“So, Captain.” She curved her lips upward, as if he might follow her example. “How long do you figure until we reach Brakewell Hall?”
His gaze continued roaming the taproom even when he answered. “Little over a week, God willing.”
Her brows shot up. God willing? This rugged man, lantern light even now glinting off the gun handle peeking from inside his coat, professed such faith? “I did not take you for a religious man.”
“In my line of work, you run either from God or toward Him.”
Of course. By necessity, being an officer would mean he’d seen things—and likely done things—better left unspoken. Perhaps that was the cause for his restrained personality.
“It must be dreadful,” she murmured. “Always seeing the worst in humanity.”
His dark eyes shifted to her for a moment before resuming surveillance of the room.
“Have you any family, Captain Thatcher?” The question flew out before she could stop it, and she pressed her lips shut. It wasn’t any of her business, not really.
But if he thought her curiosity forward, he didn’t let on. He merely said, “No.”
She studied him closer, noting for the first time the frayed collar on his dress coat, the missing button on his waistcoat. His shaggy hair was in need of a good trimming, and his skin had the weather-worn look of a man who spent far too much time in the sun. Then it dawned on her. This was a man who had no home to welcome him. No arms to hold him when the brutality of his job got to be too much.
Her heart squeezed. “How lonely for you.”
“Loneliness is a state of mind, nothing more.”
She leaned back in her chair, astonished by his sentiment. Did he really believe his own words? “Well, thankfully, I will not have time for such a ‘state of mind,’ as you put it, but rather one of happiness and fulfillment once we reach Penrith. Sir Jonathan Aberley and I are to be wed straightaway.”
His gaze shot to hers, an indecipherable gleam burning deep in his dark eyes. “Is that so? Tell me, how long have you known this man? This Sir Jonathan Aberley?”
He spit out the title like a piece of rotted mutton. Did he carry a grudge against the gentry?
She offered a smile to the waiter as he set a mug in front of each of them, and waited until he scurried off before answering. “I met my intended at a ball earlier in the spring.”
He snorted then slugged back a drink. “That can’t be more than a few months ago. I suspect, lady, that you have no idea what you’re getting into.”
She clenched her jaw, trapping a retort—a skill she’d honed and employed often with her stepmother. The nerve of the captain. He was the one with no idea of what lay ahead of her. She straightened her shoulders, intent on educating him. “May I remind you, sir, that my name is not ‘lady,’ and the truth is that as a baronet, Sir Jonathan is a very busy man. He doesn’t have time to waste, so it is no surprise our courtship is a whirlwind.”
“Courtship, you say?” The captain folded his arms. “Your man is up north in Penrith. You are coming from the south. How much of a courtship could you have possibly had?”
Her stomach turned—and this time not from hunger. He was right, and that chafed. She straightened on her chair, careful not to bump the basket near her feet. “Admittedly it has not been much of courtship, what with the distance. Yet it is not the length of the relationship that matters, but the depth. Do you not agree?”
His lips twisted into a semblance of a smile. “I suppose you expect to live happily ever after, then.”
“I do. Oh, of course I know there shall be hardships, mind you, but with Sir Jonathan at my side, I am certain we shall face each trial as a united front.”
“Really.” He unfolded his arms as the waiter set down a plate in front of each of them, and when the man had departed, he leaned closer to her. “What do you know of the man, other than he’s busy?”
His question was neatly tied with a thick cord of cynicism. Abby closed her eyes and bowed her head, thanking God for the food and asking for strength to keep from snapping back at the infuriating man dining with her. Why had she asked him to stay?
She picked up her fork and jabbed at her pie. “Sir Jonathan runs a lovely estate just outside of Penrith. I am told that Brakewell Hall has two hundred acres. His is one of the oldest families in the area, their baronet title dating back to King James.” She popped a bite of kidney pie into her mouth, satisfied with the flavor and with having put the captain in his place.
He merely stared. “And?”
She swallowed. Was that not enough information? But…oh. Of course. The captain was an officer of the law. It made sense he’d be more interested in a physical description. “Sir Jonathan is tall, broad of shoulders, with…” She stabbed another piece of pie. What colour hair did Sir Jonathan have? Brown? Black? It wasn’t flaxen, at any rate. And had his eyes been dark as well…or had they been more of a hazel shade? No, they were blue. She was certain of it. Mostly.
She set down her fork and picked up her mug, gazing at the captain over the rim. “He has dark hair and blue eyes.”
“And?”
Without so much as a sip, she set the mug back down. “What do you mean ‘and’? I have just told you.”
“What you’ve given me, Miss Gilbert, is a physical description of the fellow and the state of his affairs, neither of which tells me about the man himself.”
Frustration roiled the one bite of pie she’d eaten. He was right. She didn’t really know much about Sir Jonathan, but living with him had to be better than abiding with her hateful stepmother and stepsiblings in Southampton.
“If you must know, Captain, Sir Jonathan is compassionate, kind, forthright, and generous. His sense of justice is acute, and he is above reproach in all matters. Not to mention he is as handsome as a Beau Brummell fashion plate. There.” She lifted her chin. “Does that answer your question?”
“No man is that perfect.” A slow smile lightened his usual brooding countenance—and she recanted of ever having wished to be the one to put it there. “You are a starry-eyed dreamer, lady.”
“And you are a dour old naysayer,” she blurted, then immediately slapped her fingers to her mouth, horrified. What had happened to her years of reserve? Her ability to withstand verbal jabs with nary a retort but a kind word? She wouldn’t be surprised if he simply shot up and walked away, never to look back. But his response, when it finally came, was even more astounding.
Captain Thatcher’s shoulders shook, a low, pleasant chuckle rumbling in his chest.
A pretty shade of pink blossomed on Miss Gilbert’s cheeks. Mortification radiated off her in waves, which amused Samuel all the more. So the little miss wasn’t nearly as prim as she let on, eh? And bold. Most women would’ve run off in tears by now, yet here she sat, not only dining with the likes of him but having invited him to join her in the first place.
Slowly, she lowered her hand and dipped her face to a sheepish tilt. “Forgive me, Captain Thatcher. I had no right to say such a thing.”
“No apology required. I stand guilty of the charge, for you see”—he bent closer, speaking for her alone—“I am a dour old naysayer.”
Her jaw dropped, accompanied by a sharp intake of breath.
Fighting another urge to chuckle at her astonishment, he speared a bite of kidney pie and shoveled it into his mouth. Miss Gilbert was a pleasant young woman, to be sure. Entirely too easy to amuse. He hadn’t enjoyed a laugh so freely in years, not since…
All his humour faded, blotted out by ugly memories rising from the past. Gunshots. Blood. Death. Who was he to enjoy dinner and laughter with a beautiful woman when his former partner William would never get the chance?
He shoved in another mouthful and went back to surveying the room. One never knew when trouble would walk through the door. Not that he expected it—but more often than not, that’s when an enemy struck.
“Tell me, Captain.” Miss Gilbert’s voice pulled his gaze from the door to he
r sweet face. “What will you do once you receive your final payment from my intended? A hundred pounds is no small sum.”
It wasn’t. It was more than he’d prayed for. Once again he silently thanked God before answering. “I intend to purchase a piece of land.”
“You would leave the force?”
Hah! He should’ve left years ago, before he’d been gutted of hope and stained with indelible cynicism. He slugged back a drink of ale, then nodded.
Finished with her pie, the lady pushed aside her plate and dabbed at her mouth with a coarse table napkin. “And what will you do with your land? Horses? Farming? Sheep, perhaps?”
He studied her for a moment, trying to decipher if her enthusiasm was true or merely an attempt to while away her time. Nothing but interest gleamed in her brown eyes, as if she were truly fascinated by what he might say.
“Oats and hay,” he answered at length. “After my years spent with horses, I’ve come to value reliable provender. I aim to produce the best possible feed at an affordable price.”
A brilliant smile lit her face. “A noble effort, Captain, but be careful. You are dangerously close to sounding like a starry-eyed dreamer yourself.”
Once again the strange desire to chuckle welled in his throat, but he swallowed it. Joy was a habit he couldn’t own, not yet. Not when there were still criminals to haul in and brigands to put down—and deep in his gut, he sensed one nearby.
His gaze shot to the door. Steel-grey eyes met his from across the crowded room, hooded eyes, set deep beneath a forehead puckered with a scar stretching from one side to the other, like the man had barely escaped death from a sharp blade.
The same blade now tucked inside Samuel’s boot.
Thunderation! Samuel jerked back into the shadow of a passing waiter, but not fast enough. Recognition flashed across the big man’s face. Noddy Carper, one of Shankhart’s gang. Carper’s nostrils flared, hatred purpling his flesh like a bruise.
Then he turned and fled.
Bolting upright, Samuel leapt sideways, causing the table to jiggle—and crashed into another waiter coming through the kitchen door. Bowls plummeted. Soup sprayed on impact, burning through the fabric of his trousers. The waiter barely kept from toppling as he teetered on one foot.
But no time to apologize. Samuel dodged around the man and shot forward. If Carper got away, Shankhart would know where to find Samuel…and Miss Gilbert and the babe. None of them would be safe.
“Captain?” Miss Gilbert’s voice followed him across the room. So did the other diners’ eyes. He could feel the stares, and no wonder. It wasn’t every day a man broke into a sprint between bites of kidney pie.
He barreled out of the public room and dashed through the smaller reception hall, banking hard to the right as two gentlemen swapping stories turned toward him. Pulling out his pistol, he reached for the front doorknob—then jumped back as it swung open.
A lady entered, and when her eyes landed on the gun in his hand, she screamed as if he’d shot her.
“What the devil?” shouted the man behind her as Samuel shoved past.
This time he did apologize. “Pardon.”
He tore past them both into the night. Torches lit the front yard, casting a ghoulish flicker on the back side of a black horse and big rider galloping out of sight.
Chest heaving, Samuel slowed to a stop. By the time he saddled Pilgrim and tried to follow, Carper would be long gone and untrackable in the black of night. Of all the rotten turns of luck! He’d just have to gain as much ground as possible tomorrow, putting more space between him and Shankhart—or Shankhart would be breathing down his neck with a gun in hand endangering Miss Gilbert and little Emma.
“Captain?”
He turned. Miss Gilbert stood bathed in torchlight, Emma’s basket clutched in one hand, the other fluttering to her chest. “Are you all right? Are you ill?”
He grunted. He was ill all right. Sick at heart that Carper had gotten away. Sick of murderers and thieves.
Sick of it all.
Chapter Ten
After two days of traveling—albeit slowed with a woman and child in tow—the uneasy knot in Samuel’s gut ought to be loosening. All told, he’d put nearly a hundred miles between himself and Shankhart. That should be a load lifter in and of itself.
But it wasn’t.
As he rode through the midlands, sometimes scouting ahead of the carriage, other times—like now—behind, he couldn’t help but feel like a coward for running off. He should be back there on the heath, hunting down that killer beast Shankhart, not playing the role of nursemaid and guardian. Should be. Sweet heavens, but he hated shoulds.
And worse, the twisting in his gut tightened with each thud of Pilgrim’s hooves. Something wasn’t right.
Pulling out his pistol, he cocked the hammer and veered off the road, guiding his mount into the tree line. Then he doubled back, scanning the endless maze of ash trunks and ivy carpet. June sunshine filtered through the canopy, painting bright stripes of light. Were they being followed? Easy enough to spot anyone lurking about, yet no dark shapes darted from tree to tree or belly-crawled through the foliage. Nothing but a few random squirrels scampered about.
Blowing out a long breath, he tucked away the gun and chided himself for becoming a skittish old—
“Stop!”
Though faint, Miss Gilbert’s voice strained through the trees. Samuel kicked Pilgrim into action, every muscle on alert. By the time he reached the carriage, the postilion had just pulled down the stairs.
Samuel swung off his horse, gun drawn. “Is there trouble?”
The man glanced at him, the whites of his eyes growing large as his gaze landed on the pistol. He threw up his hands. “The lady asked me to stop, sir. That’s all I know.”
Miss Gilbert’s pink-cheeked face peered out the open window of the door. She acknowledged the gun with a sweeping glance yet did not shrink back. “Emma’s made quite a mess of herself, more than I can care for in a moving carriage. Would you be so good as to put away your gun, Captain, and hold her while I step out?”
A soiled baby? He’d tensed to kill for nothing more than a fouled clout? If Brentwood or Moore heard of this, he’d be laughed out of service.
But as Miss Gilbert handed Emma down, he suddenly understood the urgency of the lady’s request. The babe’s gown was sopping, and the stink of it watered his eyes.
He handed the child back to Miss Gilbert as soon as her feet touched ground. Then he turned to the postilion. “Grab the child’s bag and spread a blanket over there.” He indicated a relatively flat swath of clover next to the edge of the woods.
Before either Miss Gilbert or the driver could move, he strode off to inspect the area. Nothing dangerous met his eye, only robins flittered atop some low-lying branches and rabbits ruffled the undergrowth beneath.
“Are you expecting trouble, Captain?” Worry thickened Miss Gilbert’s usual cheery tone.
“Just taking precautions.” He turned to find her big brown eyes seeking his. “That’s what you’re paying me for, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose I am.” Her lips curved into a brave smile, and she nodded at the postilion as he set down a satchel and shook out a blanket. “Thank you, Mr. Blake.”
Miss Gilbert laid down the fussing child, knelt, and set to work. Samuel kept a watchful eye on their surroundings, yet more often than not, his gaze drifted back to the woman. She was an oddity, in a surprisingly pleasant way. Not many gentlemen’s daughters would’ve taken on the charge of a child not quite a year old. And none would deign to clean a squalling, filthy babe, not even if the child were flesh of her flesh. That’s what servants were for, yet Miss Gilbert not only snubbed such convention, but pushed up her sleeves and cared for the little one in a way that squeezed Samuel’s chest. Judging by the loosened hair trailing down Miss Gilbert’s neck, she’d endured quite a ride thus far.
At last, the lady stood and held out a fresh—yet still crying—little one. “Would
you please mind Emma while I tidy up? I will only be a moment.”
Before he could respond, Miss Gilbert pressed Emma against his chest, and his arms flew up in reflex to grasp the wriggling child. Without a word, Miss Gilbert began collecting the dirty cloths.
Emma’s wide blue eyes met his, her lips opening to a big O. For a moment, the crying ceased—then a fresh wave of tears sprouted and the child cried all the harder. Samuel blew out a disgusted breath. There was nothing to be done for it, then.
“Shh,” he soothed and started bouncing, startling himself that his muscles still remembered how to calm a wee one. He turned Emma around, cradling her against his shirt, and patted her back. Unwelcome memories rushed him, nearly buckling his knees, especially when the babe burrowed her face into his collar and her soft cheek brushed against his neck. How many tears had he calmed those many years ago? If he listened hard enough, could he yet hear Mary’s cries mingled with this little one’s?
Somewhere deep inside, an old folk tune rose up unbidden and, before he could stop it, emerged as a low humming in his throat. Emma stilled at the noise, and he swayed from foot to foot to prevent a fresh bout of wailing. One of her little fists broke loose and she clung to his arm, nuzzling her face against his shoulder. He sucked in a breath. This time the memories would not be stopped, though he closed his eyes against them. Mary had been such a frail child. Small. Too small. Definitely not sturdy enough to withstand his drunken father’s careless fist when he’d swung for his mother and missed.
“Captain?”
His eyes popped open to Miss Gilbert’s raised brow. Clearing his throat, he handed Emma back to her.
But she didn’t retreat. She stood there, her brown eyes searching his. “You surprise me, sir. You obviously have some experience with little ones, yet you claim none of your own.”
He shrugged. “I don’t only rescue fair maidens, Miss Gilbert. Sometimes children are involved.”
She pursed her lips, the dimple on her chin scolding him with suspicion. “It is more than that, though, is it not?”
The Noble Guardian Page 9