He paused at the top of the stairs, but as luck would have it, the wire-haired innkeeper swung around a corner and headed his way.
The man’s eyes narrowed as he drew close. “This part of the inn is not for guests. Have you lost your way, sir?”
“No, just retrieving something I lost. Could you send up a bowl of porridge, some tea, and a mug of warm milk?”
The innkeeper eyed him for a moment. “I could, but I have yet to see a coin from you.”
Really? The man wanted to quibble over coins while he stood here with a squirming babe? He dug in his pocket with his free hand while Emma once again yanked his hat sideways, cutting off half his vision. Even so, he held out a shilling—one of his last. “Will this suffice for now?”
The innkeeper snatched it, the offering easing the creases on his brow. “Aye.”
“Good.” Samuel brushed past him and worked his way upward to Miss Gilbert’s room. Once inside, he set Emma down and pulled off his hat, giving the worn felt to her. The girl immediately bit into the brim, her big blue eyes smiling up at him.
Samuel couldn’t stop his own smile from wavering across his lips. Emma was a charmer—and Hawker was a fool for having sent her away.
Turning from Emma, he eyed Miss Gilbert. She lay exactly where he’d left her, cheeks unnaturally flushed, eyes closed. His smile faded—then disappeared altogether when she suddenly thrashed her head side to side.
“No. No! Do not shut me away. Not again!” Her eyes flew open, glassy and abnormally bright. “Please, I beg you…” She looked right at him but not really. Whatever she saw wasn’t him. “Why, Papa? Why did you send me off alone?”
Her father sent her on this journey alone? Samuel fisted his hands, a fire hotter than Abby’s fever burning through him. He’d ask what sort of man would do that to his daughter—except he knew all too well.
Her voice softened to a whimper. “You just left. Did not even say goodbye. Do you not love me?”
Her words knocked him sideways, his gut hardening to a sickening knot. It wasn’t right, this pain of hers, this anguish, and now he finally understood her determined flight to Penrith.
Dropping to his knees at her side, he blew out his tension through his nose and brushed back the damp hair sticking to her face. “Shh, Miss Gilbert. All is well. You’re not alone. I’ll not leave you.”
At his assurance, her eyes rolled back and she went limp. Alarmed, Samuel bent closer, praying to God for breath and life. So fair a frame should not have to bear the fire of such a fever—especially for one who’d apparently come from a hellish existence.
God, please! Would that I might take this illness in her stead. Grant her peace, God. Grant her Your peace.
Minutes passed, and thankfully, Miss Gilbert’s breathing evened. Perspiration yet dotted her brow, but she lay serenely enough that he pulled back.
With Miss Gilbert quieted, food on the way, and the child entertained, Samuel left the lady’s bedside and sank onto a chair. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he took care not to touch the tender part of his nose. He’d been on some hair-raising journeys in his time. But this one? His hand dropped to his lap. This one was beginning to trouble him the most. It scared him, this growing need to protect the woman and the child as if they were his own.
And he wasn’t afraid of anything.
Chapter Fifteen
Abby’s eyes opened to blurry outlines in a fuzzy world. Was this another dream? She blinked and—slowly—all the blobby shapes began to separate into individual objects. The table by her bed. The basin atop it. The man sleeping on a chair with a babe sprawled across his chest.
What? She blinked again. This might be a dream, for never would she have imagined the sweet way Captain Thatcher nestled Emma in his arms. His stubbly cheek rested against the top of the baby’s head, a contrast of fair and rugged, dark and light. Asleep, the hard lines of the captain’s face softened, erasing cares and years and burdens so that he was a young man again—albeit a bit battered. His nose yet sported a gash, and a purple bruise spread from his temple to his eye.
Abby shifted, and a cloth fell from her forehead. She reached for it and pulled the nearly dried bit of rag away, trying in vain to remember if she’d been the one to put it there. Had she forgotten, or had the captain been bathing her brow? Either way, the treatment had apparently worked, for she no longer shivered or sweated with a fever.
Emboldened, she risked a swallow. No sharp pain. No more fire burned, no tenderness or swelling. Only a slight ache remained.
“How do you fare?” The captain’s low voice crept across the room, his eyes open now and studying her with a worried gaze.
“Better—” Her voice garbled, and she cleared her throat. “The room no longer spins.”
And it didn’t, leastwise not while she was lying prone. Tentatively, Abby pushed up to sit—and still no dizziness swooped in. Light did, though. A sunray cut through the length of the room, beaming in a straight line from between the nearly closed draperies to her eyes. Judging by the slope of it, she estimated the day was well spent. Had she slept several hours, then?
Turning from the brilliance, she faced the captain. “You must think me a pampered princess. I am sorry to have wasted the day away.”
“It’s been two.”
Stunned, her lips parted, but no words came out. Two days? Surely she’d heard wrong. “Pardon me, but what did you say?”
Emma stirred, rubbing her face against the captain’s shirt. Then she planted her chubby little hands against his broad chest and pushed up, craning her neck to peer at Abby. A coo burbled out of her.
The captain rose. In three strides, he swiped up a chunk of bread from off a table near the window, then settled the girl on the floor with it. Emma gnawed the crust—until he started to walk away. Big tears shimmered in her eyes, and her mouth opened in a wail.
Without a word, Captain Thatcher turned back and pulled his hat off the table, then handed it to the girl. Immediately, Emma crushed it to her chest, forgetting all about her upset.
Abby couldn’t help but smile at the scene. Whether he’d admit it or not, a big heart beat beneath the captain’s wrinkled waistcoat.
He dragged the chair to the side of the bed and faced her. “We arrived yesterday afternoon. You slept the night through and most of today.”
La! Then she had heard right. Abby sank into the pillow, the reality of the captain’s words seeping in. Surely by now Sir Jonathan was worried sick by her late arrival and was out searching the highways and byways for her. “I stalled our journey,” she murmured, then looked up at the weary captain. “And left you alone to tend to Emma.”
“And you.”
Her nose wrinkled in confusion. If she’d been sleeping the whole time, what kind of tending could she have possibly needed?
“What do you mean?”
He scratched the side of his chin, the raspy noise a reminder of his manhood. “You were delirious into the early hours of the night. Thrashing about. Mumbling about your Sir Fanciness.”
“It is Sir Jonathan and—” She gasped. The early hours of the night? “Do not tell me, Captain, that you spent the entire night alone with me in my room.”
“You were ill.” His hand dropped, and he shrugged. “I couldn’t very well leave you by yourself.”
Did the man have no sense of propriety whatsoever? She pressed her lips to keep from gaping. “You could not have hired a serving girl to sit with me?”
A storm brewed in his eyes, a dark warning that she’d pushed him too far. “Believe it or not, lady, the day I set out for work on the heath, I wasn’t expecting a journey to the north, especially not one that would take more than a fortnight. I don’t carry as much coin on me as your Sir Fancy—”
“Jonathan!”
She winced at her shrill tone, shrewish as her stepmother’s. By all that was righteous, was she turning into the ill-tempered woman?
The captain flattened his palm against her brow. True concern pulled
at the sides of his mouth. “Is the fever returning?”
“No.” She pushed his hand away, overly aware of the warmth of his skin against hers. “I should not have spoken so forcefully. Forgive me for such ingratitude. I thank you for your care, truly, but I have a reputation to uphold. If anyone should find us thus and report back to the baronet, he would not have me.”
The truth tasted bitter. Whether Sir Jonathan loved her or not, his social station demanded he avoid any hint of scandal. He was taking a big enough risk marrying her, a nobody with naught to offer but her dowry.
Captain Thatcher’s jaw hardened. “That, Miss Gilbert, would be his loss.”
No. He was wrong. It would be entirely her loss, for she had nothing to go back home to.
“You do not understand.” Her throat tightened, and for a moment she feared that the illness really was returning. There was no way the captain could grasp how horrid her life had been, dressed in the trappings of a beloved daughter yet living each day reviled and berated. Just thinking of going back to her stepmother’s sharp tongue and her sisters’ digging remarks sent a shiver across her shoulders.
“After last night, I understand far more than you credit.” The captain’s gaze burned into hers. “You are running from an unhappy existence toward a man you hope will value you for the gem that you are.”
She sucked in a sharp breath, unsure what shocked the most—that he could so easily sum her up in so few words…or that he’d earnestly called her a gem. But no. It was neither. What really stunned was the casual way he meted out truth with no pretense or guile whatsoever.
But that didn’t mean she’d admit to it. Not to him. Not to anyone.
She lifted her chin. “Suffice it to say, Captain, that a lady never—ever—shares a room with a man who is not her husband, illness or not.”
He said nothing for a long while, then ever so slowly, he nodded. “All right. Don’t fret. It’s highly unlikely anyone here holds the ear of your baronet, so rest assured not a soul will go telling him of your sordid night alone with me. Besides, no one knows us, and frankly, I doubt that anyone cares.”
A sharp rap on the door belied his words.
Though still fully dressed in her gown of yesterday, Abby yanked the counterpane up to her chin. Heaven help her. Ill or not, were she to be found in a bedchamber with a man, it would be her ruination.
Samuel sprang to his feet. Scoundrels didn’t usually knock so politely, but that didn’t stop him from unsheathing his knife. He’d not be caught off guard again—especially not with a woman and child within range of harm.
He cracked open the door and peeked out, every sense heightened. Nothing met his gaze—leastwise not at eye level. Standing only as tall as his waist, a smudge-faced boy gawked up at him. The lad retreated a step when their gazes locked.
“Y–you be Cap’n Thatcher?”
He frowned. Such trepidation didn’t usually bother him, but this time it nicked him in the heart. Since when had he grown tired of being feared? It was a protection. A shield. His frown deepened. So much time spent with Miss Gilbert and Emma was changing him in ways he couldn’t fathom.
He scanned the length of the corridor behind the boy, on the off chance the lad was a setup. No one lurked about nor were any doors cracked open. Nothing moved, save for a tree branch casting a shadow on the wall from a window at the end of the passageway.
Satisfied for now, he finally answered. “I’m Thatcher.”
“Then this be for you, sir.” The boy held up a folded slip of paper.
The instant his fingers pinched the note, the lad whipped around and tore down the passageway. His untucked shirttail flew behind him and was the last thing to disappear down the stairway.
Samuel stared a moment longer, making sure no ill surprises popped up, then tucked his knife back into his boot and closed the door.
By now, Miss Gilbert sat on the edge of the bed, gripping the coverlet with both hands. Little Emma rumbled a cough and started crawling his way.
“Who was it?”
The lady’s voice was a shiver. It wasn’t right, this fear he’d brought upon her. She never should have been caught up in this mess. A pox upon Shankhart!
Samuel allowed a small smile, hoping to calm her worry. “It was just a boy. Don’t fret.”
The coverlet dipped an inch. “What did he want?”
He left the question dangling in the air. Sometimes the better part of valor was silence. Turning the paper over, he scanned for a name, a seal, anything to hint as to who’d sent the note, but it was blank on both sides.
A tug on his trousers drew his attention away as Emma pulled herself up on his leg. He stood poised to snatch her should she totter backward and crack her head. She wobbled—yet held tight to his leg, baby chatter burbling past her lips. She’d be fine.
He focused back on the note. Unfolding the paper, he read three hastily scratched words, barely legible:
I see you.
One by one, the hairs at the nape of his neck stood out like wires. Without moving a muscle, his eyes darted around the room. He knew in his head no one could possibly see him inside these four walls, but that didn’t stop his heart from racing. The weight of a thousand pairs of unseen eyes pressed down on him, making it hard to breathe. For the sake of Emma and Miss Gilbert, he fought the urge to rave about like a madman, knife bared, looking for a killer who wasn’t there.
“Despite your earlier reassurance, Captain, apparently someone knows you are here. Or is the message for me?”
Would to God that it wasn’t! He crumpled the paper and shoved it into his pocket, then forced a soothing tone to his voice. “No, it’s nothing.”
Liar!
The dip of Miss Gilbert’s brow concurred.
Bending, he peeled Emma’s fingers from his trousers and eased her bottom to the floor. As soon as she sat steady, he strode to the window and slid back an edge of the drape with one finger.
Their first-floor chamber overlooked the front of the inn. There were no outbuildings from this view, so no one could possibly be secreted inside a shadowy corner, peering out a window at him, or worse, aiming a muzzle. Only a stand of trees stood opposite the drive, maybe ten yards off. He narrowed his eyes, staring so hard his eyes watered. Branches. Greenery. Nothing large enough to suggest a villain hunkered down for a shot at him.
Behind him, footsteps padded on the floor. “Clearly there is more to that note than you are telling me. What did it say?”
He pulled back his hand and the drapes fell shut, sealing them off from the world outside. A blessing and a curse, that.
Turning, he faced Miss Gilbert, hating that he couldn’t tell her the truth—and hating the truth even more. Her skin glowed white, a contrast from yesterday’s flaming patches of colour on her cheeks. She was definitely on the mend, but had all of her strength returned?
“Do you feel equal to watching Emma?” he asked.
A small crease lined her brow. “You are frightening me, Captain.”
“There is nothing to fear. I only need to step out for a while.”
Her big brown eyes searched his face. “Why?”
He clenched his jaw. He’d rather take on a rock-fisted brawler bent on smashing his brains out than answer that question.
So he parried with one of his own. “Do you trust me?”
Her nose scrunched, as if the query smelled of something rotten. Which it did. Truly, it wasn’t fair of him to twist the conversation back onto her like this, but it was necessary.
Her lips parted, closed, then parted again. “Yes, Captain. I do trust you. Implicitly.”
The conviction in her tone was stunning enough, but the veracity in her gaze stole his breath.
He reached out, tentatively. She held still. Assured she wouldn’t flinch or recoil, he stroked his knuckle along her cheek. Skin soft as the babe’s warmed beneath his touch, more delicate and velvety than he imagined.
“Believe me when I say, Miss Gilbert, that I will all
ow nothing bad to happen to you or Emma.” The words came out husky, and he swallowed against the thickness in his throat.
“Very well.” She nodded and pulled back. “I shall tend Emma.”
Hard to tell what shook him more, the foreboding note or the loss of their connection. Giving himself a mental shake—what was he thinking to have caressed her so?—he sidestepped the woman and gathered his hat from off the floor. He jammed it on his head, then shrugged into his coat and grabbed his gun. Hopefully he wouldn’t need it.
Behind him, a hand rested on his sleeve.
“Be careful, Captain.”
This time he pulled away, unsure if he should feel angry that she plagued him to be cautious or touched that she cared enough to warn him. He settled on neither, choosing to ignore the host of foreign emotions the woman kindled in his gut.
He stopped at the door and tipped his head at her. “Stay in the room.”
Then he slipped out of the chamber and stole down the corridor, using all his powers of stealth. Keeping to the edge of the stairs—less chance for squeaking a loose board—he descended into the public room. Two men shared a pipe in one corner, but he quickly discounted any danger they might pose. Both were grey-headed and incapable of wrestling with a cat let alone him. The rest of the tables sat empty.
Near the kitchen door, a boy strolled out, chewing on a pastry…the lad who’d delivered the note.
Samuel collared the boy before he could see him coming. He guided the lad to a shadowy corner, away from prying eyes. But to be extra cautious, he kept his tone quiet as he crouched to eye level. “Who gave you that message?”
Fear rampaged over the boy’s face. “D-dunno,” he stuttered.
Samuel narrowed his eyes. “How can that be? Was it a ghost?”
“No, sir.” The boy shrank until his back hit the wall. “Never seen him afore, that’s all.”
“So, it was a man, hmm?”
The boy nodded. “He gave me a shilling to bring that note to you.”
Suspicion prickled across his shoulders. Most would only pay a ha’penny or maybe a thruppence to have a note delivered. But a whole shilling? The sender was either very careless with his money—or had a good supply of coin. Had Shankhart mended and tracked him here so soon? Or had he sent one of his henchmen to torment him?
The Noble Guardian Page 14