The Mystery of Mr Daventry (Scandalous Sons 4)

“Aye, if I drive like the devil’s chasing our tail.”

“Is there any other way to drive?” Lucius said, recalling Miss Atwood’s comment that he should be more reckless.

The coachman snorted. “I don’t suppose there is, sir.”

Chapter Thirteen

Typical! On a night when Sybil was more desperate than ever to reach Bronygarth, the journey was plagued by problems.

The storm had broken. A forceful wind whistled through the carriage. The vehicle rocked violently on its springs, swaying as if carried on turbulent waves. Rain lashed down from the heavens, a torrent that swamped the narrow track winding up through the woods to Mr Daventry’s haunted castle.

The coachman’s cries of encouragement to the horses fought with the roar of powerful gusts and the rumble of thunder.

“Lord above!” Sybil gripped the overhead strap yet struggled to remain seated. She had abandoned all attempts to warm her feet on the bricks.

Rain as hard as pebbles struck the windows like the devil’s stoning. Beyond she could see nothing but towering trees, swaying shadows and a never-ending gloom.

Surely Lucius wasn’t out scouting the road. She doubted anyone would be foolish enough to follow them in this damnable weather.

Sybil had no time to contemplate the matter further. A loud cry sliced through the wind’s mournful moan. The carriage lost momentum, slowing and then stopping as the wheels became bound in the mire.

Minutes passed.

Minutes of shouts and barked commands.

Then the carriage door flew open.

Lucius Daventry stood there, an imposing figure in the darkness, his greatcoat whipping wildly, water dripping from the wide brim of his hat.

“Take my hand!” he shouted through the deafening din. “We’ll ride Phaedrus for the last half mile.”

The gale seemed to grip the carriage in its mighty arms, tossing it about like a child’s toy. Sybil had no option but to jump down to the muddy track. Sodden earth squelched over her dainty slippers, sucking them off her feet as she moved to walk.

Her knees buckled.

Lucius was there, preventing her fall. “Leave them! Hurry!” He wrapped his arm around her, propelling her forward to where Samuel stood struggling to hold the reins of a black stallion. “Climb atop the box with your father, lad. I’ll send Jonah back to help.”

The boy nodded.

Rain pelted Sybil’s face. Hair clung to her cheeks. Soggy and caked in mud, her stockings sagged at the toes, making it hard to slip her foot into the stirrup. Lucius was busy helping Samuel steady the spooked horse, and so she quickly reached under her skirts, removed her right stocking and mounted Phaedrus.

“Lord, this is the devil of all storms,” she cried as Lucius climbed up behind.

“Hold me tightly.” He took control of the reins. “Some of these trees are two hundred years old and are dangerous in hazardous weather.”

Sybil did not object. She pushed her hands inside his greatcoat and threaded her arms around his waist. While she should have been terrified—gripping his soaked shirt for fear of falling—another sensation took precedence.

Hunger.

Raw.

Carnal.

She wanted to devour every inch of Lucius Daventry. She wanted to press her mouth to his neck and taste his earthy essence. She wanted to feel his firm fingers gripping her thigh, wanted to hear him moaning into her mouth in the way that stole her sanity.

With one arm holding her tight to his chest, Lucius rode as fast as the howling wind. While he had taken command of the situation—taken care of her—there was something different about him now. Dare she say he seemed distant. Aloof. It was as if he’d locked his feelings away in the vault under the lake, and this was merely the shell of the man going through the motions.

Did his reticence have to do with their kiss?