, or rather at something in his mind. A
t last he let out a long-suffering sigh. “Because she ruined herself in a very public fashion at the age of eighteen. She developed a grand passion for a smuggler and seduced him.”

  “Oh, dear. How unfair that one girlish peccadillo should decide the course of her life.”

  “Damned unfair,” Colin said. “Fortunately for the smuggler, I was in London at the time. He was long gone before I had a chance to kill him.”

  “She must have been heartbroken,” Bridget said.

  “Daisy?” he jeered. “Not likely. My mother was the brokenhearted one. She went into a decline and died within a year. Daisy never gave a sign of remorse. She’s a typical Warren—doesn’t give a damn about anyone.”

  “I imagine she has no choice, now that she’s ruined,” Bridget said hotly. “And maybe she’s not that bad. They say you’re a typical Warren, but you’ve shown yourself to be just the opposite.”

  He didn’t respond, but perhaps it was one small step towards restoring cordiality.

  “I suppose none of the local gentry recognize her. She must be lonely, poor thing, in that big house of yours with only the servants to talk to.”

  “She doesn’t live at home.”

  “Then where . . .”

  “I suppose you’ll find out eventually,” he muttered. “When society turned its back on her, Daisy took up residence at an inn some miles down the River Ribble. She associates with the patrons there, some of whom are smugglers, and her closest friend is the resident lightskirt. She even serves as a barmaid when she’s in the mood.”

  “But . . . but surely you, as her brother, could convince her to return . . .”

  “To what? Isolation? At least she has companionship where she is.” He shook his head. “She has as much right as anyone to choose her own road. She knows full well she will always have a home with me if she chooses. In the meantime, I provide her with an ample allowance and leave her be.”

  Bridget blew out a long, unhappy breath. “Poor girl.”

  “She wouldn’t thank you for pitying her. I told you before, didn’t I? The Warren women aren’t the usual sort. Lord Garrison’s sister is intolerable, too.” Bridget must have frowned at that, for he flicked a dismissive hand. “Perhaps with reason; I wouldn’t know. I can only hope Miles’s new wife, Melinda, will be able to put up with her.” He paused, wrinkling his nose. “We have a mutual cousin who comports herself as a lady should—to such an extreme degree that she is known far and wide as The One Good Warren.”

  “They all sound dreadful,” Bridget said with a shaky laugh.

  “Yes, but you’d fit right in.”

  Chapter 8

  Her face fell, and immediately, Colin wished the words unsaid. In fact, why had he said them at all?

  Because of the direction his thoughts were taking. He was no fool, and his stupid jealousy about Fallow made his growing attachment to Bridget startlingly clear.

  This wasn’t what he wanted. At all.

  But he couldn’t help it. He liked her far too much, even when she annoyed and exasperated him. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” he said ruefully. “I merely meant you wouldn’t misjudge them lightly.”

  Her mouth twisted. “No, I wouldn’t do that.”

  And with her down-to-earth attitude and personal experience of social anathema, Bridget truly would fit in with the Warrens.

  He wished he could follow Melinda’s advice, not to mention his own growing inclination, and ask Bridget to marry him. He didn’t believe in love, but he enjoyed her company very much. She might pretend she didn’t want to bed him, but he knew better. Their attraction was mutual, and if he was going to support her and Sylvie in the future—which he certainly intended, regardless of what Bridget thought—why not make their connection legal and above-board?

  Because that would mean having more children. More responsibility. More risk of failing to take proper care of those in his charge.

  “What is that thing?” Colin asked irritably when Bridget recommenced knitting the following morning.

  “A muffler. I’ll run out of yarn soon. Perhaps we could find a shop in one of the towns we pass through. I will go mad if I don’t have something to do.” She’d slept fitfully, agonizingly conscious of Colin in bed in the room next to hers.

  “Soon enough you’ll have Sylvie on your hands.” They’d made good progress yesterday and judged they were only a few hours behind the runaways. “I’ve had my fill of reading myths.”

  “You don’t enjoy the stories?”

  He shrugged. “I like jolly tales, not tumult and misery.”

  “That’s a pretty fair description of Ireland’s history,” Bridget said.

  His expression told her how little he cared about that. “I can see the fun in stealing the most potent bull for one’s own herd, but changing children into swans and making them suffer for hundreds of years through no fault of their own? No. Not an enjoyable story.”

  He was referring to The Children of Lir, not one of her favorites, but . . . “They’re myths and legends, Colin, the ancient tales of a proud people. Don’t you like some of the English myths?”

  “King Arthur and Merlin? We played that as children.”

  Actually, King Arthur and his wizard were most likely Welsh, but she wasn’t about to mention that. “Yes, but they’re more than just games. They’re part of a nation’s character.”

  “We used to play Saint George and the dragon, too,” Colin said reminiscently.

  A Greek saint, thought Bridget, and again said nothing.

  “Richard the Lionhearted and the Crusades. Miles and I fought over who would be Richard.”

  “That’s not a myth,” Bridget said. “Richard was a real king.”

  “Robin Hood, then. He may have started out as a real man, but he’s a myth now, a story for children. Why are we discussing this?” Evidently he had no idea how much such stories mattered.

  “They’re—they’re part of England’s heritage.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “They’re here, in your heart.”

  His expression said he thought her a little mad.

  “Myths and legends provide comfort in times of trouble. They show endurance under oppression, pride in one’s country, courage to fight against the odds…” She huffed. “What about loyalty? What about patriotism? Surely you understand those.”

  He stiffened. “Well, of course I do. I’m as patriotic as the next Englishman, but not because of a bunch of children’s stories. They do remind me of happier days, though.”

  She gave him a look. “Don’t tell me you haven’t enjoyed your life, because I shan’t believe you.”

  “You know very little about my life,” he said.

  Nor did he intend to tell her, but thank God that tedious lecture about myths was over. “If I have enjoyed myself, it’s because I’ve made a point of it.”

  She huffed. “It can’t have been difficult. You’re rich and privileged. Why wouldn’t you have a good time?”

  She had no idea how much he’d struggled after Emma’s death, and she never would. “One would think that, wouldn’t one? And yet the last year or so has been empty of pleasure, regardless of what I tried. You accused me of enjoying this chase, and to some extent I am, because it’s something that matters. Something worthwhile, even if I don’t get to strangle Fallow.”

  He had come to that useful conclusion between bouts of tossing and turning, interspersed with appalling dreams in which Emma gleefully predicted he would beget a horde of mischievous children in her image.

  “There is a great deal that’s worthwhile in managing your estate, taking care of your tenants, perhaps even helping your sister to a better life,” Bridget said. “Perhaps you could find someone for her to fall in love with and marry. People may not shun her any longer if she weds a respectable man
.”

  “As I may have mentioned before, we Warrens don’t believe in love.” He recalled his visit to Miles and Melinda and couldn’t help but grin. “Although I’m beginning to wonder if Lord Garrison has come to do so, against all odds. You’ll like his wife.”

  “I doubt if I’ll meet her, so that will never be tested.”

  “Why shouldn’t you meet her? She was delighted to hear that her little stepdaughter and Sylvie are of an age. She’s not the least bit high in the instep, and Miles will loosen up when I insist on it.”

  Bridget’s expression said she didn’t believe him—and that she still harbored the notion of setting up a day’s drive or more from his estate.

  The solution was in his hands. All he had to do was ask her to marry him.

  “I hope Daisy is so fortunate as to fall in love regardless of the odds,” she said. “Love is glorious and—and everyone deserves to experience it, whether they believe in it or not.”

  He didn’t want to think about love. Bed sport, on the other hand, was very much on his mind. He slouched low in his corner, watching her. What was it about Bridget that stirred his desires when no other woman did?

  She shifted restlessly. “Stop staring at me.”

  Oh, yes. She wanted it as much has he did, but he shouldn’t let himself think about the heavy globes of her breasts, the heat and moisture under her skirts, unless his intentions were honorable.

  He hadn’t decided what his intentions were, but his libido had taken over from his rational mind. “I’m trying to understand something about you.”

  “Such as?”

  “What is it about you that has such a powerful effect on my cock?”

  She glowered. “If this is an attempt to seduce me…” It’s working, curse you.

  “Unfortunately not,” he said. “I really am trying to understand. For almost a year, I’d completely lost interest in women, and my desire was tepid for a while before that. My cock would barely twitch at the sight of even the most alluring siren. If I look at you dispassionately . . . Well, you’re very pretty—in fact, to my eyes you’re stunningly beautiful . . .”