Claire Thornton - Runaway Lady

But he’d never before held a woman while the hot blood of combat still pounded through his veins. While he was still filled with rage at the enemy. Within a few heartbeats his battle-roused body had been invaded by a different kind of lust. A driving compulsion to satisfy his fierce desire for a woman—for Saskia.

He’d wanted to touch her. To stroke her. To press her hips against him—to thrust himself into her—

As she’d trembled with fear in his arms he’d fought a bitter battle with himself, furious and disgusted with himself that he could experience such savage physical need to take her when she was so vulnerable. She’d turned trustingly to him for comfort. If she’d known what he’d been thinking—feeling—she’d have been more terrified of him than of the highwaymen. The image of another woman screaming in powerless fear flashed into his mind. Despite his self-control, he shuddered.

‘You did right,’ said the coachman. ‘Sewer dregs like that don’t deserve to live.’ With a nod of his head he indicated the highwayman.

‘I’ll not lose any sleep over him,’ Harry said curtly, realising the coachman had misunderstood the cause of his shudder. ‘But it’s inconvenient. We’ll lose some time over this.’

A few minutes later they reached the next village. It consisted of an inn, a church, a blacksmith’s, a baker’s and a cluster of houses. The arrival of the coach and the dead highwayman drew a small crowd of interested locals, one of whom was the constable. Several of the men recognised the corpse as Jem Crayford. According to their excited comments, he’d been a notorious local villain who had plagued the neighbourhood for the past eighteen months. But the forms still had to be observed. The constable asked Harry a few questions and then went in search of the magistrate.

After that, Saskia and Harry were urged into the inn, the innkeeper’s wife in particular making a fuss of Saskia. Harry’s eyes narrowed briefly as he realised Saskia was being taken out of the taproom into the landlady’s inner sanctum. He almost protested, but he was used to the separation of the sexes and it made sense to him that, after being exposed to male violence, Saskia needed the comfort of other women around her. Though she was quite calm, she was very pale and he could see signs of strain in her face. She threw one questioning glance at him and then allowed herself to be carried off.

A tankard of ale appeared in front of Harry.

‘Good riddance to the villain,’ the blacksmith observed. There was a mutter of agreement from the other men.

‘He was well known in these parts?’ Harry asked.

‘Crayford made the Dog and Duck alehouse over yonder his headquarters,’ said the blacksmith. ‘Boasted about his exploits, so I heard, but there wasn’t any solid evidence against him. Those who knew anything were too frightened to speak out—afraid they’d end up at the bottom of a well.’

‘Did he often hurt those he robbed?’ said Harry.

‘He shot coach horses as a warning to his victims.’ The blacksmith’s expression was grim. ‘After that, most people he held up were too terrified to do anything but hand over their valuables.’

‘Indeed,’ said Harry, thinking of the musket that had been aimed at his heart. He had no doubt that death, not terror, had been the intended outcome of that shot.

Saskia was grateful for the kindness of the local women, but she couldn’t afford to relax her guard in their company. Harry had introduced her as Sarah Brewster, and given the impression she was a respectable widow travelling to Portsmouth on unspecified business. Saskia was far more comfortable in that role than portraying herself as the mistress to an unnamed lord, but she still had to watch everything she said. Oddly, it reminded her of times during her married life when she’d found herself surrounded by her female Dutch relatives.

When she’d first arrived in Amsterdam she’d been a new wife. Much had seemed strange to her, but she’d assumed she’d eventually have a secure and comfortable position within Pieter’s family. After his accident she’d increasingly felt out of step with the other women. She hadn’t been in Amsterdam long enough before the accident to develop any deep friendships, and afterwards she’d rejected the role of ‘poor Saskia’, instead putting most of her energy into taking care of her merchant husband’s business. It was far more common for women to take part in business in Holland than in England, but Saskia had married into a wealthy family and none of the other women needed to take on such responsibilities. The other young wives had babies, and talked endlessly of their children, their husbands and their tasks within the homes they’d created.

Saskia had never confided in anyone her hurt, confusion and even anger at the way Pieter rejected the simplest gesture of affection once he knew he’d never recover any further from his accident. She’d found a way to manage her feelings and gradually their relationship had developed into something resembling a cordial but practical friendship between business partners. She’d greeted each baby into the family with warm smiles, but every time she hugged a new babe in her arms she’d ached with the knowledge she would never experience the pain and joy of motherhood. She hated the pity she saw in the other women’s eyes, so she never let her sorrow show—but she always returned the baby to its mother as soon as courtesy allowed.

Now, as she sat in the midst of the English women, grateful for their sympathy over her ordeal with the highwaymen, but longing for the moment when they’d leave and she could finally lower her guard, she wondered for the first time whether she wanted to go back to her old life in Amsterdam. She’d always assumed she would return after visiting her brother. She’d inherited Pieter’s business and she was proud of her achievements. But if she remained in Holland would she always be Pieter van Buren’s childless widow? She could marry again, but she felt no affinity for any of the Dutch bachelors of her acquaintance.

The innkeeper’s wife complimented Saskia archly on travelling with such a fine, handsome gentleman. ‘Any woman would feel safe in the hands of such a man.’

‘I am fortunate to be travelling with him,’ Saskia replied sedately, but her thoughts instantly focused on the exciting feel of being in Harry’s arms—at least until he’d had enough of such close contact with her. That memory hurt, and she quickly shut her mind to it.

From the expression on some of the other women’s faces, she suspected they were also imagining the pleasure of being in Harry’s embrace. She suddenly realised that, for the first time in years, she was the object of curiosity and perhaps even feminine jealousy because of a man. Harry, with his dark good looks, masculine charisma and indefinable air of danger, was the kind of man most women daydreamed about at some time in their lives. And he was with her. No one needed to know it was only because he’d responded to a notice on a coffee-room wall, and that he’d made it silently, but unmistakably, clear he didn’t wish to hold her a moment longer than necessary.

‘Yes, it is good to be in his hands,’ she said serenely, hesitating just long enough before continuing, ‘Normally I do not care for travelling, but he has managed every detail of the arrangements.’ As the other women glanced at each other, she felt a burst of secret pleasure at her play with words. She had said nothing untoward. A widow unused to travelling might well ask a male friend or relative to assist her—but the picture of herself as the kind of woman who’d attracted Harry’s sensual interest was enticing.

She wished it was true. It hurt far more than it should that it wasn’t. Then she was angry with herself for caring—and suddenly she was desperate to be alone. She still hadn’t told Harry they weren’t going to Portsmouth. And somehow she had to persuade him to help her rescue Benjamin. Harry had been in a bad temper ever since the highwaymen’s attack. What if he no longer wanted to continue on with her? The possibility he might abandon her was so awful it almost brought tears to her eyes.