Ruined By The Reckless Viscount. Sophia James

The man from the carriage. Raw. Brutal. Furious. He sounded as though he would like to kill her along with the canines though the hackles of each dog were raised along bony spines, ready to spring.

      He’d stooped to pick up a few of the bigger stones around his feet and threw one hard and fast. A direct hit to the flanks had the lead dog crouching down and slinking backwards. Two long scars at the back of her abductor’s head were easily visible in the fading light. She wondered how anyone could have survived such wounds as that.

      ‘Get back, damn it.’ His words seemed to be having some effect as the second dog followed the other.

      ‘Walk slowly towards me.’ This was directed at her now. ‘Don’t run. They are hunting dogs trained to protect and defend. Any quick movement will have them upon you and my pistols are still in the carriage.’

      ‘You...would...shoot them?’

      He laughed at that, a harsh and savage sound. ‘In an instant, were I armed and they were attacking. Now do as I say.’

      She did because just at that moment the slobbering teeth of the hunting pair were infinitely more worrying than the possibility of this stranger hurting her. Again. She was pleased when he stood before her shielding her from the threat. ‘Now, walk backwards, keeping my body in a direct line with the dogs. Don’t make eye contact with them. Don’t trip. Look as if you are in charge until you get through the green shelter at the edge of the clearing and then turn and run for the carriage as fast as you can go and get straight in. Do you understand me?’

      ‘And...what...of...you?’

      ‘I will be fine.’

      He picked up another of the big rocks with one hand and a dead branch from the ground as a weapon and planted it before him. One of the dogs growled loudly in response and the noise had her moving back past the shelter of the bushes and away. As she scampered through the scrub at the edge of the clearing she simply turned and ran for the carriage, screaming at the driver about the dogs and the danger and slamming the door shut behind her.

      It was wet inside and smelt like hay, though the dress she wore bore the stronger stench of vomit. Taking a flask of water from a shelf at the back of the conveyance, she poured it across the skirts of her gown, the cold seeping through the red-sprigged muslin and making her shiver.

      Her breathing was worse. She could barely take in air now and the panic that she knew would not aid her was building. Placing her head back against the seat, she closed her eyes. This sometimes helped, but she needed the expectorant and the anti-spasmodics that her mother procured from Dr Bracewell in Harley Street. She needed calm and peace and serenity.

      Would she die here on the side of a country road and alone? Would her family even know what had happened to her? Would her body be left to the dogs to devour after strangers had stolen her jewellery and books and her dress?

      Not to mention her virginity.

      The dreadful terror of it all had her sweaty and clammy and she began to feel strange and distant from things. It was the air...she couldn’t get enough of it.

      Finally, and with only the slightest whimper, she fell again into the gentler folds of darkness.

      * * *

      Hell, this whole journey was turning into a fiasco, James thought as he rejoined Thomas’s mistress in the carriage. She was on the floor now in a puddle of water, the cold liquid seeping into the red dress and darkening the fabric to scarlet. She was breathing strangely, too, the skin at her throat taut and hollow and a blue tinge around her lips.

      Finding his blade, he leaned forward and slit the tight fabric of her gown from bodice to hem, peeling it away from her. Without hesitation he threw the stinking wet dress straight out of the window and tucked his jacket about her before lifting her to sit up on the seat opposite. An erect position would make breathing easier, he thought, for he’d seen a soldier once with the same ailment on the icy roads between Lugos and Betanzos, and the man had insisted his head should be above his lungs or otherwise he would perish.

      Reaching over to a net shelf at the back of the carriage, he searched for the tin of peppermint grease he’d bought at an inn from a medicine man on the way down to London. His cousin was prone to a weakness of chest and the vendor had been so insistent on the healing properties of the treatment James had found coin and purchased it.

      Now he fingered a large translucent blob into his palm and rubbed at the skin around the girl’s throat, though the fumes of the ointment were strong and his eyes began to water. Surely such potency must have some effect on allowing breath. He wished she would speak to him so that he could see how she fared, but she simply sat there, a tight and angry presence. He knew she was now conscious—years of hard soldiering had taught him that difference—but he did not wish to harry her with the malady of her condition and the skimpiness of her clothing so he left her to herself and willed the miles gone.

      Her legs were badly scratched beneath the skirts, he’d seen that as he had lifted her and the shoes she wore were nothing more than thin leather and silk. A woman used to the boudoir and an inside life. Her hair in the fading light was the colour of honey and gold. He had imagined whores to be cheap and brassy somehow, an artificial enhancement on show for the customers they would be trying to attract. Acacia Kensington’s locks looked natural and unfussy.

      * * *

      Forty minutes later as the carriage slowed to rest the horses at an inn, her eyes opened. When she moved his jacket pulled away from her neck and her cheeks paled again as she registered her extreme lack of outer wear.

      Such false theatrics irked him. ‘I am sure in your profession you must have some days in less than your petticoats, Miss Kensington.’

      ‘Miss...Kensington?’ Her voice sounded rusty, the fright evident in every single syllable for she trembled as she took in breath. ‘I think...you are indeed...mistaken.’

      ‘Acacia Kensington?’ He heard the horror in his tone. ‘You are Miss Acacia Kensington, the paramour of my cousin Thomas, are you not?’

      She shook her head hard, the long blonde hair falling loose now in a swathe across her shoulders and down over her chest.

      ‘I am not, sir. I am... Lady Florentia Hale-B-Burton...youngest daughter...of the Earl of Albany.’ Each breath was raw with the effort of talking.

      ‘Hell.’ He could not believe it. ‘Hell,’ he repeated and like the tumblers in a safe all the clues fell into place. The servant running down the road before the park screaming. The ring. The priggish dress. Her voice.

      He’d kidnapped the wrong woman, rendered her unconscious, stripped her almost naked and subjected her to the sort of danger and terror she’d probably never ever manage to recover from.

      For the first time in his life he was almost speechless.

      ‘How old are you?’

      ‘Eighteen. This...was my...first...Season.’

      Young. Unprotected. Defenceless.

      ‘Are you married?’

      His eyes searched the fingers on her left hand and saw them bare.

      ‘I am...not, sir...but I soon...may be. I...have a...suitor...who...likes me and I am...sure that we...will...’

      She didn’t finish for shouts filled the courtyard of the inn as another conveyance reeled wildly into view. Several men alighted and came towards them and as the door was snatched open all James felt was pain as a firearm exploded into his face, the smell of gunpowder one of his last and abiding memories.

      * * *

      He was dead.

      Her father had killed him, the blood oozing from his neck and his mouth in a slow dribble of frothed red.

      The sound of the shot had deafened her so that all she could see were people with open lips and corded throats and wildly gesticulating hands.

      She felt him fall and