away. She refused to cry over this. If nothing else, her tears would leave tracks on her dirty cheeks, making it obvious that she had been crying. And no doubt he would think that she had been crying because of him. She grimaced as her thoughts turned to the obnoxious man who had virtually abducted her.
He was uncouth, low and thoroughly maddening. He had treated her reprehensibly. No man of breeding would have grabbed her so roughly or pinned her to the ground like that. She remembered the bold way his eyes had lingered over her breasts, revealed by the thin, wet material of her dress. It made her blush, even sitting there alone in the dark carriage, to think of the way his legs had clamped around hers, of how intimately his body had been pressed against her—and of the shocking movement his body had made as he looked at her. It had felt so strange—almost exhilarating, even at the same time that it was utterly improper and infuriating.
She shifted on her seat, pulling her sodden dress away from her. She was growing more and more uncomfortable by the moment. The mud was continuing to dry on her, and her clothes were sticking to her flesh. Worst of all, her wet garments were quite cold, so that she was shivering almost continuously. She wanted to drape her cloak around her to help keep off some of the cold, but she hated to get mud all over the inside of it. Still…she could hardly just sit there and catch a chill. She was eyeing the cloak uncertainly when she became aware of the fact that the carriage was rattling over cobblestones. With a suppressed cry, she pushed aside the curtain and looked out to see that they had entered the village.
Within moments, they were turning into the yard of the Blue Boar. Camilla let out a sigh of relief. Though she had tried not to let herself think about it, she had been worried that the stranger would not really take her into the village at all, but, realizing the dangers of her being able to identify him, would abandon her on some dark and lonely road…or worse.
Now, with a cry, she jerked open the door of the carriage even before they came to a complete stop and jumped down from it. “Boy, see to the horses,” she called to the ostler, who had started across the yard toward their vehicle. “And look to my coachman, too. I fear we may have to send for a doctor.”
The ostler came to a dead halt, goggling at her, but Camilla did not notice. She was already hurrying to the front door, her only thought to get safely inside before the stranger atop the chaise could catch up with her.
As soon as she stepped inside the public room, all conversation came to a halt, and everyone swiveled around to stare at her. Camilla stopped short, dismayed at being the focus of so many sets of eyes. In her relief at reaching the Blue Boar, she had forgotten about her appearance, but now those stunned expressions reminded her of just how she looked. Her hand went to her mud-encrusted ringlets, and she glanced down at her wet gown, pressed to her body in a most improper way, one sleeve completely ripped away. A wave of deep red washed up her face to her hairline.
The keeper of the inn, a large, bluff man, started toward her from his post at the tap. Camilla saw him and was swept by relief. “Saltings! How glad I am to see you!”
She took a step or two forward, then stopped as he said, “Here, now, miss, what do you think you be doing? Coming in here like that! This is a decent inn, it is, and we’ve no use—”
“Saltings!” Camilla exclaimed, shaken. “Don’t you recognize me?” Tears of humiliation sprang into her eyes. This seemed the last straw, the perfectly awful end to a perfectly awful day—that Saltings, who had known her all her life, should mistake her for a common doxy. Was he actually going to toss her out?
The man stopped and peered at her. “Do I know you?”
“It is I! Camilla Ferrand!” Tears flooded her eyes. She could not hold them back, and they spilled over, coursing a trail through the smear of mud on her cheeks.
“Miss Ferrand!” he repeated, his jaw dropping. “Sweet Lord, what happened? What are you doing here this way?”
He went to her, gently taking her arm and steering her toward the smaller private room of the inn, then stopped. “Oh, dear, no, there’s a gentleman there.” He took another glance at Camilla beside him, muddy and disheveled and struggling to hold back her tears, then at the rest of his customers, all staring avidly.
“Well,” he said with a sigh, “there’s nothing for it. You can’t stay out here, that’s for certain.”
He rapped sharply on the door to the private room and pushed it open when a man’s voice inside answered. “I beg your pardon, sir,” Saltings said, ushering Camilla inside the room. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’ve got a bit of a problem here. There’s a lady here, and, well, it wouldn’t be right for her to be sitting outside with the common crowd, sir.”
Camilla looked across the room, fighting to contain her tears. The gentleman sitting beside the fire—for it was just as obvious that he was a gentleman as it had been that the stranger on the heath earlier was a ruffian—rose to his feet, his eyebrows lifting in astonishment. He was dressed impeccably, from the crease of his simple yet elegant white neckcloth to the tips of his polished Hessians, and his hair was dressed in a similarly subdued yet fashionable style known as the Brutus.
He took one swift look at Camilla’s muddied state and said, “Precisely, Saltings. You are right. The lady must have the private dining room. The only thing is, I am expecting a visitor— Ah, there he is now. And looking, I might add, quite as if he had shared this young lady’s adventure.”
Camilla swung around at his words. “You!” she exclaimed with loathing.
There, in the doorway, stood her tormentor.
CHAPTER TWO
THE MAN GAVE Camilla a look that left little doubt that he shared her feelings. She straightened, bolstered by his irritation. It was some comfort, at least, to see that he was as filthy, wet and bedraggled as she.
“What the devil are you doing here?” the man asked roughly. “Am I never to be rid of you?”
“I might say the same about you.”
“I take it that you two have met,” said the gentleman by the fireplace, his voice as smooth and suave as if they were all standing in a London drawing room.
The stranger from the carriage ride grunted and moved into the room. Camilla said icily, “I am afraid that we were not properly introduced.”
“Ah, Benedict.” The gentleman sighed. “I fear you are ever lacking in manners.” He moved forward toward Camilla. “Allow me to correct his oversight. I, dear lady, am Jermyn Sedgewick. And this is, ah, Benedict, uh…”
“How do you do, Mr. Sedgewick? I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” Camilla replied formally, trying to ignore the absurdity of the polite greeting in contrast to her grubby state of dress. She cast a flashing glance toward the other man. “I am sorry I cannot say the same about meeting Mr. Benedict.”
Mr. Sedgewick opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He cast a grin toward Benedict. “I see you have made your usual charming impression.”
Benedict’s only reply was a noise resembling a growl. He turned away from both of them, striding over to the fire and holding out his hands to it. Mr. Sedgewick ignored him as he spoke to the innkeeper. “Well, Saltings, I think what we need here is a hot rum punch. Why don’t you bring us a bowl of it? I’ll do the mixing.”
“Of course, sir.”
Saltings
