Outrageous

by Minerva Spencer

  Godric’s chest was rising and falling more rapidly, his breathing audible even over the rain. A Season spent drinking and carousing had not been good for his wind.

  Luckily, Paul couldn’t seem to stop talking and was almost as breathless. “Orthez, do you recall that, Colonel? Do you know the day I’m talking about, you bastard?” Eva saw it before it happened: Godric losing focus, paying attention to his opponent’s words rather than his actions.

  Paul saw it, too. “You were supposed to bring support—but you split your men!” He flung himself at Godric and latched on, clutching him like a fatal lover while he delivered a series of punishing jabs to his side.

  “Flynn—break them apart!” Eva yelled, but he was frozen, his expression avid: Paul was exacting revenge for every common man who’d suffered at the hands of an officer.

  Eva lunged forward, but Andrew grabbed her upper arm, his slender hand remarkably strong. “Don’t,” he said, his voice sharp over the sound of fists hitting wet flesh. “You’ll only distract him.”

  Eva jerked her arm away but knew he was right. What was wrong with Godric? He was standing limply in Paul’s brutal embrace—all but offering himself up for punishment.

  “You left him to die!” Paul’s hoarse scream rang out like a war cry. “And you did it all so you could save your whore!”

  His words were like spurs to the flank of a horse, and Godric, who’d been swaying limply under the onslaught only an instant earlier, exploded. “She was no whore!” he roared, his left arm a blur, the uppercut connecting solidly with the underside of Paul’s jaw and lifting him off his feet.

  Paul stumbled, weaving, and Godric drove him back with a flurry of blows, which the other man absorbed with increasingly staggering steps, until his feet slipped in the mud and he went down on his back. And still Godric didn’t let up.

  He dove on top of the prone man, his fists relentless hammers. “She was no whore—she was my wife!”

  The words were so garbled and slurred together, it took a moment for Eva to recognize them, her brain slow to put meaning to the words.

  His wife?

  Chapter 12

  It took all Flynn’s men except the corpulent man himself, to pull Godric off the now motionless Paul.

  “You stay right here,” Eva ordered coolly, the point of the pistol aimed at Flynn’s substantial middle when he began slipping through the mud toward his wounded minion.

  “But, Paul—he needs—”

  Eva cut a quick glance at the men still trying to stop Godric’s punishing fists, more than one of them getting clipped in the process. “Paul will be fine,” she said.

  Flynn goggled in justified disbelief.

  There was no denying that Godric had lost track of himself and given in to his rage. Eva knew the feeling. Of course, she’d never had the option of pummeling a foe to pieces. It looked cathartic.

  “Christ, woman—he’s going to kill him!”

  “You were happy enough to leave Godric in his clutches a few minutes ago,” she reminded him.

  Flynn shifted from foot to foot. “Dammit! He’s my brother-in-law.”

  Ah, so that explained the emotional attachment.

  “My wife will bloody kill me if something happens to him.”

  Eva snorted. “You’re a bit late for that—something has already happened.”

  And something’s name is Godric.

  Eva smirked at Flynn’s shocked expression. “Don’t fret—look, he’s winding down.” She jerked her chin toward the fracas. It was true; Godric’s fists were no longer connecting to Paul’s body. There were two men on Godric’s left arm—which was truly fearsome to behold, the bulging biceps ribboned with ropy blue veins and smeared with mud and blood—and a man holding onto every other limb: five men it took to hold him down.

  Warmth pooled in her belly just looking at his pale, sculpted body, old wounds colored by new bruises and fresh blood. He was beautiful and fierce and deadly, like some Greek warrior of vengeance.

  “What should we do with him, boss?” a man wheezed, his lip split and bleeding.

  Eva glanced around at the narrow road and the trees that hung low over it, their branches sagging even lower with rain. There wasn’t a spot on the ground that wasn’t wet, but at least the base of the large chestnut wasn’t muddy.

  Eva pointed to the spot. “Put him over there. Keep an eye on them, Andrew,” she called over her shoulder, her eyes on Flynn, who’d rushed toward Paul and dropped to his haunches.

  “Good God!” he yelled, glaring up at Eva. “He’ll be lucky if his jaw works again. And his nose is broken—hell, maybe in two places. His right eye is already—”

  “I think what you’re trying to say is: he lost,” Eva said, her tone one of heavy boredom, which she certainly wasn’t feeling. “Are you going to abide by your word and let us all three go, or do I have to shoot you—and then maybe Paul, for good measure? It might be a mercy for your family to be shed of him after this.” She cast a dismissive look at the man still bleeding in the mud.

  Flynn’s face was suffused with red and Eva thought he might suffer some sort of seizure. “What kind of lady are you? I’ve met dockside whores less bloodthirsty and callous.”

  Eva didn’t think that was a question.

  Flynn’s lips twisted with disgust. “You’re a bloody savage—just like him.” He gestured rudely toward the spot where Godric was slumped against the tree. “Mad! You’re both mad! Come on, lads, let’s get Paul back to camp.” The men who’d moved Godric were now helping to carry Paul’s large, motionless body.

  Flynn motioned for them to go first, and followed, backing into the thick underbrush, not taking his eyes off Eva, as if he were afraid she’d pursue him.

  Eva waited until the last of the men disappeared and then heaved a sigh and uncocked the pistol before running to Godric. “Keep an eye on where they went into the trees,” she told Andrew. “They might return.”

  Andrew nodded, his hands shaking, but his jaw firm. “I’ll keep watch. You see to his lordship.”

  “His name is Mr. Fleming.”

  “But I thought—”

  “I know what you thought,” she snapped, dropping to her knees beside Godric, who was blinking owlishly and listing to one side, blood running from a dozen cuts on his body, one half of his face already swelling. “Godric? Godric,” she repeated when he didn’t answer. Eva chewed her lip, her mind panicking like a trapped fox. “You must get up, Godric—we cannot carry you. Can you stand?” When he didn’t respond she took his face in both her hands and turned him toward her. “Godric, please.”

  She saw a glimmer of recognition deep in his dilated pupils and his lips moved. “Go without me,” he whispered.

  Eva turned to Andrew. “He’s not lucid,” she lied. “And I don’t think he can hear me.”

  Andrew sidled closer, gun still pointed at the foliage, his lopsided gaze flickering over Godric’s body. “He took some terrible hits to the head before he went after the other man,” he said. “I can’t believe he is still standing.” He frowned. “Or sitting—or even conscious.”

  Neither could Eva.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked. “We can’t carry him.”

  They stared at each other.

  “You go fetch help,” she said. “I’ll stay here.”

  He glanced down at his sodden, heavy skirts. “I can’t move quickly—you’ve got breeches and boots. You should go. I’ll stay here and—”

  The sound of horses came from the same direction where the post chaise had disappeared.

  Eva ranged herself in front of Godric, shielding him, and grinned up at Andrew when he automatically took the same position. He just might be a right one, after all. They both pointed their guns toward the bend.

  “Don’t shoot until we see who it is,” Andrew ordered, his arms shaking badly.

  Eva scowled but didn’t bother to answer. Whoever was coming, they were taking their sweet time about it.

  Her
arms were shaking too, by the time a huge Shire horse with a snow-white muzzle rounded the bend. It was pulling a battered farm wagon, and the old man holding the reins resembled his horse, his beard and hair white beneath a large battered hat.

  “Do you think—”

  Before Andrew could finish his question, Eva saw one of the postilions—she thought his name was Joe—sitting in the back of the small wagon.

  A wave of relief strong enough to knock her off her feet flooded her. “Thank God!” She dropped her arm, allowing the tears she’d been holding back for what felt like years to mingle with the rain. “Thank God.”

  Chapter 13

  “I thought you said you knew how to play?” a cranky, familiar voice snapped.

  “I do know how to play.” The second voice was male and affronted, and it took Godric a second to place it: the boy, Andrew.

  “You didn’t say you played like my old nurse.”

  “I’m sorry,” Andrew snapped. “I didn’t realize I was sitting down with a Captain Sharp.”

  “I didn’t realize I was sitting down with somebody’s old granny.”

  “If you’re going to be nasty, I’m going to—”

  “Oh hush, don’t get your smalls in a twist.”

  A muffled gasp and then, “You’re the most horrid female I’ve ever met.”

  “The most horrid?” Even in his groggy state Godric could hear the amusement in her voice. “Well, it’s good to be the best at something, so I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “That’s it. I’m—”

  Godric opened his mouth to tell them to shut up, but all that came out was a grunt.

  “You’re awake!”

  He winced at Eva’s loud shriek, forced his eyes open, and squinted against the light, flinching at the sight of a looming, grinning face.

  “Godric!”

  “Quit making so much racket—you’re going to—”

  “Oh shut it, Andrew.” Small warm hands took his face and he felt the bed move as a body came down next to him. “Godric?”

  Godric grimaced. “Shh.”

  “See, I told you,” Andrew said.

  “Oh, hush, you. Godric? I’m sorry.” Her whisper was almost as loud as her normal voice. “Does your head hurt? Mrs. Crosby said it would be—”

  Godric raised a hand—a shaky hand. “Eva.”

  Blissful silence filled the room and he opened his eyes again.

  This time he could make out her face, which was creased with concern. His head ached so badly that his eyes watered. Her full lips parted in shock.

  “Head. Hurts.” Forcing out the words hurt even more.

  “Drink this.” Andrew materialized behind Eva. “Mrs. Crosby said your head would hurt.”

  Godric frowned and looked at Eva, who made a face. “Laudanum.”

  Godric dropped his hand. “No.”

  Eva smiled, clearly approving. “Good—you don’t need that. It just dulls your wits. How about food and some tea?”

  He gave a slight nod, but even that hurt.

  “Go fetch my husband some tea, bread, jam, and some of Mr. Norton’s ham,” she ordered without turning her head.

  “First off,” Andrew said, “I’m not your servant. Second, Mrs. Crosby said he should drink that tonic. She also said he was to have broth—gruel at the—”

  “Mrs. Crosby is hardly an authority—she’s not a doctor.”

  “She knows a sight more about it than—”

  “No gruel.”

  The boy made a disgruntled sound at Godric’s words and huffed. “Fine.”

  Eva smirked while Andrew turned and stomped out, at least not slamming the door.

  “Who is Mrs. Crosby?”

  Eva scowled. “The cook here. The woman thinks she knows everything—and she’s bossy to boot.”

  Pot, meet kettle.

  Naturally, Godric did not say that out loud.

  “Do you want to sit up?” she asked.

  It took a few moments of shifting, and he had to help her as she was far too small to lift him, but finally he was upright. After the initial rush of dizziness and nausea, he felt much better.

  “How long have I slept?” he asked as she brought a chair closer to the bed and sat.

  “We got here today at just after two and it’s seven o’clock now.”

  He grimaced. Five hours lost.

  “You hadn’t slept much the prior two nights,” she pointed out. “You needed it.”

  Godric lifted a hand to thrust his hair off his forehead, which was when he noticed he was wearing a nightshirt; he never wore nightshirts.

  Eva must have seen his look and said, “It’s Mr. Norton’s son’s.”

  “Who is Mr. Norton?”

  “The innkeeper.”

  “Where are we?”

  “At the Greedy Vicar Inn.”

  Godric’s eyebrow shot up.

  She laughed with obvious delight. “I know—what a lovely name for an inn, isn’t it? It’s only an inn, not a proper posting house, so there are just the two rooms available.” She stumbled a bit on this last part, her cheeks flushing a charming pink, before hurrying on. “We’re three miles from the village of Bellsley, but it’s too small to have an inn or a constable or doctor or anything.”

  “Never heard of it,” Godric said.

  “Nobody has. This is the back of beyond, and we are dead in the middle of it. I didn’t even know England had so many trees.” She cut him a look of earnest disbelief. “Lots of woods about, which I suppose is how Flynn and his band can play Robin Hood so effectively.”

  Flynn.

  “Tell me what happened . . . after,” Godric said.

  “The two postboys got free. Flynn wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t hurt them. One of them went to the nearest farmstead to get help while the other started walking back toward the main road—isn’t that mad?” She cocked her head, her eyebrows arched high. “I mean, walking in this weather?”

  Godric thought that was probably the wisest way to travel in such weather. “I daresay he’s eager to report the loss to his employer. He’ll be in a great deal of trouble when they learn a team and carriage were stolen under his watch.”

  She frowned. “But it’s not his fault. Surely they should—”

  “Could you finish the story before we begin our crusade, Eva?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. But you will help him, won’t you? Both postboys, that is? Joe is still here; he’s seems to have a case of the sniffles and is sleeping above the stable.”

  “I’ll help them all I can,” he assured her. “The rest of the story, please.”

  “So, er, we came back here and—” She gave him a sheepish smile. “Well, actually, that’s about it. Oh, except that Mr. Norton is holding on to our guns.” She scowled. “Andrew just handed them over.”

  Godric thought that was probably a fine thing, given how much the two young people argued. “Has anyone gone for a constable?”

  “Mr. Norton said he’d send his son to the nearest town in the morning. It’s just too dreadful out right now and he’s worried the boy would be out well past dark.”

  They both turned toward the window. Godric could hear the insistent patter of rain against the panes; the light was weak and gray. “It doesn’t seem any worse than it’s been,” he said.

  “It’s no longer bucketing, but it only stopped for about five minutes this evening and hasn’t let up since. I fear we shall all be underwater soon,” she told him with a sour twist to her mouth. “Mr. Norton said the banks of the river have overflowed and the roads in both directions are washed out. That’s why we didn’t send for the nearest doctor—he’d never make it here in his trap.” She slanted him a look. “Do you think we should? Send for a doctor, that is?”

  “No.”

  “Are you just saying that, or—”

  “Eva, I am fine. I’ve boxed plenty of times.” Although it was true he couldn’t recall hurting so much before. “I just needed a bit of rest.” Godric th
ought the lack of sleep these past few days had actually been more debilitating than the sore muscles and bruises from today’s fight.

  She heaved a big sigh and opened her mouth, but the door behind her opened. Eva shot to her feet, her expression instantly dark and thunderous. “Oh, Mrs. Crosby.” She spoke with all the enthusiasm of a woman who has discovered a garden slug on a favorite bloom.

  Godric’s head ached with the sudden change of pressure in the room. Good God. What now?

  The person who entered was not what Godric had expected when he’d heard the woman was a cook. This woman was almost as beautiful as his wife-to-be, but blond and green-eyed rather than dark, and a decade or so older. She was also taller and more generously proportioned. She would have been a stunner in any environment but was doubly so in the humble confines of an inn.

  “You didn’t need to bring it yourself, Mrs. Crosby.” Eva glared at Andrew, who just shrugged helplessly.

  Mrs. Crosby ignored Eva as if she’d never even spoken—not a wise decision, in Godric’s opinion—and smiled at him brightly enough to singe his eyebrows. “Well, look who’s awake. Good evening, Mr. Fleming.”

  “Good evening, ma’am. I understand you’re the one who patched me up.” He touched the bandage wrapped around his head and gave her a slight smile.

  “I did that,” Eva blurted before the other woman could even open her mouth. Her face immediately turned an ugly, mottled red. The look Mrs. Crosby gave her was tolerant—but condescending: an older sister amused by her younger sister’s antics.

  Oh dear.

  “It’s true, Mr. Fleming. Your . . . wife, was very helpful.” Godric was not mistaken in believing she was giving him a look of amused condescension and found he didn’t care for it any more than Eva appeared to do, albeit for entirely different reasons. Why would this woman be suspicious of their marital status?

  “I’m sorry you were accosted and robbed in what used to be a very pleasant neighborhood. It has become quite common now, as so many people in these parts have fallen on hard times.” Her full, smiling lips sent one message but there was a hard glint in her eyes that said she was not without sympathy for the robbers’ plight. Well, that was likely a common attitude not only here, but all over Britain, thanks to the government’s disgraceful lack of action on behalf of the flood of injured, jobless soldiers.