The Runaway Heiress. Anne O'Brien

welcome such an open-handed gesture from me? I doubt it.’ He mused on his reluctance to return to Torrington Hall, to put himself out for an errant kitchen wench.

      ‘No, sir.’ She tried to keep the fear that he would do exactly that from her voice. ‘I doubt it would be worth your while. I … I am only a servant and will not be missed.’

      ‘If not, why did you find it necessary to hide in my coach? There appears to be some logic here that escapes me. Do you suppose it is the brandy that is impairing my thought processes?’ he enquired conversationally.

      ‘Undoubtedly, sir.’

      ‘So what do I do with you now?’

      ‘You could take me to the Priory, sir.’ She sank her teeth into her bottom lip as she awaited his answer.

      ‘I could. That would be the easiest course of action. I could hand you over to Mrs— Devil take it! I have forgotten her name—my housekeeper. It would be far better to work for me at the Priory than for Torrington, I would wager.’

      ‘It could not be worse, sir.’ Her agreement was low, little more than a whisper. He almost missed her words.

      There was silence for a short time as Aldeborough contemplated his unexpected travelling companion.

      ‘Come and sit beside me.’

      ‘I would rather remain here, sir.’ I must remain calm, she told herself as panic began to build inside her. ‘We seem to be travelling at great speed.’ She was wedged into the opposite corner, hanging on to the straps and as far away from him as possible.

      Without more ado and once more taking her completely by surprise, Aldeborough leaned forward, grasped her wrist and pulled her ungently on to the seat next to him. She pushed herself back against the cushions only just preventing herself from falling against him or on to the floor as the onside wheel of the coach fell into a pothole. A full moon illuminated the carriage interior, but it was sufficiently erratic to allow the lady to hide with some relief her flushed cheeks and lack of composure. And, even more importantly, her identity.

      ‘So, we have established, to some extent at least, why you are here … so now—’ his gaze fixed on her unwaveringly like that of a hunting falcon ‘—tell me your name.’

      ‘Molly Bates, sir,’ she replied instantly in flat tones, thinking furiously and casting truth to the winds, intensely aware that he still had possession of her wrist and his grasp was burning a bracelet into her flesh.

      ‘Well, Molly Bates, I am afraid that I am drunk.’

      ‘Yes, my lord.’ Although there was no indication other than the reckless fire in his eyes and a slight slurring of his words. ‘I believe you will have a fierce headache tomorrow.’ She felt a certain malicious satisfaction in her prediction of his forthcoming discomfort.

      ‘I wouldn’t take your bet.’ He grinned, showing a flash of white teeth. ‘Let me look at you.’

      He pulled her closer, then released her wrist to push her chin up with his free hand and smooth the dark curls that, with unconfined waywardness, tended to hide her features. She was unable to meet his eyes, which searched her face, but sat stiffly, willing herself not to pull away from him. It might be wise, she told herself, if she did nothing to provoke him. He was clearly capable of reckless and unpredictable behaviour. She could expect no pity here if he were to discover the truth. She trembled beneath his fingers.

      ‘How old are you, Molly?’ he asked abruptly.

      ‘Almost one and twenty, my lord.’

      With his thumb he traced her fine cheekbones and then along the line of her jaw. Instinctively, she pulled back with an intake of breath in protest.

      ‘I won’t hurt you, you know.’ His voice was as smooth and rich as velvet. ‘Not if you are obedient, of course. You must understand that there is a price to pay if a pretty girl takes refuge uninvited in the coach of a gentleman to whom she has not been introduced.’

      She swallowed convulsively—she could not mistake his meaning. ‘Yes, my lord.’ In spite of her intentions to do nothing to antagonise him, she made no attempt to hide the wealth of bitterness and disgust in her reply.

      Aldeborough laughed softly; it made Frances’s blood run cold.

      Suddenly his hand tightened in her hair and he drew her inexorably closer. ‘You have spirit, Molly. I like that.’

      Before she could respond he bent his head and crushed her mouth with his own. She struggled, her hands braced with all her strength against his chest, but to no avail against the power of his well-muscled body. His arm encircled her shoulders with uncompromising strength, his lips merciless, assaulting her senses, demanding a response. She was determined to make none, but the play of his tongue along her bottom lip sent a shiver through her body. When he deepened the kiss she fought to prevent her mouth from opening treacherously under his. She had never been kissed before and was horrified at the turmoil of emotions that surged within her.

      Then he released her as suddenly as he had pounced.

      ‘How dare you!’ Anger won when she had recovered enough breath to speak, and decided, however waywardly, that she did not care to be kissed in that manner.

      ‘Dare?’ He laughed. ‘Since you were unwise enough to accompany me, to throw yourself on my mercy, then I call the tune. And you, darling Molly, must dance to it. You will very soon discover that I have no mercy. Besides, why the outrage? I am sure that you have been kissed before, as pretty as you are. Surely you have a greasy-handed sweetheart in the kitchens of Torrington Hall?’

      ‘No. I do not. And I gave you no leave to call me by my name.’ As she could think of no other response, she took refuge in formal dignity, however much it might sit at odds with her role of the hapless Molly. ‘You are no gentleman, my lord!’

      Again Aldeborough laughed, but with an edge of cynicism. ‘Perhaps not, my dear, but I vow I shall be a good lover.’ As Frances gasped in renewed outrage, he tightened his hold and his mouth claimed hers once more.

      This time the movement of the carriage came to Frances’s rescue. As the violent lurching flung them apart Frances took the opportunity to throw herself into the opposite corner again, where he viewed her with some amusement.

      ‘Perhaps this is not the most comfortable situation for a seduction scene.’ His mouth smiled, but she knew that she could look for no sympathy from this man. ‘We can wait until we reach the Priory. Don’t look so apprehensive, Mistress Molly. I will not touch you. Not until we get home, anyway.’

      He wedged himself into the corner of the coach again, leaned his head back on the cushions and closed his eyes. Within a few minutes his breathing had deepened and he appeared to be asleep, leaving Frances the opportunity to review the traumatic events of the past hour. Her uncle’s callous indifference. The decanter of port as spoilt and fractured as her dreams of love and happiness. She closed her fingers around the stained napkin on her wrist and fought back the tears that threatened to engulf her. You are just tired, she told herself. Tomorrow you will be free of all this. She turned her head and studied her heedless rescuer in the fitful moonlight. It was a handsome face, not classically fair like her cousin, but a face which compelled her attention. His skin was tanned from time spent outdoors in all weathers. He had a straight, masterful nose, a firm chin and hooded eyes, hidden now in sleep, but as uncompromisingly grey as a northern winter sea. Lines of cynicism were engraved between nose and mouth—that mouth, unsmiling now but with such beautifully sculpted lips. His hair was thick and dark with a tendency to wave, his brows equally dark and well marked. It was a face of flat planes, and strong angles, a face used to authority and command and to keeping its own secrets. It betrayed no softness—indeed, in repose his face was stern and austere. He would be a dangerous man to cross in spite of the indolent manner she had witnessed tonight.

      Her eyes dropped to his hands and she shivered at the memory of his touch. She had never been touched like that by any man. They were elegantly long fingered, but they had left her in no