Bride By Mistake Page 3

  Lady Ripton grieved.

  Two

  Spain 1811

  The trouble, when it came, was not what Luke had expected. He’d been on the lookout for the enemy—the French—and also for Spanish guerrilleros and motley bandits, for the mountains harbored many, and sometimes he couldn’t tell the difference. They were allies, the English and the guerrilleros, but a lone man on horseback was easy pickings for desperate men, and the mountains were full of desperate men.

  This trouble was a scream quivering faintly on the wind. High and light. A woman, or a child.

  Luke Ripton, newly commissioned lieutenant in His Majesty’s Territorial Army, hesitated. It would not be the first time a woman had been used to bait a trap, but he’d fulfilled his mission. He carried no secret messages or gold on him now.

  The scream came again, shrill and filled with real terror. Luke plunged his horse down the steep slope toward the sound, weaving through the pine and beech forest.

  Through a gap in the trees he saw a stocky, thickset man hunched over a small, slender female. She was tied at hands and feet, but she writhed and bucked, struggling like a fish caught on a hook.

  Luke drew his pistol, but he couldn’t get a clear shot through the trees. Besides, he didn’t want to hit the girl. He urged his horse toward them.

  The man opened his breeches and threw himself roughly on her. The girl twisted and smashed her bound fists hard into the man’s face. He yelled and fell back, cupping his face. His hands came away red. He grabbed her wrists and forced them back. She bit his hand, and he cursed and gave her a backhander across the face.

  Blood blossomed on her face, and she fell back, stunned, and the man threw himself again on her supine body.

  Shouting, Luke leapt from his horse and raced toward them. It took an agonizingly long time. Intent on his prey, the attacker seemed not to hear.

  With a roar of rage, Luke lunged across the last few yards, grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck, and hauled him bodily off the girl.

  He went sprawling in the dust several feet away, rolled, and came up with a pistol in his hand, firing at Luke before he even got to his feet.

  Sudden heat seared Luke’s neck, as though a hot poker had been touched to his skin. The man rushed at him. Luke fired.

  The man jerked and staggered back, as if hit, but remained on his feet. “The jewels are gone,” he growled in a coarse dialect that Luke only just managed to follow. “And the girl is mine.” He wore the ragged remains of a uniform. His nose was a mess of blood, and his cheeks were raked with fresh livid scratches.

  Deserter, Luke thought. A man with nothing to lose.

  “I don’t care about any jewels,” Luke said, speaking in Spanish. From the corner of his eye he could see the girl wrestling with the ties that bound her. “Just the girl.”

  “You want to die for the sake of this skinny bitch?” The man dragged his breeches up with one hand and glanced around the clearing.

  Luke knew what he was thinking. One horse. One man. Excellent odds.

  This man was older, tougher, meaner than Luke. And Luke’s other pistol was in his saddlebag. But Luke didn’t move. Standing between the man and the girl, he braced himself.

  “So be it.” The deserter dropped the spent pistol and produced a vicious-looking knife. He bared broken yellow teeth in a mirthless smile and hurled himself at Luke in a rush.

  The blade flashed in the sunlight, and Luke responded instinctively, arching back. It missed him by a hairsbreadth.

  Luke kicked the side of the man’s knee hard as he passed. It should have broken the bastard’s leg. It didn’t.

  He stumbled, staggered sideways, and slashed at Luke with the knife again.

  Luke scooped a handful of dust, threw it in the man’s face, and dived, chopping at the man’s throat. He choked and stabbed the knife toward Luke’s face.

  Luke smashed his fist down on the man’s wrist and grappled fiercely for control of the knife. They swayed, locked in desperate battle. The glittering blade inched toward Luke’s throat. Luke forced it back, straining every sinew, the bones of his wrist feeling as though they would crack. The man’s face was inches from his. He stank. His breath was hot and fetid.

  Abruptly the deserter’s grip loosened, as if he were beaten, then he gave a sudden twist and strove to thrust the blade in. Luke, alert to the trick, dropped his hip in an old wrestling move, threw his enemy off balance, and shoved back, hard.

  In an instant it was all over: the knife slid in, neat as butter.

  The man gasped and sagged slowly to the ground, spewing obscenities. His eyes were incredulous, disbelieving, even as the light faded from them. His body curled protectively around the blade, his own blade, lodged deeply in his gut.

  Luke stepped away, his lungs burning. He watched for a moment, then turned his back on the dying man.

  The girl saw him turn toward her, and wrestled more frantically than ever with her bindings. She was all dust and rags and nakedness, bony spine and skinny, scraped ribs.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Luke said in Spanish. “No one will hurt you now, señorita.”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder, turning furious, terrified eyes on him, tearing at her bindings, even though they must be cutting into her flesh. Luke’s heart twisted in his chest. She was barely out of childhood.

  “Stop it, little one. You’re only hurting yourself more.” Luke pulled off his coat and dropped it over her nakedness. She hesitated, her golden eyes defiant and wary.

  “That’s right,” Luke said gently. “I won’t hurt you.” He squatted down, pulled out his knife, and reached for her feet. Instantly her bound hands rose in desperate, defensive claws, their nails broken and bloody.

  “Hush, niña. Don’t be frightened,” Luke said in the kind of voice he used on a skittish horse. “I’m just going to cut you free.”

  Her eyes flickered sideways, and he saw a bloodied rock lying beside her. He smiled. “So that’s how you smashed that brute’s nose. Clever girl. Now let’s get you free.” With calm, deliberate movements he cut the rags that tied her feet.

  “Now, for your hands.” Hesitantly she held them out to him, and he cut through the strip of cloth that bound her.

  She wriggled into his coat, pulling it over her nakedness.

  Her body was thin, unformed, and childish. Beneath the dust her skin was marred with darkening bruises, scrapes, cuts, and smears of bright, fresh blood. Her barely there breasts, her belly, and her thighs were scraped and smeared with blood.

  Luke’s heart clenched. Had he arrived too late?

  She scrambled to her feet. Gripping the bloodied rock in a grubby fist, she buttoned his coat one-handed, her gaze darting between the still figure of her erstwhile attacker and Luke.

  “He’s dead,” Luke said quietly. “I killed him. You are safe now, niña. It’s all over.”

  Her eyes were huge and golden, like a fierce little hawk; one side of her face was badly bruised and starting to swell. Her lips were split and still welling with slow blood.

  She was heartbreakingly young, perhaps twelve or thirteen years old. The same age as his youngest sister, Molly. But there was a world of difference between his happy, sheltered little sister and this fierce, battered scrap.

  Luke’s throat burned. War was no place for little girls.

  “You’re safe now,” he repeated, not knowing what else to say. He had no idea if she even understood him. She looked Spanish, but she might be Basque. Or even French, he supposed. She hadn’t said a word so far.

  In French he repeated that she was safe, and that he would not harm her. Her eyes flashed hatred at the sound of his French—she was Spanish, then—so he said, “I am English. I will not harm you.” He knew no Basque, so he stuck to Spanish.

  There was a long pause, then a violent shudder passed through her and she started to shiver.

  Instinctively he reached out to hug her, but she flinched away, the rock raised and ready to strike.


  He stepped back, holding his palms up. “Sorry. I simply meant to comfort you.”

  The golden eyes burned with doubt.

  “You’re the same age as my little sister,” Luke said helplessly. He stared for a moment, silently cursing himself. Stupid thing to say. What would she care of his sister?

  He was almost twenty years old, a man—an officer—and yet, for the first time in his life, he had no idea what to do.

  He was no stranger to women, and having grown up with three sisters, he’d imagined he understood the female sex pretty well. But he’d never faced anything like this before.

  He wished his mother was here. She’d know what to do with this girl, how to reassure her. He’d even welcome his bossy older sisters, Susan and Meg. They were both married, but not Molly. Not his baby sister, turning thirteen next month.

  Please God Molly would never have to know such evil existed.

  The young girl’s legs were long and skinny and shockingly naked under his coat. With one hand, she tugged down the hem, still gripping the rock in her other hand.

  Turning his back on her, Luke went to fetch her clothing, which was scattered about the clearing. He picked up a long skirt, part of a riding habit. It dangled in shreds from his hands. He found a short brown coat, beautifully made of good quality fabric. Now ruined. Every item of her clothing was shredded, unwearable. The swine must have cut every garment from her. But why cut it to shreds?

  “You will find no jewels there,” a hoarse little voice grated from behind him.

  The jewels are gone.

  “I know nothing about any jewels,” Luke told her. “I simply wanted to return your clothing to you. Take my shirt. It’s long—longer than that coat—and will cover you decently. It was clean on this morning.” He pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it to her.

  She made no move to catch it. It fluttered to the ground at her feet. Her eyes burned.

  She needed time to calm down. “Tend to yourself, chiquita.” He nodded to where a small stream gurgled at the far corner of the clearing. “While you wash the blood and dust from your body, I will bury this swine. Then we shall talk.”

  He whistled, and in a moment his horse, Brutus, appeared. He kept a small spade in his pack—it was useful for fires and digging trenches around his tent on wet nights.

  From the corner of his eye he saw the girl scoop up his shirt and bend over the man. Checking for herself that he really was dead, Luke supposed. He didn’t blame her.

  He found a gully on the opposite side of the clearing and began to enlarge it, digging a hole big enough to bury a man in. Not a man; a beast.

  After a few minutes, he noticed the girl edging toward the stream, watching him all the time. Good. She would feel better when she was clean.

  He scraped and dug until the sweat rolled down his body. The thin mountain soil was hard and stony. A shallow grave was all this bastard deserved.

  He paused for a moment, glad of his bare torso and the breeze that cooled him, and glanced toward the stream. She was taking a long time about that wash. She sat with her back to him, waist deep in the cold mountain stream, scrubbing herself vigorously.

  A prickle of unease ran over him as he watched her, and without knowing quite why, he found himself quietly approaching the stream. His shirt and coat lay neatly folded on the riverbank, and beside them lay the deserter’s wicked-looking knife, the blade now clean of all blood. Ye gods, she must have pulled it out of his body.

  She was scrubbing herself with coarse river sand, grabbing handfuls of the rough substance and rubbing it into tender skin, hard.

  “Stop it, niña! Stop it!” Luke took a step toward her, hesitated because she was naked, snatched up his shirt from the bank of the stream, and waded in, boots and all. Her fists flailed at him blindly, but he dropped his shirt over her head, wrapped the sleeves around her tightly, and lifted her from the water. And held on.

  She fought him like a little wildcat, writhing, kicking, and trying to bite him, but he’d expected that, after seeing her under attack before, and he’d made sure to wrap his shirt around as much of her as he could in an attempt to swaddle her.

  He simply held her tight, murmuring soothing words in a mixture of English and Spanish. Slowly his words penetrated her panic, and she seemed to realize he was making no attempt to hurt her. Gradually her struggles became less violent, and eventually they ceased.

  His grip on her eased. She turned big golden brown eyes on him, glittering with exhaustion.

  “You must not punish yourself, niña,” he said softly. “It was not your fault. It was not your fault.”

  She stared into his eyes for a long moment.

  “All trace of him is gone from you,” Luke told her, hoping like hell it was true.

  She bit her lip and looked away, then gave a long, shuddery sigh. And suddenly her desperate brittleness crumpled and she was a little girl, weeping inconsolably in his arms.

  “Hush now, little one. It’s all over,” Luke murmured helplessly, over and over, rubbing a soothing hand over her back and wishing to hell there was another female here who would know what to do.

  Female tears always unmanned him, and these were not even the easy tears he was used to from his sisters. Each sob came hard won, wrenched, scalding from her. The bony little body shuddered against him as she fought her tears.

  He held her tight and made soothing sounds. After a while she gave a long, quivery sigh, stilled, and became quiet.

  “Thank you, señor. I apologize for… my outburst,” she said politely in a cold little best-manners-at-teatime voice that contrasted almost shockingly to her situation. “You may put me down now.”

  His coat lay bundled on a patch of soft grass next to the bank. Luke set her down beside it. “Stay there and rest,” he told her. “Put the coat on to keep warm, and spread the shirt out to dry. It won’t take long in the sun. I’ll finish the grave.”

  He resumed digging. A little later he heard a sound and glanced up. His horse was grazing quietly on the soft grass near the stream. The girl approached Brutus, murmuring softly and holding out her hand as if there was food in it.

  Brutus stretched his neck out curiously, then, as the girl came close, shook his head and trotted skittishly out of reach. Luke grinned and returned to his digging. That game could go on all day. Luke had trained his horse to come only to him.

  Luke had nearly finished the grave when he heard a movement behind him and turned.

  She wore his shirt. It hung to just below her knees, crumpled, still damp. She had long legs, skinny rather than slender, gawky like a newborn filly. Her small feet were bare and dusty. Her damp, dark hair was plaited tightly and inexpertly in a crooked coronet around her head.

  He ached for her vulnerability. Over his shirt she wore his coat fastened tight to the throat. It was a short coat, cut to finish at his waist. On her it reached below her nonexistent hips. The shoulders bagged, and she’d rolled the sleeves back as best she could. A little girl playing dress-up.

  Only the set look on her battered little face said otherwise.

  Even without the marks and swellings from the brutal blows of her attacker, she was an odd-looking little thing; a mismatched collection of features with those big golden eyes, a mouth too wide for her face, a pointed chin, and the sort of strong, bold nose that was the legacy of some ancient Roman ancestor. With her crooked hairdo, split, swollen lips, a bruised cheek, and a rapidly blackening eye, she looked downright tragic, like something new-hatched and vulnerable fallen from its nest.

  Luke had been rescuing fallen hatchlings and strays all his life.

  “Feeling better now, little one?” he asked gently. The pinched face tightened. Stupid question—of course she wasn’t. He gave her a reassuring smile and took a step toward her.

  “Don’t move, señor,” she said and pointed a pistol at his heart.

  The deserter’s pistol. She must have hidden it in the folds of his coat. Spent, but she wouldn’t know tha
t. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”

  In answer she cocked the pistol. With casual expertise.

  He raised his brows. “I see you have some familiarity with pistols. But that one isn’t loaded.”

  “Sí, it is.”

  “No,” he explained. “The ball was spent when he fired at me. See, he grazed my neck.” He showed her the place that still burned.

  “I know. I saw him shoot you. I reloaded the pistol.”

  “You what?”

  She jerked her chin in the dead man’s direction. “I took the shot and powder from him.”

  His jaw dropped.

  “He is dead,” she said defensively, as if he’d accused her of stealing.

  “I know. I was just surprised that you know how to load a pistol.”

  She shrugged as if it was nothing special. “My father taught me to use a pistol when I was a child.”

  When I was a child. As if she were a child no longer.

  “I must leave this place now,” she said, darting a glance down the mountain. “Get your horse. I cannot catch him.”

  Luke smiled. “There’s no hurry.”

  “Sí, there is.” She hesitated, considered him for a moment, then explained. “There are men chasing me. If they catch me—” She swallowed and jerked her chin at the grave. “My cousin Ramón will do the same thing to me as that pig!”

  “Your cousin?”

  “Sí. Oh, he will marry me first, even though he hates me and he knows I hate him. He will say it is because he is a man of honor!” She spat out the word. “But the truth is, it is the only way he can get—” She broke off.

  The jewels? Luke wondered. Was she some kind of heiress?

  “And after he weds me, to make sure of me, he will… do that.” There was a flat note of despair in her voice.

  “No, he won’t,” Luke said firmly. “Not if I can help it.”

  “You will help me?” she said incredulously.

  “I will.” He laid his hand over his heart. “My word of honor as an English gentleman.”

  “English?” She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t sound English.”