Page 22 of Marry in Scandal

“My wife is not herself,” the man began. “She’s a drunken bedlamite.”

“Not his wife.” She fought him, clumsily, using her tied hands like a club. “Drugged. He drugged me!”

“Shut up!” The man hit her hard across the face, and she reeled, almost collapsing, just as Ned reached them.

He grabbed the man by the collar and jerked him back hard, twisting it so that the fellow almost choked. Releasing the woman, who fell to the ground, he turned on Ned with a savage snarl. “I told you—”

Ned punched him hard in the face. He didn’t know whether these two were married or not, but whatever the circumstances, no woman deserved that kind of violence. He said so.

The fellow staggered back, blood spurting from his nose. “Listen, you bastard, I can treat her how I want. She’s my wi—”

“I’m not his wife, sir, I prom—Mr.Galbraith? Oh, itisyou! Oh, thank God!”

Ned started. She knew his name? Distracted, he glanced down at her but before he could make out her features under the smears of mud, a heavy blow knocked him sideways.

He staggered and turned. The fellow’s coachman raised a cudgel to hit him again. Ned kicked out and caught him in the leg. He fell to one knee, just as his master attacked.

Ned punched him again, a blow to the gut, then another to the jaw that knocked him cold. The driver staggered to his feet and came at him. A pistol shot stopped the driver in his tracks.

Ned’s coachman stepped forward. “I got two of thesebeauties.” He gestured with the pistols. “Make another move and you die.”

“Thank you, Walton.” Ned probably should have used a pistol in the first place, but truth to tell, he didn’t mind a brawl on occasion. It reminded him who he was. He helped the girl to her feet. She was a mess, drenched and filthy, her face dirt-streaked—or was that a rising bruise?—and her clothes bedraggled and caked with mud.

He gave her face a searching glance. Nope. No idea who she was.

She gave him a shaky smile and clung to his arm, determined but wavering, as if unsteady on her feet or ready to swoon. She was soaked, shivering. The thought had crossed his mind initially that she was some country wench, taken up for a nasty kind of sport, but her sodden cloak was velvet, and the few words he’d heard her speak were unaccented, educated.

And she knew his name. “Who are you and how do you know my—” He broke off, thrusting her behind him as the man he’d felled lurched to his feet and came up swinging.

Ned hit him again, and he crumpled. Ned shoved him with his boot. “Take your master and go.”

“The girl—”

“Stays with me.”

The driver hesitated. The girl clutched Ned’s coat. “Pass me the pistol, Walton,” Ned said calmly. “These two were undoubtedly born to be hanged, but—”

“No need for that, sir.” The driver backed away, his hands raised in placation. “I don’t want no trouble. Just a hired driver, sir, nothing to do with me what he was plannin’.” He hooked his master under the armpits and dragged him back to the carriage like a sheep about to be shorn. He bundled him inside, climbed up on top, turned the carriage around and drove away.

As the coach disappeared over the horizon, the girl sagged against Ned. “Thank God you came along when you did, Mr. Galbraith. If he’d caught me again...” She was shivering uncontrollably. Cold or reaction. No doubt a bit of both.

He pulled a knife from his boot and cut through her bindings. “Who are y—”

“Sorry,” she gasped, and bent and retched, a thin stream of bile that just missed his boots.

When she finished he handed her his handkerchief. She wiped her mouth and handed it back. He received it gingerly, gave it a distasteful glance, then dropped it in the mud. “Let’s get you into the carriage.”

She took a few wobbly steps, then stumbled. “I’m sorry. The drug...” She reeled.

Ned scooped her into his arms and lifted her into the carriage. She was drenched right through. Her soaked clothing dampened his clothes. And she stank. Of dank mud and ditch water, of vomit and animal manure and God knew what else.

She slumped onto the seat and almost fell as the coach jerked into movement. She looked up wildly. “Where are we going?”

He’d been heading to Fountains Abbey, near Ripon, to a house party there. It wasn’t far, but he certainly wasn’t going to arrive at Fountains in the company of a damp and bedraggled damsel in distress. A sure route to scandal that would be.

No, he’d have to return her quickly and quietly to wherever she came from. “London?” he suggested, and she sighed in relief.

“Oh, thank goodness, yes, please. They’ll be so worried about me.”