Captain Corcoran's Hoyden Bride

‘I told you I would wait for your answer until morning. Do I give you such a disgust that you must run out into the night?’

He thrust the lantern into the hands of one of the men lurking behind him, and bent over her.

She could not help cowering deeper into the bracken, the look on his face was so murderous.

‘For God’s sake,’ he muttered, ‘I may look like your worst nightmare, but wouldn’t you rather I carried you back to the house than one of my men?’

She looked past him to the shifting shadows, imagining the hands of Nelson on her, or that one with the bow legs and splayed teeth, and shuddered. What choice did she have? She had hurt her ankle so badly, there was no escape now. With a faint moan, she nodded her assent.

‘Brace yourself, then,’ he sneered, crouching down and sweeping her up into his arms. Rain dripped from the ends of his long, shaggy hair on to her face, making her blink.

‘Just shut your eyes if you can’t bear the sight of me!’

How could he mock her terror like this? Had he no pity? No, she whimpered, or he would not have lured her up here, hand-picked his accomplices … set the whole thing up so … meticulously!

He set his jaw as he settled her into the cradle of his arms before striding back through the woods to the lane. Oh, God, he was so strong! The shoulder under her cheek was like a rock, the arms that held her against him bulging with muscle. She did not stand a chance!

As he carried her back through the gateposts, it was all she could do to hold back the tears. How could she have been so stupid as to fall into his trap?

The fear that had been her constant companion since she’d had to flee from her father had clearly addled her wits, as well as robbing her of her appetite and prodding her awake, night after night, with sickening visions of what the future held in store. It had escalated to such proportions that she could think of nothing but escape. Clinging on to the slim hope that if only she could get out of London, and away from her father, she would be safe, she had entirely overlooked the fact that men could be as wicked in the wilds of Yorkshire as they were in the gambling hells and back alleys of town.

At least in London, she would have known places to hide!

But now Captain Corcoran was carrying her into the house, and up the stairs, shouldering the door to her room open with barely suppressed fury. And for the first time in her life, Aimée felt real despair. In spite of all her cunning, she had ended up falling prey to the very type of man she had gone to such lengths to evade.

It really was a case of out of the frying pan, into the fire, for he was bound to make her pay for trying to foil his plans.

He flung her on to the bed and reared back, swiping the rain from his face with the palm of his hand. The way he had dropped her jolted her ankle, sending a fresh wave of pain shooting up her leg. She could not help wincing and gingerly trying to move it into a less painful position, though she did not dare take her eyes off his face as she awaited his next move.

His mouth flattened into a grim line. He turned and strode to the door, leaned his head out, and roared, ‘Billy! Fetch some wet cloths to strap up this woman’s foot!’

Then he turned and strode back to the bed, swiftly pulling off her sodden indoor shoes. Oh, how she now regretted not pausing to change them for sturdier boots!

How she regretted so many of her choices.

She swallowed nervously, then lifted her chin. She might be completely in his power, but she was a Vickery. No man would break her spirit!

Her flash of defiance lasted just as long as it took him to reach up under her dress and untie one of her garters. She scuttled back up the bed so quickly her shoulders slammed into the headboard.

‘Stop looking at me as though I am about to rape you, damn your eyes!’ he snarled at her. ‘Do you think I would get any satisfaction from forcing a woman to endure my unwelcome attentions?’

What? Breathing hard, she blinked up at him, pushing the straggling hanks of wet hair away from her face.

And really looked at him.

To her amazement, she realised he was not leering at her. There was not even the faintest trace of lust mingled with the scalding anger blazing from his one eye.

He was not, she suddenly perceived, another Lord Sandiford, the man who, according to her informant, had started the bidding for her virginity. He would not have cared whether she was willing or not. On the contrary, Mr Carpenter had warned her that he would have enjoyed making her suffer as much as he possibly could.

It felt like a reprieve. She was still in considerable danger, but having the threat of violence removed from the equation left her feeling weak with relief.

As she slumped down into the pillows the Captain’s lips twisted into a sneer.

‘Though how on earth you could think that a skinny little half-drowned rat like you would be capable of rousing any man’s lust is beyond me.’

He looked so full of contempt that her whole perspective suddenly changed. She was little more than skin and bone these days. Skin and bone, clad in a sodden, torn, stained dress, wild-eyed with panic, and her hair all over the place. Though earlier he had said he found her pretty, that had obviously been a piece of idle flattery, intended to win her over. Now that she had angered him, the truth was out.

It set the seal on her humiliation when he said, ‘God only knows what Jago was thinking to bring you here. I told him to pick a woman who could at least look as though she belonged in society.’

He bent down and yanked the wrinkled stocking over her rapidly swelling ankle, making her gasp with the pain.

She thought she caught a look of remorse flicker across the Captain’s face, but it was swiftly replaced by a glare so fierce, she decided she must have imagined it. Particularly when he swore colourfully, and said, ‘It is your own fault! Now you won’t even be able to leave in the morning, like as not, which you could have done had you told me to my face that you did not want to marry me!’

He turned away from her abruptly then, as Billy came in carrying a bowl of crushed ice, and a pile of what looked like somebody’s neckcloths. And so he missed her soundlessly gasping, ‘Marry you?’ The shock of hearing him speak of marriage was so great her voice had dried up completely.

‘Tell me what I need to do,’ he was saying to Billy, while she pressed one hand to her forehead.

Aimée’s mind was reeling. When had he ever said one single word to her about marriage?

Surely that proposition he had made to her, outlining his willingness to shower her with jewels and servants, had not been one of marriage? Why, it had sounded exactly like every single one of the many other dishonourable propositions she had received since her mother died.

Could she really have just fled, in total panic, from the only proposal of marriage she had ever had?

Or was ever likely to have.

There had been only one occasion before, when she had thought she stood a chance of marrying, and thereby crossing the boundary that existed between her precarious existence and that of a decent, respectable woman.

Young Mr Carpenter had professed himself wildly in love with her. He had written her odes, comparing her to ‘Beauty enmeshed by poverty’ in which her father figured as a bloated spider. He had declared he would be her champion, and took to following her father to some of the lowest haunts he frequented, in a vain attempt to put a brake on his downhill slide.

Instead, he had returned with the tale so vile she’d had nightmares about it ever since. Lord Sandiford and Lord Matthison had only just begun the bidding when Mr Carpenter left the Restoration Club and ran to warn her she must flee.

‘Where will we go?’ she had naïvely asked him, assuming that the time had come to stop holding him at arm’s length and accept his protection, even though she did not love him.

‘Oh, but, ahh … d-don’t exactly have the blunt to set you up. Not right now,’ he had blustered.

‘Take me to your mother’s house then. Just until we are married—’

‘Married?’ he had squeaked, actually taking a step back and going pale.

And she had seen that in spite of the number of times he had declared he would do anything for her, that anything did not encompass making the ultimate sacrifice of giving her his name.

‘N-not that I don’t adore you, sweet one, but … bring a man like your father into my family?’

The scales had fallen from her eyes. When Mr Carpenter married, it would be to a fresh-faced, innocent débutante with a handsome dowry and a cast-iron pedigree, not the daughter of a pair of vagabonds whose escapades had scandalised half of Europe.

He had fled from her lodgings, with the air of a man making a narrow escape, and she had finally seen that she would never have anyone to rely on but herself. Nobody would ever come riding to her rescue on a white charger. She was on her own.

And so she had pocketed the down payment Lord Matthison had sent to ensure her compliance, God forgive her, and used it to go into hiding.