The Bluestocking and the Rake (Hearts in Hiding 2)

lers who had sung and performed in front of the fire. It had been a long time since Jemima could remember feeling so happy.

Now, in the shadows by the fire screen, as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she found herself staring into the eyes of one of them. A man who had sung and danced and enjoyed their mulled wine and flummery with smiles as broad as his fellow entertainers. Yes, she recognised his ebony-colored hair and his pasty skin. This time, instead of smiling, his mouth was a hard line; his eyes full of menace as they met Jemima’s terrified stare.

Self-preservation drove Jemima to run like a lady never did. Gripping the small, oblong piece of engraved clay through the pocket of her apron, she made for the door. The stranger pounced at the same time. The smell of stale sweat that stained his coarse, dirty homespun was almost overpowering while her last glimpse over her shoulder was of the bulging veins in his forehead, the curl of his lip, And finally, the flecks of spittle about his dark beard when he cursed as she spun out of reach of his outthrust arm, her soft slippers sliding on the wooden flooring as she gained speed and left the carpet.

Where to run to?

Screaming for the servants, Jemima tore through the house. Her agility was in her favor, but she wasn’t used to such exertion. The door gave way with too much reluctance for he caught up with her on the front steps, hurling himself upon her like an animal so that she crashed down beneath his weight, cracking her head upon the stone.

“Get away! What do you want from me?” she shrieked, struggling, knowing her life depended upon it at the same time as a tiny piece of her now pounding brain acknowledged she was vanquished. That unless she could deliver into safe hands the small piece of clay she clutched so desperately within her apron pocket, her father’s greatest achievement would go to villains.

Jemima wasn’t a feisty, physical girl. Reading to her father, gentle walks and dreamy contemplation of the ancient worlds to which her father belonged more than to this one, were generally the order of the day.

Now the fight to live and to honor the injured man she’d left bleeding in the study sent power and energy surging through her limbs. She managed to hook her assailant in the eye with her fingernail, but his answering rage put an end to the small injuries she could inflict. With a howl of pain, he clamped his hand over her mouth, then smacked her across the side of her head before throwing her roughly over his shoulder and striding down the last two steps and across the snow-covered gravel drive.

“I’m to take ya and that piece of clay rubbish so ya’d better come along wi’ me,” he snarled as he stumbled along the path by the cliff edge. He knew she was vanquished, that he had no need to rush, for now his movements were almost mockingly languid.

When she’d regained her breath, Jemima tried to struggle and scream, though her voice sounded puling when she opened her lungs. She could feel the swelling beginning on her cheek, and her vision was impaired by what she quickly realized was blood, not dirt. The dark viscous liquid coating the back of the hand she wiped across her sweating brow frightened her, though not as much as the remembered pool of blood beside her father.

Oh God, it was all over. This man had tried to kill her father, and now he was going to carry her away to a place of horror and torture. Vaguely, she realized someone must have planned the whole operation. Someone who had known of the secret project which had obsessed her father and upon which Jemima had been working for more than five years.

Her entire existence had been cocooned in safety, but now the brutal world had blown in, and not a servant had shown his face to aid her. Had they been dealt with in the same way as her father? Normally, there would be some of the household or outside servants around, even on a freezing winter’s afternoon like this.

“Please don’t kill me!” Jemima whimpered when the brute unceremoniously dropped her so that she slithered to the frozen ground. They’d covered some distance, though all Jemima had been able to see was the unrelenting snow underfoot, while her face was buffeted by the strong wind blowing off the coast as he’d headed towards the cliffs.

“Then stop ya infernal screechin’ or ‘twill be a pleasure. I reckon that piece o’ mud or stone ya got ‘idden away on ya person is all ’is lordship is after. ‘E can do without ya.” The roar of the surf upon the deadly rocks below the nearby cliff edge pounded into her brain, and faint spray borne by the wind beaded her face. “And I can do wivout you! Give it ta me!” he ordered, holding out his hand, not to help Jemima up from the heap at his feet in which she’d landed, but clearly demanding the small disc she’d moved from her apron pocket where she feared it may fall out, to behind the busk of her stays.

Only a hesitation was required to know that he’d have no compunction in tossing her off the cliff—after taking the stone by force first. Reluctantly, she dug inside her bodice, turning her face away from the man’s lascivious sneer. In her rarefied world, the few gentlemen she’d come across behaved with gravity and quiet deference. Most of her father’s associates were elderly, and Jemima, devoted as she was to her father and as passionate as he about his discoveries, had never yearned to leave his side; his world.

Even now she had dignity enough to be glad that the tears that stung her eyes could be mistaken for the salty spray. She’d not be reduced to a quivering crybaby with no dignity by this man while she had breath in her body.

She drew out the disc, but didn’t relinquish it. Instead, she raised her arm ready to throw it, watching the way the man’s nostrils twitched, the coarse hairs dancing a jig as his mouth trembled.

Then, over his shoulder, she spied a rider galloping toward them at tremendous speed. Her surprise registered at the same moment as her assailant’s, her ears attuned to the cry of, “Get ready to leap!”

She’d never leaped for anyone or anything before. Even the occasional country dances were sedate affairs. But now she was ready to leap anywhere for anyone as long as it wasn’t the accursed creature before her who meant her such grave harm.

With surprising agility and presence of mind, she sidestepped the thrusting arm of her assailant, ready to grasp whatever would whisk her to freedom, and in a whoosh of lightning speed, found herself caught up beneath a strong, masculine arm as she took a running step to help launch herself into the air. Taking the next step, there was nothing beneath her feet, and while for a moment the grip beneath her armpits was tight and painful, it was quickly replaced by a sensation of flying before she landed sidesaddle, then, with her rescuer’s help—fully astride—an enormous stallion; the wind thrashing her face, tearing through her hair, uncoiling it from the neat twist in which she always secured it so that now it streamed behind her.

They tore at breakneck speed across the snow-covered ground, the stallion sailing easily over the low hedges after they left the coastline, making a jagged detour toward the road. Jemima was too concerned with staying on the beast and to keep breathing to think of anything else.

Until finally they slowed and she was able to draw herself up, sucking in her first proper breath, conscious of the warmth of the body against which her own rested. A man whom she’d not properly seen, and whose motives she could only guess at. He’d saved her, but did that make him any better-intentioned than the first rogue who’d tried to kidnap her? The man who’d tried to kill her father?

When they’d reduced their speed and were travelling at a gentle canter, she swung around in her seat, and the terror in her eyes must have been apparent, for almost instantly the severe, ascetic cast of the gentleman’s face relaxed into a reassuring smile.

They’d intersected the road leading south, and he leaned in so she could hear him. “We’re nearly at the Dog and Whistle. It’s a tavern, if you don’t know it. I don’t, for I’m unfamiliar with these parts, but you should be safe there for the moment.”

She wasn’t able to respond, for the next moment, he was pushing down her head and urging his stallion to pick up pace as they passed a phaeton coming in the opposite direction. Jemima understood he didn’t want her

recognized. She didn’t want to be recognized, either, when she had no idea who was friend or foe. An hour ago, her life had been ordered and safe. Now she’d been plunged into a maelstrom of fear and uncertainty.

As she was ushered into a private parlor at the inn, she prepared to confront this stranger and learn what he wanted of her. Was he also after the clay disc? If not, why had he suddenly appeared? Perhaps rescue had only been a pretense.

Warily, she lowered herself into a chair before the fire and eyed him with what he must have seen as clear distrust, for he was quick to reassure her. He certainly didn’t look like a villain. His clothes were sober, well cut and obviously from a good tailor. She noticed that his nails were neatly trimmed and his face freshly shaved. Most of all, she was conscious of a sense of safety in his presence. He had a calmness of manner, despite his earlier heroics, that invited confidence.

“I presume you are Professor Percy’s daughter,” he said as he lowered himself into the seat opposite. The room was cramped and smelled of stale porter, and he looked out of place in his finely-cut coat, with his serious demeanor, and aristocratic features. Jemima judged him to be in his late thirties, perhaps older.

“Let me introduce myself.” He hesitated, then smiled. “Perhaps Sir Richard should suffice for now. You see, I was intending to see your father, as he’d recently informed me he was on the cusp of a great discovery for we share a mutual interest in antiquities.” A shadow crossed his face. “I’d not intended to come so soon. Last night, while drinking with a friend not long after I’d come off the boat after my travels in Mesopotamia, I was informed that he’d received intelligence someone else coveted your father’s find. And that this unidentified person would go to great lengths to lay claim to it.”