Read Online Once a Rake (Drake's Rakes) by Eileen Dreyer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Eileen Dreyer
Tags: Historical Romance
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inches to the left and fired twice, bringing down a quail Stricker hadn’t even heard. Stricker felt deafened, and his bladder threatened to loose. It didn’t help his peace of mind that the old man then cast a speaking glance at him.
“Just to make sure you have all the help you need,” he said. “I believe I will contact Madame Ferrar. She can be most…persuasive, if needed.”
She could be most lethal. Stricker wanted so badly to say no. To tell the old man that he was finished. That he could no longer associate with people who hired monsters like Madame Ferrar. Instead, before the man had a chance to reload, Stricker bowed in acknowledgment and walked away.
Ian felt a bloody idiot. He had meant to be so thoughtful, sneaking out of Sarah Clarke’s shed before anyone could find him and accuse her of harboring a fugitive. He had imagined he could make it at least as far as the next farm along the coast.
He hadn’t made it a hundred feet. Now he sat once more, his back against the cold, wet stone of the stable, sucking an egg from one hand and holding onto an old scythe with the other, just in case he needed to defend himself.
It was too lowering for a Scot who had survived ten years on the Peninsula to have been brought down by a fever. But here he sat with no more strength than an infant, and a brain that wandered aimlessly about. He was more cold and wet than the stones at his back, and afflicted with a peculiar tightness in his chest. Even the damn scythe felt too heavy to lift.
Without warning, the stable door creaked open and early sunlight washed in.
Ian blinked. “Blast,” he muttered, disgusted with himself. He’d left it too long.
He knew he should scramble to his feet, prepare to fight. He could manage no more than to just sit there, squinting into the light, an empty eggshell in his hand, the scythe on the dirt floor. He heard the footsteps first; a quick, precise staccato. A shadow separated itself from the door. He closed his eyes rather than face what was to come.
He waited for a cry of discovery. For condemnation, for recognition, for death; he almost didn’t care which anymore. What he got was a wet snout in the neck.
“ A bhidse! ” His eyes jerking open to find himself being delicately sniffed by a porker almost the size of the redoubtable Willoughby. Just as pitch black, this one was more delicate about the face, with liquid black eyes.
Ian blinked. “I gather I am addressing the lovely Marianne?”
His voice came out scratchy and thin, which irritated him anew.
“Elinor, actually,” came Sarah Clarke’s voice from the doorway. “She is much too pragmatic to be Marianne. The last time Willoughby returned to her from one of his fancies, she kicked him in the face.”
Determined not to betray the relief he felt at a familiar voice, he dropped the scythe to scratch the porcine lady’s ears. “A stalwart female.”
His reward was a grunt and a burrowing at his shoulder. It was his turn to grunt as the movement sent a sharp pain slicing through his side.
“What are you doing here?” Sarah Clarke asked, still not moving from the doorway. “I searched for you last night.”
He carefully shrugged. “One of my best talents is the ability to seem invisible.”
“Of course.” Her voice was dry as dust.
Ian made the mistake of looking up then, to see Sarah Clarke approach. Her form was suddenly limned by in the dawn light. Her hair, which had seemed so mousy, gleamed in a nimbus of old gold around her soft face, and her movements seemed imbued with grace. She was not a beautiful woman. Her looks could only be labeled as modest. And yet, like a thunderclap, they leveled him.
Her face, so unremarkable, looked suddenly soft and feminine, her mouth the perfect size and shape to be kissed, her chin rounded, with just a hint of a dimple. And her breasts, which he hadn’t even noticed before, pulled at the practical cotton of her brown dress, inexorably drawing Ian’s
“Just to make sure you have all the help you need,” he said. “I believe I will contact Madame Ferrar. She can be most…persuasive, if needed.”
She could be most lethal. Stricker wanted so badly to say no. To tell the old man that he was finished. That he could no longer associate with people who hired monsters like Madame Ferrar. Instead, before the man had a chance to reload, Stricker bowed in acknowledgment and walked away.
Ian felt a bloody idiot. He had meant to be so thoughtful, sneaking out of Sarah Clarke’s shed before anyone could find him and accuse her of harboring a fugitive. He had imagined he could make it at least as far as the next farm along the coast.
He hadn’t made it a hundred feet. Now he sat once more, his back against the cold, wet stone of the stable, sucking an egg from one hand and holding onto an old scythe with the other, just in case he needed to defend himself.
It was too lowering for a Scot who had survived ten years on the Peninsula to have been brought down by a fever. But here he sat with no more strength than an infant, and a brain that wandered aimlessly about. He was more cold and wet than the stones at his back, and afflicted with a peculiar tightness in his chest. Even the damn scythe felt too heavy to lift.
Without warning, the stable door creaked open and early sunlight washed in.
Ian blinked. “Blast,” he muttered, disgusted with himself. He’d left it too long.
He knew he should scramble to his feet, prepare to fight. He could manage no more than to just sit there, squinting into the light, an empty eggshell in his hand, the scythe on the dirt floor. He heard the footsteps first; a quick, precise staccato. A shadow separated itself from the door. He closed his eyes rather than face what was to come.
He waited for a cry of discovery. For condemnation, for recognition, for death; he almost didn’t care which anymore. What he got was a wet snout in the neck.
“ A bhidse! ” His eyes jerking open to find himself being delicately sniffed by a porker almost the size of the redoubtable Willoughby. Just as pitch black, this one was more delicate about the face, with liquid black eyes.
Ian blinked. “I gather I am addressing the lovely Marianne?”
His voice came out scratchy and thin, which irritated him anew.
“Elinor, actually,” came Sarah Clarke’s voice from the doorway. “She is much too pragmatic to be Marianne. The last time Willoughby returned to her from one of his fancies, she kicked him in the face.”
Determined not to betray the relief he felt at a familiar voice, he dropped the scythe to scratch the porcine lady’s ears. “A stalwart female.”
His reward was a grunt and a burrowing at his shoulder. It was his turn to grunt as the movement sent a sharp pain slicing through his side.
“What are you doing here?” Sarah Clarke asked, still not moving from the doorway. “I searched for you last night.”
He carefully shrugged. “One of my best talents is the ability to seem invisible.”
“Of course.” Her voice was dry as dust.
Ian made the mistake of looking up then, to see Sarah Clarke approach. Her form was suddenly limned by in the dawn light. Her hair, which had seemed so mousy, gleamed in a nimbus of old gold around her soft face, and her movements seemed imbued with grace. She was not a beautiful woman. Her looks could only be labeled as modest. And yet, like a thunderclap, they leveled him.
Her face, so unremarkable, looked suddenly soft and feminine, her mouth the perfect size and shape to be kissed, her chin rounded, with just a hint of a dimple. And her breasts, which he hadn’t even noticed before, pulled at the practical cotton of her brown dress, inexorably drawing Ian’s
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