Page 5 of Captured by the Earl (The Secret Crusaders #2)

CHAPTER 5

L ondon Society News:

Who was the mysterious rescuer?

That is the question everyone is asking, an inquiry that transcends class, age, position and just about every other classification. Numerous reports have told of a cloaked man fighting a crowd of rogues to save a woman. The powerful man felled the armed ruffians with the greatest of ease, rescuing a woman who was just as mysterious. She disappeared, just like him. Who was he? Who was she?

If you know, do tell.

She was unharmed. Safe. Protected.

No one was going to hurt her.

Ever.

Philip repeated the words to himself, again and again, as he forced himself to not throw her over his shoulder and carry her back to the safety of her – or better yet his – home. Yet he kept his steps measured, even as he ensured she remained in sight. When she finally reached the safer areas, he raced ahead, handing the large coat, bandana, and hat to a startled, but grateful worker. He’d procured them just as swiftly, for coin valued at thrice what they were worth, when he’d seen the men following Emma.

Thank goodness he donned the disguise before dispatching the ruffians. While he could not completely conceal his fit stature, the ton viewed Lord Peyton as a calm, amiable fellow who wouldn’t have the ability or inclination to fight six hardened criminals. By the time he had finished, a crowd had gathered, and while it didn’t include any members of the ton except for Emma, word could easily spread.

His secret could be in jeopardy.

He doubled back behind a row of townhouses, moving through the still-quiet streets. Likely she would sneak in through the back, avoiding the front door, where a servant was bound to see her even at the early hour. His patience was rewarded when she came into view a moment later. He folded his arms across his chest and stared.

It was obvious the moment she saw him. A slight stumble, pinkness that began in her cheeks, then bloomed throughout every visible part of her. Yet she kept her head held high, her gait nearly unbroken as she stopped in front of him.

She gave a curt nod. “Lord Peyton.”

He afforded her a long deliberate look from the top of her austere outfit to the soles of her serviceable shoes.

She looked down, and her lips parted, as if she only just remembered her attire. Her blush deepened.

“Lady Emma, what a surprise.” He stepped closer, partly because he could, partly to unbalance her and entirely because it felt right. Yet assurance swiftly melted into unease. A paleness graced her features, concern etched in deep lines.

She had never reacted that way to him before. Had she gotten hurt during the scuffle? In the chaos, he’d assumed she was all right. “Are you well?”

Her brow furrowed into a little V. “Of course.”

Yet her breathy voice told otherwise. Thankfully, no injuries were visible, and earlier she had sprinted away from him with ease. Still, some injuries were invisible. “Are you certain?” He softened his voice. “Did something happen while you were out?”

Her sharp intake of breath betrayed the truth he already knew. “Nothing of any importance.”

He raised an eyebrow.

She breathed out, yet instead of another denial, admitted, “I just had a little scare. It was nothing.”

He resisted the urge to smooth away the worry lines. “But you’re all right?”

She stood a bit taller, a tiny spark returning to her eyes. “I am fine. I got a little help from–” She clamped her mouth shut.

Not good. “From whom?”

“From no one.” Yet a delicate shudder underscored the words.

Now he put a hand on her arm. She deserved a little comfort, especially before he took a much harder stance. “I’m just glad you’re all right.”

She gave a small nod, clearly calmer. Yet for her own safety, now he would have to play the autocrat. “Care to explain?”

She shook her head firmly. “I have nothing to explain to you.”

“I think you do.” He moved forward, then stopped, glanced around. No one would recognize her from afar, but he was easily identifiable. He put a hand on her back, led her to the tall bushes that bordered her property.

She tried to dig in her heels, but he didn’t allow it. “What are you doing?” she hissed.

“Trying to prevent someone from seeing you. Now–” He folded his arms. “You will explain exactly where you went and why.”

She scowled. “If you must know, I went for a walk.”

“At this time?”

“I’m an early riser.”

“Dressed like a servant?”

“It’s far more comfortable.”

“One final question.” He leaned forward. “Do you actually think I believe any of that?”

She paled, but then straightened. “I. Don’t. Care.”

Her defiance may have bothered the man she thought he was. “It’s not safe for a lady to be alone, especially dressed as you are. Henceforth, you will not do so.”

She turned a lovely shade of pink, then an even more fetching shade of red. “I do not need a keeper!”

Perhaps yes and perhaps no, yet he found he very much wanted the position. He’d heard too many stories of vulnerable women, and the preying men who took advantage, even among the ton. Villains came in all classes. “You should have thought of that before you declared us betrothed.”

“That is something I am very much trying to undo!”

Unknown emotion blazed inside of him. How his feelings were so strong, so quickly, he would not dissect, yet he’d learned to trust his instincts. “We have not decided when, or if, it will be undone.” He glanced through the thorny curtain. The streets were still deserted at the early hour, yet still he lowered his voice. “Do you truly have no idea how ravishing you are?”

Twin spots of pink colored her cheeks. “You, sir, are wholly impertinent. It is uncouth to tell such untruths.”

“I do not lie. No dress, no matter how plain, could hide your radiance.” Emma had always been beautiful, yet in all her feminine glory, she was stunning. She was a prize, and he would not allow anyone to hurt her.

Her eyes widened, as she bit that luscious lower lip. And suddenly, desire flared, powerful and all-encompassing. He fought for restraint.

By the fire burning in her eyes, she felt the same. “You don’t think I could handle danger?”

“I do not.”

“Then I suppose I shall have to do something to prove it to you.”

“What do you think you’re going to–”

She pressed her lips to his.

He may have the strength to fight the fiercest criminals in the world, but no one could ignore an invitation like that.

He immediately took control. The first taste was strawberries and sunshine – sweet, delectable and absolutely irresistible. A surge of pure male satisfaction raged through his blood, as she moaned in sweet surrender, then softened like sun-melted butter. Beneath her fiery exterior, she was passion and softness, strength and supple woman.

He rubbed her back, pulling her close as he deepened the kiss. She molded to him perfectly, her petite form the flawless complement to his massive size. Her lips were plump and firm as he nipped at them. Fiery attraction surged in his blood.

Then a sound came from the street.

It was low and inconsequential, likely an animal scurrying through the brush, yet it cast harsh reality. It would not be impossible for someone to stumble close enough to hear them. If they were caught, this betrothal would become immediately real and uncompromisingly irreversible. Suppressing a growl, he pulled back.

Emma stood ramrod straight, clenching her fists. Her skin was deliciously pink, her creamy bosom rising and falling with each breath. She parted her lips, yet did not say anything.

He understood. The kiss was… astounding.

He took advantage of her speechless state. “Go inside and get dressed. I will knock on the door shortly.”

She shook her head rapidly. “It’s too early to receive guests.”

“And yet, you’ve been out for hours.” He hardened his stance. “On what we both know was more than a walk.”

She colored. “Despite your assumptions, you cannot arrive at this hour. How will my mother react?”

“I was here earlier, and she was most pleased.” He’d been the target of enough match-making mamas to know she would be elated to see him, no matter the hour. “We shall simply explain we wanted to spend time together before breakfast.”

“That is unacceptable. Go home and return in a few hours.”

“You mean when you have already left?” Her deepening pinkness said he guessed correctly. He leaned in. “Do not think to escape me, Lady Emma. You are up against a far greater challenger than you could ever imagine.”

The spark in her eyes turned into an inferno. “I am as strong as you, Lord Peyton, and every bit as determined.”

Satisfaction surged. Yes, she was.

“Lord Peyton, how delightful you came to visit.”

Of course her mother thought so.

“And so early, which means we have plenty of time to discuss–” Her mother’s eyes sparkled.

Please don’t say it.

Don’t. Say. It.

“Weddings.”

Where was a boat to America when one needed one?

“There’s no need to discuss something so far in the future.” Emma stretched her face into what she hoped passed for a smile. She should be at ease, sitting in her mother’s luxurious rose-colored drawing room, on a settee as soft as a cloud, the carpet plush under her satiny slippers. Of course the cream colored dress her mother insisted she wear bit into her, but even she had to admit it was lovely. The room was comfortable and warm, the crackling fire in the marble fireplace chasing away the morning chill. Paintings of roses graced the walls and ceilings between gilded panels.

Yet despite the beauty of her surroundings, inside peace was nowhere to be found. She caught sight of herself in the mirrored cabinet. Her expression was the same as the unfortunate Lord Walbantor after he had fallen into the lake filled with alligators.

Only she still had to face her predator.

She hurried on, “As you know, the betrothal isn’t even official.”

“Just a matter of time, I’m sure,” Lady Lawrence gushed. “Obviously, Lord Peyton couldn’t offer from America, and now your father is on holiday with his friends. He never would have left if he knew of your return. When he comes back in a few weeks, everything will be set right.” Her mother blinked at Peyton.

Who smiled.

She growled.

“Emma?” Her mother’s eyes widened.

“I’m sorry. I had difficulty swallowing something.”

Like the smug look in Peyton’s eyes as he swirled his glass.

Her mother waved her hand. “Even if the banns haven’t been read, we can still discuss the details of the marriage. Tell me, Lord Peyton, do you envision a large family?”

Emma choked on her biscuit. Stars danced before she eyes, and suddenly a glass of water was thrust to her lips. She gulped it, unseating the rough mass in her throat, before sucking in a raspy breath. She breathed deeply, trying to calm her galloping heart.

“Are you all right?”

Peyton kneeled before her. Genuine concern etched his features, a gentleness belying his massive strength. His legs brushed against her knees, and his hand rested on her thigh. It was altogether too familiar, scandalous even, yet instead of discomfort, she felt warm, secure.

She cleared her throat. “I’m fine, thank you.” She put a hand on his, to push him away. Instead she kept it there, reveling in his presence, allowing herself a traitorous moment to enjoy what he offered.

A voice cleared.

She jerked back, unable to stop a small gasp. After one last look, Peyton rose and returned to his seat.

“I trust you are all right, my dear.” Her mother’s wide smile belied the concerned words, no doubt a product of the earl’s indulgent attention.

“I’m fine.” Emma patted her mouth with the crisp linen napkin. “Thank you for your attention, Lord Peyton.”

“It was no trouble.”

“Of course it wasn’t.” Her mother rubbed her hands together like a card player who’d just found seven aces in the deck. “It’s exactly how a betrothed should act. Even while you were gone, you treated my daughter like a princess.” She lowered her voice. “I hope you don’t mind, but Emma told me about your letters. They were simply lovely.”

Uh-oh.

“Letters?” Peyton’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve been gone so long, I barely remember writing them.” He turned to Emma. “Tell me about them.”

“I’d rather not.”

Because if she did, he may just throw her in a lake full of alligators.

Despite everything, she couldn’t regret making up the fictional missives. Her arrangement granted her status, yet lords were still hesitant to take advice from a woman. She needed a way to convince them the information came from Peyton, but of course, he was an ocean away. Enter a slew of fictional letters. Not only were they excellent at convincing lords to support social action causes, they also worked to calm a nervous mother fretting about a suitor’s absence.

“Oh, come now,” he murmured. “Don’t be shy.”

“I remember every letter.” Her mother put down her teacup with an excited clatter. “She said you sent pages and pages of poetry. Each was more beautiful than the next, but how couldn’t they be when you shared them with strangers to ensure their perfection? You even stopped people in the street and shouted them to the crowd.”

Peyton opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

“Then you wrote them on paper and distributed them to strangers.”

He stared.

“You spent hours poring over each and every word, but in the end, it was worthwhile when people burst into tears from your prose.”

If he didn’t close his mouth soon, a fly was going to buzz into it.

The countess sighed wistfully. “She never shared any of the actual poetry with me. Perhaps if you didn’t mind–”

“No!”

Peyton finally turned to her, his expression half-suspicion, half-curiosity and all challenge.

Her mother tweaked her hand. “If he was willing to share his adulations with complete strangers, he should have no problem telling me, the mother of his soon-to-be–” She sighed dreamily. “Bride.”

“If I choke again, will you not save me this time?”

“Emma!” her mother screeched.

“Not a chance,” Peyton said softly.

“Sorry, Mother.” Emma gripped the delicate teacup so hard, the smooth porcelain bowed in her hand. Tighter… tighter… until a large hand splayed on top of hers.

She snatched her hand back, released the teacup onto its saucer with a loud clatter. “Lord Peyton said he doesn’t remember the letters.”

“Then why don’t you fetch them?” her mother insisted. “He could read them.”

Emma’s breath hitched. It was a lovely plan with one fatal challenge: The letters didn’t actually exist. She claimed he sent them to a special address, so she never had to explain why they weren’t in the post. “I’m sure he doesn’t care to see them.”

“On the contrary, I’d love to see them,” he rumbled.

“Then it’s settled.” Her mother gestured to the hallway. “Go get them.”

“I can’t. They… they were destroyed!”

“Destroyed?” Her mother blinked. “How?”

“Yes, how?” Peyton sat up taller. “You lost the words crafted from my very heart? Designed by my soul? Did you destroy them on purpose?”

“Of course not! They… they… accidentally fell into the fireplace.”

Peyton’s lips twitched.

“All hundred of them?” Her mother gaped.

“Hundred?” Peyton stared.

“I cannot believe you had time to write a hundred letters,” the countess continued, still oblivious to the firestorm in the room. “Emma said there was a new one every day, sometimes two. I can’t imagine you did anything besides write while you were there.”

“Apparently not,” he remarked dryly. “How did a hundred letters accidentally fall into a fireplace?”

How indeed? “It was a simple mistake really. The letters were on a table. Suddenly there was a breeze. Well, it was more like a strong wind, a gale if you will. A tornado, perhaps?”

“A tornado?” he echoed.

“A local tornado. Just in my room really.”

What in blazes was she saying?

“All the papers flew into the air, directly into the fireplace.”

He must think her deranged.

“Of course I tried to rescue them, but they went up in smoke so quickly. It’s amazing how things that seem so solid can disappear in a puff of wind.”

At this point, she was fairly certain she was deranged.

“Yet other things are not so easily undone,” he replied smoothly. “Your story is unbelievable.”

“I quite agree.”

“Yet so tragic.” Her mother sighed. She brightened. “Maybe Lord Peyton could recite a poem. If it meant so much, surely he remembers one.”

“Mother–”

“I’d love to.”

“What?” She snapped her head around. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I’d like to. After all, I shall have to start replacing the thousand–”

“Hundred.”

“Letters.” He smiled. “Perhaps you could help me.”

“Of course.” She clenched her teeth. “What rhymes with alligator?”

Her mother gaped.

But Peyton simply smiled. “I haven’t a clue.”

She glared at him. “Blasted traitor.”

Now he chuckled, even as her mother looked ready to throw her into a lake herself. “I appreciate your assistance, Lady Emma, but I do believe I remember one.” He studied her, gazing as if he truly felt… something .

She cleared a suddenly dry throat and began an intense study of her porridge.

“You are beyond compare, shining like the brightest star, sparkling like a flawless diamond.”

Her breath caught; her heart thumped rapidly in her chest. Drawn by an inescapable force, she looked back up.

“Your beauty is unmatched, yet far more hides behind that golden visage. Strength as great as any mountain, grace as elegant as any ocean, kindness as striking as the winter snow. You are an artist’s masterpiece, a poet’s words, a scribe’s greatest novel. My gift.”

The full force of that amber gaze surrounded her, as for just a moment, it was as if they were truly betrothed, and he a besotted suitor waxing poetic to the woman he loved.

“That was lovely.” The countess dabbed at her eyes. “Emma said you were a poet.”

“She is the one who is extraordinary,” he murmured.

Ignore the words. Do not let it affect you.

This. Is. Not. Real.

Emma cleared her throat, swallowing what felt like sawdust. “Yes, well, Peyton has a way with words. Like most suitors, there is no doubt as to the sincerity behind them.”

Yet by that intense expression, one could almost imagine…

“Of course he means every syllable,” the countess interrupted her thoughts, so elated she looked ready to ascend the sideboard and dance a jig. “Emma wrote about you, too.”

Oh. No.

There was only one place she wrote about Peyton. Of course, it was back when she was young, immature, and besotted. Well, it was a few months ago, yet she had changed since then. She was no longer the wallflower who couldn’t say a word to the exalted earl. “Mother, you are clearly mistaken.”

Unless she had read her diary. In which case, no fabrication was necessary.

“Am I?” her mother gave her a knowing smile. “Would you like me to recite parts of it to incite your memory?”

Peyton’s gaze sharpened. “That sounds like a splendid idea.”

Emma gaped. “That is an awful idea.”

“Nonsense, my dear.” Her mother, now firmly back in control, sipped her tea. “He has a right to know how you feel.”

“He knows how I feel.” She glared at him. “I’ve made it exceptionally clear.”

Her mother only smiled wider, before turning to Peyton, and lowering her voice. “She said you were extremely eligible.”

“It’s true,” Emma broke in, breathing out relief. The revelation was not nearly as embarrassing as she’d feared. “I felt you were eligible. Everyone knows that.”

“She also said you were handsome.”

Emma frowned. It was not a secret the man was well-proportioned. The ladies talked about it constantly. “I believe that goes without saying. Everyone knows you’re handsome.”

She had not meant to admit that.

“I mean, it’s not like it’s a secret.”

Not helping.

“What I’m trying to say is your attractiveness is completely, utterly and entirely inconsequential.”

What in blazes?

Peyton looked amused.

The countess continued as if her daughter wasn’t rambling about a lord’s good looks. “Can you guess how many times she called you handsome?”

Oh. No. Oh. No. Oh. No. Oh. No. Oh. No.

Peyton’s eyes sparkled. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“Twenty-four.”

Her mother had read her diary.

Emma closed her eyes, opened them. Wished she could turn invisible. Failed.

Philip made no attempt to hide his bemusement. “Twenty-four?”

She lifted her chin. “That number is not accurate.”

That was true. She had actually written he was handsome at least forty times. Her mother must have missed the addendum to her diary, entitled, The Wonderful Lord Peyton .

The countess beamed at Peyton. “Do you want to hear more?”

There was no force like a matchmaking mama.

Before he could respond, Emma brought her hands down on the table. It was harder than she intended, and the dishes gave a tiny jump. “I’m certain Lord Peyton has better things to do than listen to my private musings.”

“Actually, there’s nothing I would rather do.” He leaned forward. “I did send a million letters after all.”

Emma bit her lip to stop from smiling. “It was only a hundred, my lord. Had there been a million, you would have been gone for many years. If you wish to send more, you need only return to America.”

His eyes blazed. “I have no intention of going anywhere, my dear. I have found something fascinating right here in England.”

Their eyes locked. His words were a challenge, a promise.

“I have much more to tell you,” the countess said happily.

If she could help it, Peyton and her mother were never going to be in the same room again.

“Mother, it’s enough.” She lowered her voice. “Please.”

“Oh, very well.” The countess grasped a piece of toast from a silver platter. “Speaking of the extraordinary, have you heard about the commotion down by the docks?”

This was officially the worst breakfast in the history of England. Emma fought to keep her voice light. “I’m surprised you care about anything by the docks.”

“Normally I wouldn’t.” The countess waved her hand, as she used the other to slather butter on the scone with a solid silver knife. “Dreadful area, filled with miscreants and criminals.”

And good people simply too poor to live anywhere else. Her mother was a good woman, yet like so many in the ton, she held opinions about areas she never visited, people she never “lowered” herself to interact with. Why couldn’t she understand clothing and money didn’t define the person underneath?

“The incident is all the servants can talk about.” The countess took a delicate bite of her scone. She wiped her mouth with an embroidered napkin.

“Do not keep us in suspense, my lady.” Peyton’s voice was neutral, yet clipped. “Share what you heard.”

“A group of ruffians accosted a woman in a deserted alley. It seemed hopeless, until a mysterious man emerged from the darkness and defeated them all. They say he was as quick as lightning, and as strong as ten men. After he easily dispatched the criminals, they both vanished. Isn’t it all so mysterious?”

Priscilla clenched her fists until her fingernails dug into her palms. “It sounds like the daily gossip.” She forced a smile. “I’ve heard similar stories a hundred times before.”

“As have I.” Peyton displayed a rare showing of camaraderie. “These things happen all the time.”

“I daresay not.” Her mother’s eyes shined. “You should have heard how they described him. It was like he was some sort of avenging warrior. Everyone is talking about it.”

Not good.

While her rescuer had been masked, her disguise consisted of no more than working class clothing. If someone had looked close enough, they could recognize her. “I imagine the gossip will last no more than a day.”

“On the contrary, it’s just getting started.” Her mother lowered her voice. “Everyone is trying to guess his identity – and hers.”

“That seems unlikely, if not impossible.” Peyton’s voice was low, deep. “You said he was masked. How could anyone discover him among the hordes in London, especially by the docks? He was probably just a good-hearted sailor who wasn’t supposed to leave his ship.” He shrugged. “People may romanticize it, but likely he was just avoiding an irate captain.”

“He was a member of the ton.”

“What?” Emma breathed.

“I’m sorry?” Peyton rumbled.

“It’s true.” The countess looked back and forth between them. “He left behind proof.”

Next to her, Peyton stiffened. “What sort of proof?”

“Nothing that reveals his exact identity, unfortunately, but a slip of paper, given at last night’s ball.” She rubbed her hands together. “He was at the very same event as us. We may have dined at the same table, shared a conversation.”

Emma squeezed her scone until the hardened ball crumbled. If he was a member of the ton, he may know her. She forced a smile. “It doesn’t mean anything. Half of society was at that event.”

“As well as many servants,” Peyton added. “Based on the location of the attack, it was most likely one of workers.”

The countess shook her head once more. “The paper was a receipt for a checked coat. No servant would have one.”

“Is the paper traceable?” Emma breathed. “Did it have a name?”

“I’m afraid it could have been anyone’s.” Lady Lawrence sighed, but her smile reappeared moments later. “Don’t lose hope. With the entire ton searching, someone is bound to discover the truth. Everyone wants to know the lord in disguise.”

Emma swallowed a sip of her tea and an endless amount of dismay. If the world learned her identity, life would change forever.