“Of course I’m up to a walk,” Nora answered. She moved away from the banister. Her gait was stiff as she slowly made her way to the door. “Heavens,” she whispered. “If your mother could see me now, she’d die of shame. I’m about to take a walk in the dead of night dressed in my nightgown and a borrowed cloak.”
Sara smiled. “We aren’t going to tell my mother, though, are we?” She let out a gasp when she saw her aunt grimace. “You’re in terrible pain, aren’t you?”
“Nonsense,” Nora scoffed. “I’m already feeling much better. Come along now,” she ordered in a brisker tone. “We mustn’t linger here, child.” She clutched the rail and started down the steps. “It will take more than a Winchester to do me in.”
Sara started to pull the door shut behind her, then changed her mind. “I believe I shall leave this door wide open in the hope that someone will come along and help himself to Uncle Henry’s possessions. I dare not get my hopes up, though,” she added. “There don’t seem to be any villains on the streets tonight. On my walk over here I saw nary a one.”
“Good Lord, Sara, you actually walked over here?” Aunt Nora asked, clearly appalled.
“I did,” Sara answered. There was a hint of a boast in her voice. “I kept my guard up, of course, so you can quit your frown. I didn’t have to use my parasol once to fend off anyone with ill intentions, either. Oh, heavens, I’ve left my lovely parasol in the window.”
“Leave it be,” her aunt ordered when Sara started back up the steps. “We’re pressing our luck against the devil if we stay here much longer. Now give me your arm, dear. I’ll hold onto you while we make this short walk. You really walked over here, Sara?”
Sara laughed. “To tell you the full truth, I do believe I ran most of the way. I was very frightened, Nora, but I made the journey without mishap. Do you know, I believe all this talk about our streets being so unsafe is just exaggeration.”
The two ladies strolled arm in arm down the dark, narrow street, Sara’s laughter trailing behind them. The hack was waiting for them at the corner. Sara was assisting her aunt inside the black vehicle when a hopeful assailant came rushing toward them. Nathan intervened by simply moving forward into the moonlight. The man took one look at him, did a hasty turnaround, and blended back into the shadows again.
Nathan thought the old woman might have gotten a look at him. She had glanced back over her shoulder just when he’d moved forward, but he decided her eyesight must have dimmed with age when she turned around again without shouting a warning to her niece.
Sara certainly hadn’t noticed his presence. She had a heated discussion over the fare with the driver, finally agreed to his exorbitant fee, and then joined her aunt inside the vehicle. The hack was in motion when Nathan grabbed hold of the back rail and swung himself up on the ledge. The vehicle rocked from the added weight before picking up speed again.
Sara was certainly making her own kidnapping easy work. Nathan had heard her tell her aunt that they would be leaving London by ship. He therefore assumed their destination was the wharf. Then the hack veered off onto one of the side streets near the waterfront and came to an abrupt stop in front of one of the most notorious taverns in the city.
She was going after the damn wedding band, he supposed with a growl of irritation. Nathan jumped down from the ledge and moved into the light further behind the hack. He wanted the men loitering in front of the tavern to get a good look at him. He braced his legs apart for a fight, moved his right hand to the hilt of the coiled whip hooked to his belt, and scowled at the sizable group.
They noticed him. Three of the smaller ones edged their way back inside. The other four leaned back against the stone wall. Their gazes were directed on the ground.
The driver climbed down from his perch, received fresh instructions, and hurried inside. He came back outside a scant minute later, muttered that he’d best be getting a giant bonus for all the trouble he’d had to endure, and then climbed back up to his seat.
Another few minutes elapsed before the door of the tavern opened again. A sour-faced man with a grossly distended belly came outside. He was dressed in rumpled, soiled clothing that was ripe from wear. The stranger slicked his greasy hair back from his brow in a pitiful attempt at grooming as he swaggered over to the carriage.
“My employer, Henry Winchester, is too sotted to come outside,” he announced. “We come to this part of town when we don’t want to be noticed,” he added. “I’m here in his stead, m’lady. Your driver said there be a woman in need of something, and I’m thinking I’m just the man you’re needing.”
The disgusting man scratched his groin while he eagerly waited for a reply to his offer.
The stench radiating from the foul-smelling man came in through the window. Sara almost gagged in reaction. She placed her perfumed hankerchief over her nose, turned to her aunt, and whispered, “Do you know this man?”
“I most certainly do,” her aunt answered. “His name’s Clifford Duggan, Sara, and he’s the one who helped your uncle waylay me.”
“Did he strike you?”
“Yes, dear, he did,” Nora answered. “Several times, as a matter of fact.”
The servant under discussion couldn’t see inside the dark carriage. He leaned forward to get a better look at his prize.
Nathan walked over to the side of the carriage. His intent was to tear the man from aft to stern for daring to leer at his bride. He stopped when he saw the white-gloved fist fly through the open window and connect quite soundly with the side of the man’s bulbous nose.
Clifford hadn’t been prepared for the attack. He let out a howl of pain, staggered backwards, and tripped over his own feet. He landed with a thud on his knees. While he spewed one crude blasphemy after another he diligently tried to regain his feet.
Sara pressed her advantage. She threw the carriage door open, catching the villain in his midsection. The servant did a near somersault before landing in the gutter on his backside.
The men lounging against the wall hooted in appreciation of the spectacle they’d just witnessed. Sara ignored her audience as she climbed out of the carriage. She turned to hand her reticule to her aunt, took another minute to remove her gloves and pass those through the window to her aunt, too, and then finally gave her full attention to the man sprawled on the ground.
She was simply too infuriated to be afraid. She stood over her victim looking very like an avenging angel. Her voice shook with fury when she said, “If you ever mistreat a lady again, Clifford Duggan, I swear to God you’ll die a slow, agonizing death.”
“I ain’t never mistreated a lady,” Clifford whined. He was trying to catch his breath so he could pounce on her. “How would you be knowing my name?”
Nora leaned out the window. “You’re a shameful liar, Clifford,” she called out. “You’re going to burn in hell for all your sins.”
Clifford’s eyes widened in astonishment. “How did you get out—”
Sara interrupted his question by giving him a sound kick. He turned his gaze back to her. His expression was insolent. “You think you got the meat to hurt me?” he sneered. He glanced back at the men leaning against the wall. In truth, the servant was more humiliated than injured by her paltry attack. The snickers echoing behind him stung far more than her little slap. “The only reason I ain’t retaliating is because my employer will want to beat you good and sound afore he lets me have you.”
“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in, Clifford?” Sara asked. “My husband is going to hear about this atrocity, and he will certainly retaliate. The marquess of St. James is feared by everyone, even ignorant pigs like you, Clifford. When I tell him what you’ve been up to he’ll give you equal measure. The marquess does whatever I tell him to do just like that.” She paused to snap her fingers for effect. “Oh, I can see I’ve gotten your full attention with that promise,” she added with a nod when Clifford’s expression changed. The man looked downright terrified. He had quit trying to regain
his feet and was actually scooting backward on his backside.
Sara was inordinately pleased with herself. Her bluff had worked quite well. She didn’t realize that Clifford had just gotten a good look at the giant standing a scant ten feet behind her. She thought she’d just put the fear of a St. James into the servant. “A man who strikes a lady is a true coward,” she announced. “My husband kills cowards as easily as he would a bothersome gnat, and if you doubt me, just remember he is a St. James through and through.”
“Sara, dear,” Nora called out. “Would you like me to accompany you inside?”
Sara didn’t take her gaze off Clifford when she gave her aunt answer. “No, Nora. You aren’t dressed for the occasion. I won’t be long.”
“Hurry, then,” Nora called out. “You’ll catch a chill, dear.”
Nora continued to lean out the window, but her gaze was directed at Nathan. He returned her wide-eyed stare with a brisk nod before turning his attention back to his bride.
Nora was quick to notice how the big man was keeping the hounds at bay. His mere size was intimidating. It didn’t take her any time at all to realize he was actually providing safety for Sara. Nora thought about calling a warning to her niece, then discounted the notion. Sara had enough to worry about. Nora would wait to mention the savior when she was finished with her important errand.
Nathan kept his attention on Sara. His bride was certainly full of surprises. He was having difficulty coming to terms with that fact. He’d seen what cowards the Winchesters were. The men in the family always did their dirty work under cover of darkness, or when a man’s back was turned. Sara, however, wasn’t acting at all like a Winchester. She was courageous in her defense of the old woman. And Lord, was she in a fury. He didn’t think he would have been surprised if she’d pulled out a pistol and shot her victim between his eyes. She was definitely angry enough.
Sara skirted the servant, paused to give him a good glare, and then hurried on inside the tavern.
Nathan immediately walked over to Clifford. He grabbed him by his neck, lifted him high into the air, and then flung him against the stone wall.
His audience scattered like mice to avoid being hit. Clifford struck the wall with a loud splat, then crumpled to the ground in a dead faint.
“My good man?” Nora called out. “I do believe you’d better go inside now. My Sara’s bound to need your assistance yet again.”
Nathan turned to scowl at the woman who dared to issue him an order. Just then the whistles and hoots of laughter coming from inside the tavern gained his full attention. With a growl of frustration over what he considered a damned inconvenience he slowly uncoiled his whip and walked toward the door.
Sara located her uncle who was hunched over his ale at a round table in the center of the establishment. She made her way through the throng of customers to get to him. She thought she would use shame and reason to get Aunt Nora’s ring back. Yet when she actually saw the silver band on his finger her mind emptied of all reasonable ploys. There was a full pitcher of dark ale on the table. Before Sara could contain herself she lifted the pitcher and emptied the contents over her uncle’s balding head.
He was too far gone from drink to react swiftly. He let out a loud bellow, interrupted himself with a rank belch, and then staggered to his feet. Sara had worked the wedding band off his finger before his mind had cleared sufficiently to ward her off.
It took him a long while to focus on her properly. Sara slipped the ring on her own finger while she waited.
“My God . . . Sara? What are you doing here? Is something amiss?” Uncle Henry stammered out his questions in a bluster. The effort cost him what little strength he had left. He slumped back down in his chair and squinted up at her with bloodshot eyes. Henry noticed the empty pitcher. “Where’s my ale?” he shouted to the barkeep.
Sara was thoroughly disgusted with her uncle. Even though she doubted he’d remember a single word of her lecture, she was determined to let him know what she thought about his sinful conduct.
“Is something amiss?” She repeated his question in a derisive tone. “You are despicable, Uncle Henry. If my father knew what you and his other brothers were doing to Nora, I’m certain he’d call the authorities and have you all carted off to the gallows.”
“What say you?” Henry asked. He rubbed his forehead while he tried to concentrate on the conversation. “Nora? You’re ranting at me because of that worthless woman?”
Before Sara could chastise him for making that shameful remark he blurted out, “Your father was in on the plan from the very beginning. Nora’s too old to take care of herself. We know what’s best for her. Don’t try throwing a tantrum with me, girl, for I’m not going to tell you where she is.”
“You do not know what’s best for her,” Sara shouted. “You wanted her inheritance, and that’s the real reason. Everyone in London knows about your gaming debts, Uncle. You found an easy way to pay them off, didn’t you? You were set to lock Nora away in an asylum, weren’t you?”
Henry’s gaze darted back and forth between the empty pitcher and his niece’s outraged expression. It finally dawned on him that she had poured his ale over his head. He touched his collar just to be sure, and when he felt the sticky wetness there he became livid. His own anger made his head start pounding. He was in desperate need of another drink. “We are going to put the bitch away, and you can’t do anything about it. Now get on home before I put my hand to your backside.”
A snicker sounded behind her. Sara turned around to glare at the customer. “Drink your refreshment, sir, and stay out of this.” She whirled back to her uncle only after the stranger turned his gaze to his goblet. “You’re lying about my father,” she stated. “He would never be a party to such cruelty. As for striking me, do so and suffer my husband’s wrath. I’ll tell him,” she threatened with a nod.
Sara had hoped that since her empty threat about her husband’s retaliatory methods had been so successful with the hired servant Clifford, the same bluff might work on her sotted relative.
It was a vain hope. Henry didn’t look at all intimidated. He let out a loud snort. “You’re as crazed as Nora if you believe a St. James would ever come to your defense. Why, I could beat you good, Sara, and no one would give a notice, least of all your husband.”
Sara stood her ground. She was determined to gain her uncle’s promise to leave Nora alone before she left the foul-smelling tavern. Her fear was that he or one of his brothers would send someone after her aunt and drag her back to England. Nora’s inheritance from her father’s estate was sizable enough to make the journey worth the nuisance.
She was so incensed with her uncle, she didn’t notice that some of the customers were slowly edging their way toward her. Nathan noticed. One man he judged to be the leader of the pack actually licked his lips in apparent anticipation of the morsel he thought he would soon get to devour.
Sara suddenly realized the futility of her plan. “Do you know, Uncle Henry, I’ve been trying to find a way to get you to promise to leave Nora alone, but I now realize my own foolishness. Only a man of honor would keep his promise. You’re too much of a swine to keep your word. I’m wasting my time here.”
Her uncle reached up to slap her. Sara easily dodged him. She stopped backing away when she bumped into something quite solid, turned around, and found herself surrounded by several disreputable-looking men. All of them, she immediately noticed, were in desperate need of a bath.
Everyone was so mesmerized by the beautiful lady they never noticed Nathan. He thought they might be too consumed with lust to think about caution. In time they would realize that error, of course. Nathan leaned back against the closed door in the corner and waited for the first provocation.
It came with lightning speed. When the first infidel grabbed hold of Sara’s arm Nathan let out a roar of outrage. The sound was deep, guttural, deafening. Effective, too. Everyone in the tavern froze—everyone but Sara. She jumped a good foot, then whirled ar
ound toward the sound.
She would have screamed if her throat hadn’t closed up on her. In truth, she was having difficulty catching her breath. Her knees buckled when she spotted the big man standing in front of the door. Sara grabbed hold of the table to keep herself from falling down. Her heart was slamming inside her chest, and she was certain she was about to die of sheer fright.
What in God’s name was he? No, not what, she corrected herself, but who. She was nearly frantic. He was a man—yes, a man—but the biggest, the most dangerous-looking, the most . . . oh, God, he was staring at her.
He motioned to her with the crook of his finger.
She shook her head.
He nodded.
The room began to spin. She simply had to get hold of her wits again. She desperately tried to find something about the giant that wasn’t so horribly terrifying. She realized then that someone was clutching her arm. Without taking her gaze away from the big man trying to stare her into a faint she slapped the hand away.
The giant looked as if he bathed. There was that much. His hair appeared to be clean, too. It was a dark bronze in color, as bronzed as his face and arms. Dear Lord, she thought, his upper arms and shoulders were so . . . muscular. So were his thighs. She could see the sleek bulge of steel indecently outlined by his snug britches. But they were clean britches, she told herself. Villains usually wore only crumpled, smelly garments, didn’t they? Therefore, she reasoned illogically, he couldn’t be a villain. That conclusion made her feel better. She was actually able to take a breath. All right, she thought to herself, he isn’t a villain; he’s just a warlord, she decided when she’d finished her thorough inspection, perhaps even a Viking warrior from the length of his hair. Yes, he was simply a barbarian who had somehow transported himself across time.
Her mind had snapped, she concluded then. The greeneyed warlord motioned to her to come to him again. She looked behind her to make certain he wasn’t motioning to someone else. There wasn’t anyone there.
The Gift Page 6