Page 29 of To Resist a Scandalous Rogue
The planes of her face solidified into a mask before his eyes. Without a word, she rose to join Lord Inverray and Steven.
Finlay watched them, his thoughts tumultuous. What sort of trauma had she experienced to leave her so jaded?
Although she had not divulged the entire story, from what he had gleaned, her husband’s death had devastated her. And based on the situation in which they had met, she had been left in dire circumstances. It seemed there were many lamentable chapters to Charlotte’s tale.
He pondered again why he cared so much.
Chapter Eleven
Mrs. Gladington had stopped her in the stairway the previous evening to tell her the men who had come inquiring after Charlotte Townsend were seen not two blocks away, knocking on doors and intimidating the residents. It was reported an older, heavyset gentleman had been with them. Charlotte managed to maintain a straight face during her landlady’s recitation, although her heart had sunk to her feet. The older gentleman could only be her former father by marriage.
The revelation left her with a permanent case of indigestion. Or terror. Surely heartburn went hand in hand with constant, wide-eyed panic. She didn’t know why her father-in-law could be searching for her, but she knew his motives were not good. He’d made his disdain for her apparent.
Not only were the men a concern to her, so, too, were her neighbors. Most of the people who lived in her building or on her street were hardworking, honest folks who looked after each other. It had taken months for them to view her with anything other than indifference, and if Roderick’s father began offering coin for information about her whereabouts, how long would their good opinion remain? If Mrs. Gladington could make the correlation between Charlotte Townsend and Charlotte Taylor, others would as well.
Such harried thoughts clamored about in her brain as she walked to Little Windmill House the next morning. Between Finlay’s marked interest in her and the remnants of her old life threatening the fragile foundation of sand on which she’d constructed her new life, she was at sixes and sevens. As if in concert with her threadbare emotions, low-hanging fog blanketed the city under its depressing banner. Charlotte dipped her chin under the wool of her scarf, shielding her face from the biting wind.
Her thoughts turned to the emotional experience at the park the day before. If Finlay and Lord Inverray had not appeared when they did… She couldn’t allow herself to finish the thought. Thankfully, the marquess had not said a word to her about losing sight of her young charge, and when they had returned to Little Windmill House, Charlotte patiently played with Steven until her next class.
As she turned the corner, she was pummeled by the full strength of the early winter gusts, and she closed her eyes against the assault.
Suddenly, her arm was wrenched behind her, and she staggered back. She twisted around and met a pair of steely gray eyes.
“Mrs. Townsend?” The man’s voice was hoarse, carrying a hint of warning that even the wind couldn’t blow away.
This was one of the men searching for her, she realized, willing herself to be calm. Demanding herself not to give him any indication she was the woman he sought.
She shook her head, even while she tried to pry herself from his grip. “No! I’m not Mrs. Townsend. Release me this instant.”
The man’s hand didn’t lessen the pressure it applied to her arm. She would have finger-shaped bruises on her upper arm on the morrow.
His gaze roved over her face, and she imagined he was searching it for similarities to the description of Charlotte Townsend. A boulder settled in the pit of her stomach when his eyes widened as they took in the beauty mark at the end of her eyebrow.
“Mr. Townsend will be right glad to learn we’ve found you at last,” he said, dragging her into his side. He looped his arm around her shoulders to hold her close.
Fiery panic bubbled under her skin, and yet her thoughts cleared, defense her sole priority. She took a deep breath and stomped her boot down on the man’s instep. He howled his pain, cuffing her across her cheek as he stumbled from her. She blinked away flashes of light. Released from his embrace, Charlotte shot her elbow back into his unprotected gut. He doubled over, wheezing and cursing in turn.
Lifting her skirts, she dashed down the walk. The man yelled for her to stop, his demands laced with pained obscenities. Yet Charlotte charged ahead, desperate to reach the safe haven that was Little Windmill House. Her father-in-law and his men might try to enter the premises, might demand for Mrs. Stevens to turn her over to him, but she’d be safe there. For there lay allies.
With that single-minded determination, she ran as fast as her legs could carry her. The wind yanked her bonnet from her head, strands of hair escaping and whipping around her face, stinging her frozen skin. Her skirts plastered around her legs and hampered her strides, yet she didn’t stop. The pounding footsteps on the pavement behind her became an accelerando to flight.
Her lungs burned like torches in her chest. She pressed her body to its limit, terror its only fuel. She sensed the man’s presence just behind her. The last intersection loomed ahead, and once she crossed it, she hoped someone in the house would hear her cries for help.
With her last burst of energy, she streaked across the road, unseeing, praying she wasn’t hit by a wagon or cart. A horse’s panicked whinny and a loud gasp jerked her head about to the sound, and she found herself locking eyes with Lady Flora’s stunned gaze.
Without a moment’s thought, Charlotte rushed toward her. “Help me! Please, my lady.”
Lady Flora’s lip curled as her attention landed on her pursuer, who was still advancing on Charlotte, arms outstretched. “Duncan! Handle this fiend.”
A barrel-chested man hopped down from his mount next to Lady Flora’s with a grace she had not expected. Charlotte blinked, wondering how she’d missed him. Duncan intercepted her would-be captor with a diverted grin on his craggy face. “It would be my great pleasure.” His thick Scottish brogue almost lent a friendly note to his words…but the harsh lines bracketing his slash of a mouth were menacing.
Although Duncan was several inches shorter than the man who’d accosted Charlotte, he was as wide and as thick as an ancient oak. He twisted his neck to the side until it popped.
“Would you like my whip?” Lady Flora asked, extending a hand to her and helping her to mount behind her. Charlotte wrapped her arms around the woman’s waist, vaguely cognizant that she gripped her cloak in her hands as if she wouldn’t let go.
Duncan shook his head, his gaze never leaving the man who’d pursued her. The man didn’t seem to realize the danger he was in, as his eyes had been fixed on Charlotte’s movements. When he took a step in her direction to, no doubt, rip her off the horse, he was thrown back as he collided with Duncan’s meaty arm.
“Nae. I don’t suspect I’ll be needing the whip today, Flo.” Duncan chuckled, his gravely laugh raising the hairs on herarms.
