The Noble Guardian

by Michelle Griep

  Despite the cold gun barrel shunted against the back of his head, Samuel squared his shoulders and faced his nemesis.

  Shankhart Robbins.

  This time when Abby entered Mr. Harvey’s outer foyer, she was prepared for the vinegary scent. But as she stepped into the surgeon’s office, nothing could have readied her for the sights. As a gentleman’s daughter, she’d never had cause to visit a working surgeon’s theatre. Now she understood why the captain had commanded she wait for him on the bench the previous morning. She could only imagine the suffering the yellowed walls in here had witnessed.

  At the center of the room sat a raised wooden slab, long enough for a body, darkened and splotched from years of blood. Small divots were worn into the edges, right about where hands had likely clutched and squeezed and clawed in pain. Various saws and pincers of assorted sizes hung from hooks on one wall. Bottles filled with different liquids stood on a nearby table. A large velvet-lined box yawned open on that table, and though she didn’t want to, Abby couldn’t help but stare at the large syringes lined up inside, ready to pierce flesh.

  “Ahh, Mrs. Thatcher.” Mr. Harvey glanced over his shoulder as he hung a stained apron on a peg. “I was just finishing up and about to make a call on you and your husband. You’ve saved me a trip.”

  Heat rose up her neck, and she thanked God the surgeon yet had his back toward her.

  “Oh, he is not my—”

  She bit her lip. Which was worse? Allowing the man to think she and the captain were married, or refuting him when Mr. Harvey had clearly seen them together in her bedchamber?

  “Hmm?” Mr. Harvey turned.

  She smoothed her skirts, giving her hands something to do other than flutter about from mortification. “I…uh…” Despite the biting pain in her throat, she swallowed. “I am glad I saved you the trouble, sir. I came to inquire after little Emma and also to ask, if you have a spare moment, if you might look at my throat?”

  His brow folded, dipping his bushy grey eyebrows into his spectacles. “I was afraid of that. Let’s see what the trouble is.”

  He advanced, sidestepping the table, and with a gentle touch to her chin, guided her face upward into a ray of sunlight beaming in from one of the many windows. “Now then, Mrs. Thatcher, open your mouth and say ahh, if you please.”

  She obeyed.

  He mm-hmmed immediately.

  “Yes. Yes, I see,” he murmured while tipping her face to one side and peering closer. Then he released her and stepped back. “Thank you.”

  He said no more, but something flashed in his eyes. Concern? Worry? Frustration over how to tell her she’d succumb to a mortal disease within hours?

  Clutching her skirts, she braced herself for the worst. “Your verdict, Mr. Harvey?”

  “Unfortunately, I’d say you’re well on your way to feeling as poorly as your little girl.”

  Her hand flew to her throat. “Is it…?” But she couldn’t bring herself to even think the words let alone say them aloud. She swayed on her feet.

  “Now, now, Mrs. Thatcher. Don’t go swooning in a surgeon’s office, though I suppose if you must, this would be the best place for it, eh?” He guided her out to the waiting room with a gentle nudge to her back and led her to the bench.

  She sank, grateful for the support and to be away from the operating room.

  “Allow me to put your fears to rest, madam. Your daughter suffers from a bad case of the croup, not the putrid throat. And neither do you.”

  She snapped her face up to his, relief pumping through her veins with each beat of her heart.

  He reaffirmed his words with a nod. “I suspect you’ve contracted some form of the girl’s ailment, though it will likely pass from you much faster than it will for little Emma. Some white horehound syrup for the both of you, and you’ll be on the mend in no time. The girl will likely fuss a bit longer, but she should be back to rights within the week. Wait here, please, while I retrieve her for you.”

  Mr. Harvey disappeared through a different door, and Abby sank back against the wall, sighing. Thank God! No deathly illness for her or little Emma. She’d collect the child and they could be on their way this very morning, incurring no more delay.

  Wouldn’t Captain Thatcher be surprised when she showed up back at the inn with the babe in her arms?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Staring at death was nothing new. It was a way of life. A companion Samuel frequently clasped hands with. In a freakish sort of way, he was comfortable knowing each breath might be his last, for he’d been facing his own demise since the day he’d screamed into this world. No, the sickening clench of his gut had nothing whatsoever to do with the possibility of dying. It was that he’d slipped up. Been caught unawares. Fallen headlong into his enemy’s snare. And that rankled more than the ugly grin slicing across Shankhart Robbins’s face or Carper’s gun drilling into the back of his skull.

  In front of him, Shankhart’s big hulk sagged the mattress in the middle, where he sat on the bed, defiling the counterpane beneath him. A breeze wafting in from the window directly behind him carried his sweaty taint.

  “Well, well. If it ain’t my old friend, Sam’l Thatcher. Thing is, though, I have to keep asking myself…” Shankhart’s misshapen head hinged eerily sideways, as if it might topple off. “I say, ‘Self? For the love of money and women, why would Thatcher go and kill my own brother?’”

  Ignoring the gun Carper jabbed into his head, Samuel locked gazes with Shankhart. “’Cause you weren’t within reach at the time.”

  “I am now.” The man blinked, his eyelids never quite shutting. It was an unsettling defect, the moist crescent of his eyeballs showing at all times. God only knew how many victims had stared at those lizard-like slits as he sliced their throats.

  Shankhart tapped his blade against his palm in a deadly rhythm. “Looks like I’ll be the one doing the killing today.”

  “Have at it, then.” Samuel lifted his chin, the muzzle sliding to a higher point on his skull. “If you’re able.”

  Coarse laughter rolled out of the highwayman, jiggling Shankhart’s meaty shoulders. “Big talk for someone down on his knees.”

  He had a point. Samuel clamped his jaw shut while mentally ticking off any possible assets to use for his escape. White muslin curtains riffled in the breeze behind Shankhart. The window he usually kept shut was now open—likely reserved for Shankhart and Carper’s exit. But it could prove useful to him. To his left, a pitcher sat on the washbasin, a formidable weapon if shattered against one of these brute’s faces. And he still had his boot-blade tucked away. All in all, if the timing were right, he stood a chance, albeit a very slim one.

  “I won’t be here for long.” He forced confidence into his tone—more than he had a right to own at this moment.

  Shankhart sucked in his lips, then released them, making a smacking noise. “Not to be difficult, Captain, but I beg to differ. This could take all day. You see, I’m going to carve you up, bit by bit, piece by piece. Real slow,” he drawled.

  Samuel steeled every muscle as Shankhart lifted the knife. But the big man merely raised the blade to his own chin and scraped the sharp edge lightly against his dark stubble. Again and again. The rasping noise more unnerving than when the blade slipped and opened a small line of red on the man’s jaw.

  Shankhart’s lips curved as he studied the blood on his knife, tilting it one way then the other in a ray of sunshine beaming through the window. Then he lowered the weapon to his lap and skewered Samuel with a pointed stare. “Oh, I know. I see it in your face. Anxious for the revelry to start, are you? Not yet, though. Time’s not right. You wanna tell him why, Carper?”

  The gun dug into the back of his skull. Carper’s snicker was as foul as his breath, wafting thick upon Samuel’s head. “We bein’ gentlemen, and all, why we gots to wait on that lady of yours.”

  The words slammed into him like a hammer blow. They knew of Miss Gilbert?

  God, have mercy.

&nb
sp; Shankhart chuckled. “That’s right. We know about the woman you’re running off with. It pains me you never told your ol’ friend about the bit o’ skirt you’ve taken up with. Never introduced us proper like.” Shankhart leaned forward, close enough that Samuel could feel the heat of him. “And a child too. My, my, but you’ve been a busy boy, chasing me down by day and tumbling yer doxy by night.”

  Samuel’s hands curled into fists, the slur to Miss Gilbert lighting a wildfire in his chest. “Leave her and the child out of this. Your quarrel is with me.”

  “You should’ve thought of that sooner,” Shankhart growled. “Things changed when you killed my brother. It’s only justice that your loved ones should be taken just as you’ve taken mine.”

  “Justice?” Samuel snorted. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

  “What I know is that you’ve been a thorn in my flesh for far too long. This ends now.”

  Lifting a last, frantic prayer, Samuel ground out, “So be it.”

  He lurched sideways. Carper’s gun fired.

  The shot lifted the hair on the side of Samuel’s head as the ball passed. A hot trail grazed across his temple—but sank into Shankhart’s chest.

  Shankhart roared, the bullet punching him back.

  Victory—maybe. No time to gloat.

  Samuel jumped to his feet and lunged for the pitcher in one motion. He swung the heavy porcelain at Carper’s skull. But the man twisted at the last moment, the vessel shattering against the brute’s shoulder instead of his head. Before Samuel could regain his balance, Carper drove his elbow into his face. Cartilage gave. Blood flowed. Pain stabbed.

  So, this was going to turn ugly, then.

  Samuel swiped for his blade—but Carper’s boot cracked into his forearm. He stumbled from the force, then pivoted back with an uppercut to Carper’s jaw.

  Carper grunted.

  Followed by a sharp rap on the door.

  “Captain?” A feminine voice leached through. “Are you all right?”

  Samuel’s heart skipped a beat. God, no! Not Miss Gilbert. Not now.

  A wicked grin split Carper’s face, and he lunged for the doorknob.

  Samuel sprang. If he didn’t take Carper down before the man grabbed Miss Gilbert, there was no telling what violence she might suffer.

  He snagged Carper’s arm and yanked him back, wrenching the man’s elbow upward so sharply, his wrist nearly connected to his armpit.

  Carper howled.

  Before he could swing around, Samuel shoved his foot in front of the man’s boot, knocking him off-balance, then thrust him to the floor, riding the villain down.

  Jamming his knee against one of Carper’s arms, Samuel ground his forearm against the man’s neck and cut off his air supply. Carper writhed. Samuel held. Just as the body beneath him slackened into unconsciousness, Samuel shot back to his feet and whirled, snatching out his knife. If Shankhart were still alive, the fight was only beginning.

  The curtains fluttered like unmoored ghosts. Blood smeared across the counterpane in a deadly line toward the window.

  The bed was empty.

  Samuel ran over to the window. No wounded body lay on the ground. No corpse. No Shankhart.

  Just a bloody trail that ended where horse hooves had dug into the ground.

  An anguished cry rumbled behind the closed door, the low growl terrible and altogether too familiar. Abby’s pulse thumped loudly in her ears. Something was wrong. Horribly wrong. She clutched little Emma tighter with one arm and pounded her fist against the wood. “Captain! Please answer.”

  Boot steps thudded, and the door yanked open. Captain Thatcher stood, chest heaving, dark hair wild and hanging over one eye. Blood oozed down his temple and snaked out of his nose, running over his lips before it dripped from his chin. He swiped the offense with his sleeve, as if the flow were no more than a mild inconvenience.

  She gaped.

  He frowned—then winced. “Why do you have Emma?”

  “You are hurt!” she cried. “What happened?”

  Behind him, a body on the floor moaned.

  The captain glanced over his shoulder, then his dark gaze shot back to hers. “Go to your—”

  Feet pounded behind her, the heavy wheezing of the innkeeper rattling off the walls. “What the briny carbuncle is going on up here? Ye don’t pay me enough to be shootin’ the place to bloody ribbons.”

  Captain Thatcher tipped his head toward her chamber. “Go to your room, Miss Gilbert. I’ll meet you there straightaway.”

  “But—”

  “Now.” His voice was flint. Arguing was out of the question. And as the bloodied man behind the captain groaned louder, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to put up a fight anyway. Clearly enough battle had already taken place.

  Emma shifted against her shoulder, and with one last look at the wearied captain, Abby turned away. For the child’s sake—and hers—it was likely best to obey his command.

  Once inside her chamber, she laid the babe in the middle of her bed, grateful Emma had slept through the commotion. Abby untied her bonnet, fingers trembling, then sank down next to her, more shaken than she cared to admit. First her carriage had been attacked, then that awful man at the Laughing Dog had cornered her in the stable. Now this. Maybe she should’ve gone home with Fanny.

  Forcefully shoving her doubts away, she straightened. No sense wallowing in maybes or what mights or should haves, a lesson she’d learned long ago when her stepmother took over the house. Oh, the long nights she’d spent in vain weeping as a child, wishing for her real mother, craving for arms that would hold her. But Father had been too preoccupied with his new wife, and her stepmother truly had only space for one love in her heart—herself.

  Abby glanced up at the ceiling, as stained and cracked as she felt on the inside, and closed her eyes.

  Lord, give me strength.

  Rising, she retrieved a leftover cup of cold tea from the bedside table and gulped the remains, somewhat calming the fire in her throat. She set the cup down and picked up her small book of Psalms, then settled on the only chair in the room. Peace came slowly, but it did come. And the longer Abby read, the more it seeped into her soul. At last, fully relaxed and replenished, her head bobbed. She laid the book in her lap and closed her eyes.

  Knuckles rapping against her door jerked her awake, driving the Psalms to the floor. Retrieving it, she set the book aside then crossed to answer.

  Captain Thatcher’s big frame filled the doorway. No more blood flowed from his wounds, though splotches of deep red marred his skin where it had dried.

  His brown eyes blazed into hers. “The child, how does she fare?”

  Here he stood, beaten and worn, and his only thought was for little Emma? What kind of man was Captain Thatcher?

  She narrowed her eyes. “What happened to you, Captain?”

  His jaw clenched, his only response. He was quiet for so long, she was sure he wouldn’t answer.

  “Nothing to concern you,” he said at length.

  Nothing? Did he really expect her to believe that?

  “The man I hired stands at my door a bloodied mess, and you think it does not concern me?” With a sigh, she stepped aside and swept out her hand. “Come in and use my basin, sir. I will consider it a fair trade to tell you of Emma’s condition if you tell me who that man was in your room.”

  He didn’t move. Not directly. But eventually, for a reason she couldn’t guess, he strode inside as if he owned the room and stalked over to the washbasin. His footsteps roused little Emma. For propriety’s sake, Abby left the door open wide and collected the child. No more fever burned Emma’s brow, nor did she cry, but a cough rumbled in her little lungs. Abby propped the child upright against her shoulder and patted her back as Emma barked in spasms.

  The captain filled the basin then shot her a raised brow. “The babe is still ill. Why did you bring her back here?”

  “I went to see Mr. Harvey this morning because my own throat started to
ache and he—”

  Captain Thatcher slammed down the pitcher and faced her. “Are you ill too, then?”

  His tone was harsh, and his brows pulled together into a fierce line. An angry façade, but just a veneer, she suspected.

  Abby shifted Emma to her other shoulder, glad when the child’s coughing eased. “I am fine, Captain. A few days’ discomfort and I shall be right as rain. Apparently little Emma suffers from nothing more than a bad case of the croup, hence the cough she has developed. She is not to be exposed to night air, and I purchased an ample supply of horehound syrup to keep her comfortable during the day.”

  The lines of his face softened—mostly—yet the grim set of his jaw remained. “So, neither of you are in danger?”

  “No, we are not.” She lifted her chin. “But clearly you have been.”

  He turned his back to her and bent, cupping his hands and splashing water. A small smile twitched her lips. Did the man really think she’d be put off that easily?

  She padded over to the washstand, keeping a firm grip on Emma. “Why did that man attack you?”

  After a few more splashes, the captain reached for the drying cloth. He dabbed at his temple and nose before answering. “A few unwelcome visitors came to call. Nothing more.”

  She frowned. Did he harbour some dark secret, or was he trying to protect her?

  Emma squirmed in her arms, and once again she shifted the child. The babe would be hungry soon, which would cut a swift end to any conversation she hoped to have with the captain, for she’d have to go in search of milk and porridge.

  “There’s more to it than that,” she persisted. “You and I both know it, and I take you for an honest man. So tell me, Captain, what transpired in your room?”

  He balled up the cloth and dropped it onto the washstand. Then, blowing out a long breath, he faced her. His nose was still swollen, but no more blood leaked out. “It isn’t a burden meant for you.”

  A bitter laugh welled, but she swallowed it—despite the pain in her throat. Would that her stepmother had owned the same sentiment.

  “I respect your caution in sparing my sensibilities, sir, but I believe God provides us with fellow sojourners to help lighten our heavy loads through prayer and encouragement. And for the time being, we are fellow sojourners, are we not?”