“This man, tell me of him.”
The boy’s lower lip trembled, but to his credit, his voice didn’t crack. “Can’t, sir.”
“Why not?”
“I din’t see him. He stayed in the shadows, out in the stable.”
Samuel shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out one of his last shillings—for he’d not be bested by a scoundrel even in the paying of a lad.
“For your trouble.” He held out the coin.
Eyes widening, the boy snatched the money quick as a pauper—which he wasn’t. Not anymore. It was he who was well on his way to the workhouse if he kept parting with the sparse amount he had left.
He rose, and the boy scurried past him with a hasty, “Thank ye!”
Leaving the inn behind, Samuel strode across the backyard, pulling out his gun yet keeping it concealed. It wouldn’t do to go scaring any ostlers lurking about the stable, but neither would he run headlong into an ambush.
He slid around the door on silent feet, immediately easing into a shadow. No one moved, for no one was about. Not here in the large work area, anyway. The scene was eerily reminiscent of a week ago when he’d gone in search of Miss Gilbert back at the Laughing Dog.
Satisfied no one hid beneath the workbench or behind a line of tack hanging on a wall, he padded over to the long corridor lined with stalls and began methodically searching each one. The first two were empty, standing ready to house the next horses arriving at the inn. A beauty of a black Belgian eyed him warily in the third. And at the fourth, where Pilgrim lodged, a roar ripped out of his throat.
“No!”
White-hot rage flamed in his gut as he flung open the half door and dashed inside, trading his gun for his knife. Pilgrim lay on her side, hooves tied, rope biting tight into the horsey flesh of her forelegs. A single crude word was painted in whitewash on her belly:
SOON
Samuel sliced through the ropes, barely able to thank God that his horse yet breathed, so keen was the fury burning through him.
If war was what Shankhart wanted, he just got his wish.
Chapter Sixteen
A knife to the kidneys. A shot to the head. Maybe even a fast drop from a short rope. Samuel scowled. No, none of those were good enough.
He slackened the reins as Pilgrim tramped along the rocky trail. If God called him home today, he feared the gates of heaven might not open to him—not with such molten anger simmering inside his veins. It was wrong, of course, to clutch on to these cruel thoughts of vengeance against Shankhart, but sweet mercy! He was a mortal, was he not? Flesh and blood. More sinner than saint, for though he tried, he could not let go of his rage. Not when his best horse yet favored her front foreleg where the rope had sliced into it, nor when he witnessed the fear in Miss Gilbert’s eyes. And especially not when he thought of the threat hanging over all their heads. Shankhart or his lackeys could strike at any moment—or not at all…and that was almost worse.
Keeping the carriage well within sight, Samuel eased Pilgrim down the rise. For two days he’d had to temper their pace, slowing their progress, hoping and praying all the while that the gouge on his horse’s leg would heal quickly. Besides, Miss Gilbert and little Emma were still on the mend themselves, so the sluggish pace suited. Leastwise, that’s what he told himself. But were he honest, the real reason he plodded along and kept to the shadows was to remain vigilant while nursing the hatred he bore toward Shankhart. Next time they met, he’d have no qualms about shooting the blackguard right through the heart.
He hung his head, conviction bubbling sour at the back of his throat.
God, have mercy, on Shankhart and on me.
A rumble of thunder lifted his head, and he studied the horizon. While the entire day had been sullen, now the pewter sky deepened to an unholy blackness. A dark bank of clouds advanced like a shield wall and would soon bear down upon their heads. He sniffed, then frowned as a pungent tang hit his nostrils. Earthy. Acrid. Pilgrim’s ears twitched, indicating the horse sensed the same.
This was more than a summer rain. A tempest was about to break, as potent and ugly as his rage.
Carefully, Samuel urged Pilgrim to up the pace. By his best judgment, they were halfway between inns, so even if they did turn around, they’d not outrun the storm by the time they reached shelter. Yet pressing on only brought them closer to the menacing—
Lightning struck. Deafeningly close. The zing of it raised the hair on his arms. The accompanying boom reverberated in his chest. Pilgrim reared, and Samuel held tight, flattening forward against the horse’s neck while working to get his mount under control.
Ahead, the carriage horses bolted.
Blast it!
Samuel dug in his heels, coaxing Pilgrim into a controlled run. He trailed the bouncing coach by twenty yards, wishing to heaven he could give Pilgrim free rein, but any faster and he’d lame his friend for certain.
Another crack boomed. The carriage lurched sideways, careening over rocks. Crashing into ruts.
God, protect Miss Gilbert and little Emma.
The space between him and the coach lessened in increments, until miraculously, the carriage stopped. Samuel heaved back on the reins, halting Pilgrim barely a pace or two behind it. Thankfully, the thing was still in one piece—but a very lopsided piece at that. The carriage listed hard to the right, the entire back end jutting down toward the rear left wheel.
Samuel swung off Pilgrim and neared the broken coach just as the postilion rounded the side and joined him. They both crouched as the wind picked up and the first stabs of rain fired down from the sky.
The postilion’s curse rang out with the next peal of thunder. “I knew this carriage weren’t sound! But did old man Herrick listen to me? No, not a bit of it. Carpin’ crow! I should’ve insisted on a different coach.”
Samuel was inclined to agree. Only God knew how many years and miles this carriage had seen. Judging by the looks of it, far too many. He narrowed his eyes and trailed his finger along the curve of the spring—leastwise as far as he was able. The bolt holding the spring arm had completely sheared off so that the casing had ripped loose.
Rising, he met the postilion’s gaze. “Is there shelter nearby?”
The man made a grab for his hat as the next gust of wind lifted it. Holding tightly to the black felt, he bobbed his head. “Farmer Bigby, up past Bramble Creek.”
Samuel tugged down the brim of his own hat as the sky turned to an unnatural shade of greenish grey. Hopefully Bramble Creek wasn’t far off. “We best make haste, then. Unhook the horses. I’ll see to the lady and—”
“No need, Captain. Emma and I are accounted for.”
The sweet voice in his ear was as startling as the next peal of thunder. He jerked aside. Barely an arm’s length away stood Miss Gilbert, Emma blinking wide-eyed in her arms. “How did you…?”
He shook his head. No sense asking how she’d managed to crawl out of a crook-sloped hulk of a carriage with a baby in tow, for such was the wonder of Miss Abigail Gilbert. Glancing about, he spied a boulder just about the right size to employ as a mounting block.
“Come along. This storm is about to break in earnest.”
She followed, but not without questions. “What about the carriage? Will you be able to fix it? Where are we going?”
He stopped and reached for Emma, letting Miss Gilbert’s queries blow away in the wind. Clutching the child to his chest with one arm, he offered Miss Gilbert his hand to aid her atop the rock. “Climb up.”
She frowned at his upturned palm. “Surely you are not suggesting I ride your horse.”
Big plops of rain began to hammer harder, popping like grapeshot as they hit his riding cloak. He grabbed her hand. “It’s not a suggestion.”
“But I cannot manage your horse!” She pulled back.
He held tight. “I’m not expecting you to. Now mount.”
Fear flashed in her eyes. Odd. Surely being a gentlewoman, she had riding experience. Didn’t she? He squeezed h
er fingers. “Don’t worry, Miss Gilbert. I’ll be with you the whole time. I’ll keep you and Emma safe, I vow it.”
“Do not tell me you intend to ride along with me.” Her nostrils flared, indignation as thick in her tone as the humidity in the air.
“Propriety be hanged, lady! Do you see this lightning? If we don’t get on my horse soon, you’ll have more than proper etiquette to worry about. Now grab the saddle and hike yourself up.”
Thunder boomed an accompaniment to his order, and a breath later, the sky ripped open, unleashing a downpour. Without another word, Miss Gilbert heaved herself atop Pilgrim. He handed her Emma, then swung up behind them. For a moment, he fumbled with the wet tie on his riding coat, then whipped it off and flung it around the lady and child, covering most of her and all of Emma. They’d still get wet, but not nearly as much.
Miss Gilbert turned her head, her warm breath puffing against his cheek. “Thank you, but now you will be wet and cold.”
Wet, yes, but cold? Not a chance, not with the feel of her body tucked against his.
“This way.” The postilion shouted above the roar of wind.
Samuel urged Pilgrim into line behind the man, who’d tethered the other carriage horse to his mount. As they worked their way along a cow trail, the storm pitched wicked gusts of wind and rain, sharp and frigid.
But Samuel paid the harsh weather no heed. How could he? The only thing he could feel was the woman pressed against his chest. The softness of her. The heat of her body. The way she fit so perfectly against him.
Though he ought not, Samuel leaned closer and inhaled her orange-water scent, the sweet fragrance mixing with the wildness of the storm. If he bent any nearer, his lips would be against the bare flesh of her neck, and the craving to taste that skin charged through him, settling low in his belly.
He tensed. What was this strange urge? He’d doubled-up with women before, hauling them to safety more times than he could count. Such was his job.
He clutched the reins tighter as a new realization slapped him hard. This wasn’t a job anymore. Not with this woman.
Involuntarily, his arms tightened against her, encircling her, drawing her close, sheltering her from the storm—or so he told himself. Were he honest, the physical reaction stemmed from so much more. And that scared him more than facing Shankhart. For the first time in his life, he was unsure what to do with or how to manage the mounting desire to make a woman—this woman—his own.
He frowned—yet he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. Such was the magnetism of Miss Gilbert. If her baronet could read his thoughts, the man would more than reconsider his proposal.
He’d challenge Samuel to a duel of honor.
Abby clutched the squirming Emma tightly against her chest. How terrifying it must be to endure such a tempest cloaked in the darkness of the captain’s riding coat. She ought to be squirming with fright herself, seated atop the man’s fearsome horse, riding headlong into rain that cut sideways.
But oddly, fear wasn’t a consideration, not with the captain’s strong arms holding her firmly in place. She shifted as the horse climbed a rise, and the captain’s strength pulsed through her. He guided them through the blackest of storms as if nothing but a few pesky drops of water fell from the sky.
With each step of the horse, she tried not to feel the ride of his body behind her. A worthless effort. She could think of nothing else but the hard muscles pressed against her back or the touch of his thighs bumping into her. It was licentious, this position. She ought to lean forward, put what distance she could between him and her. But God help her, she didn’t want to. Didn’t ever want to, such was the draw of the man.
Heedless of propriety, she turned her face and pressed her cheek against his chest, seeking a measure of shelter from the pelting rain. Without his cloak, the soaked fabric of his shirt and waistcoat moulded against his flesh, and she breathed in his scent of horse and leather and possibility. What would it be like to be loved by the untamed Captain Thatcher? Tingles shivered through her, and in response, he tucked his chin, protecting the top of her head.
Using the wriggling Emma as an excuse, she leaned into him, telling herself she needed such closeness to balance as the horse fought for footing against the storm. It was wrong, though, and she knew it. If her stepmother witnessed her brazen behaviour, she’d be struck with more than a tongue-lashing. The surety of a stinging slap needled the cheek not shielded by the captain’s warmth, and Abby forced herself to turn away and face the rain instead.
She blinked as water blinded her view. What a cow-eyed schoolgirl she’d become. What was wrong with her? Inwardly, she scolded herself as soundly as her stepmother might. Yet surely, once she arrived at Brakewell Hall and reached the arms of Sir Jonathan, all these unbidden feelings for Captain Thatcher would vanish. Yes, that was it. Of course they would. She entertained naught but a silly infatuation for the man because she’d paid him to look out for her. Any woman in her place would feel the same. In fact, had Fanny remained, the woman would’ve been positively moonstruck in his presence.
That settled, she eased little Emma around and rubbed the child’s back with one hand, a motion that soothed her as well. Shortly thereafter, the postilion ahead of them halted, and they dismounted in front of a whitewashed croft. Hardly bigger than the nearby stable, the squat building braved the onslaught like a stalwart sailor, used to lashing winds and driving rain. Loosened by a wild gust, a few pieces of the thatched roof near the corner waved a greeting.
Not so the man who flung open the door. He welcomed them with the barrel of a musket.
Immediately, the captain sidestepped in front of her and Emma, blocking them with his wide shoulders.
“Be ye daft?” A woman’s shrill voice from inside the cottage blended with the howl of the storm. “’T’ain’t fit for beasts out there, let alone travelers. Let them in, man!”
Captain Thatcher raised both hands, his wet frock coat riding the strong lines of his back. “We mean no harm. We only ask for shelter.”
Abby huddled closer to him, seeking haven from the captain’s big frame just in case the crofter wouldn’t allow them in. A few grumbles later, the man pushed the door wider and stepped aside. And thank goodness, because Emma started to cry.
The captain ushered her and the child in first, keeping close behind them as they entered. Abby warmed immediately from his watchful care and from escaping the cold rain. The postilion followed suit.
And the woman howled again. “Why, stuff my goose! That be you, Darby Cleaver?”
Doffing his hat, the postilion shook his head like a dog, water droplets flying everywhere. “Aye, m’um. We broke down on the road just afore the storm picked up.”
“See?” The woman turned to her husband, planting her fists on her hips. “And you about to send them to glory.”
“Wheest!” The man blew air through his teeth, his hook nose bunching from the effort. He lowered his gun—though he didn’t let go of it—and pinched the woman’s cheek. “Just protectin’ my fair beauty.”
“Ach! Off with ye.” She flicked her fingers at him, yet despite the action, the warmth in her voice radiated volumes of love.
As she bounced Emma, quieting the child somewhat, Abby studied the woman. A ruffled cap, which at some point might’ve been white, clung to the top of the woman’s head. Lines carved into her face at the sides of her mouth and near the creases of her eyes. Those eyes might have shone a brilliant blue once but were now bleached to the colour of a sun-washed August sky. The woman wasn’t old, but neither was she young. Rather, she was timeless, her apron holding in an eternity of love and life and laughter. She was the kind of woman with whom you could share a pot of tea and your deepest secrets. Abby’s heart swelled. Would this be what her mother might’ve looked like had she lived?
As if the woman sensed her perusal, she swooped over to Abby and corralled her with an arm about the shoulders, pulling her away from the captain’s side. “Come along, child. We’ll get
ye and yer little one into some dry clothes, then some hot broth is in order, I think.”
Abby tried to keep up, but with wet skirts sticking to her legs and the woman’s brisk gait, she was glad for the fleshy arm guiding her across the small main room. Dry clothes would be heaven, but anything more seemed like an imposition. She glanced sideways at the woman. “Please do not trouble yourself about the broth.”
Just then a sharp cough barked out of Emma, and Abby recanted. Though the child had made amazing progress in regaining her health, it wouldn’t do to extend a calling card for her illness to repay a visit.
“On second thought, some broth would be nice.” She smiled. “And thank you.”
The men’s low talk about horse stabling and carriage repair faded as the woman ushered her into a back room. A bed with a rumpled mantle filled nearly the whole space, save for a small table with a candle, a crooked chair in the corner, and a battered chest against one wall with a shelf above it.
The woman flung open the chest’s lid and yanked out a shift and a gown, both the colour of sand. Straightening, she faced Abby and shoved out her offering with one hand while collecting Emma with the other. “No doubt the garments will be too big and not nearly as fine as yer used to, but all the same, they will serve ye well until we get yer gown dried. I’ll see to yer wee one while you change.”
The woman bustled past her and laid Emma on the bed. For a moment, Abby froze, wondering where exactly she was supposed to shed her clothes and don the dry ones. But as a shiver shimmied across her shoulders, all modesty fled, and she began the arduous task of peeling off the drenched fabric.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs….?” She fished for the woman’s name while she worked.
“La, child! No such formalities under this humble roof. The name’s Wenna. And you be?”
Wenna? Ahh…so that explained the leftover Cornish lilt in the woman’s voice. But what in the world was the woman doing this far north?
The Noble Guardian Page 15