Abby clenched her hands in her lap. While the information was helpful, it rubbed her against the grain. She should be finding out this information on her own, not from another woman. And it was getting her nowhere closer to finding out about the captain or Emma.
She pushed back her chair and stood, done with the game. “Lady Pelham, I—”
The lady held up her hand, eyes twinkling. “No need to thank me yet, Kitty. There is more you are likely dying to know. The butler, Banks, is a goat. Cook is a magician. And the housekeeper, Mrs. Horner, is never—ever—to be trifled with. The rest of the staff members are spineless bootlickers.”
Abby gripped the back of the chair. “While I appreciate your—”
“Tut, tut! Save that gratitude, for you will want to know who else you will cross paths with today. There are several guests in residence, whom I am sure you will meet, if not this morning, then at dinner tonight. They are Colonel Wilkins and Amelia, his wife; Parker Granby; and Parson Durge, though he is not really a parson.” Lady Pelham finished her circle and sank into her seat, a pleased grin lighting her face. “Well, how did I do? Does that answer all of your questions?”
Abby skewered Lady Pelham with a direct stare. “It answers all save one.”
“Good! Then the game continues.” The lady leaned forward, folding her hands on the table as if she held court. “Pray, what is it you want to know?”
“When I arrived last night, I was not alone. I—”
“Ahh, yes! I nearly forgot to mention the mysterious injured captain, the wounded brigand, and the young girl. You would like to know where they are, hmm?” The lady laughed again, but this time the merriment of it chafed, and Abby stiffened.
“Oh, do not look so surprised, Kitty. I daresay I know more about what goes on beneath this roof than Sir Jonathan does.”
Abby clenched her jaw, trapping a salty remark. If she offended the woman now, she’d cut off her main source of information—as catty as it was. Though it sickened her to have to rely on Lady Pelham’s intelligence, she had no choice. “Yes, I should like to check on both the captain and the girl.”
The lady smiled indulgently and pointed toward the floor. “The child is in Mrs. Horner’s care, belowstairs, just past the kitchen. The captain, I am afraid, has been put out in the stable.”
Anger flared hot in her belly. The stable? They put the beaten and bleeding captain out with the animals? Why would he not be housed in the manor? Why offer such rude accommodation, unless…Her heart stopped as an ugly realization hit her hard.
Only a corpse would be kept in an outbuilding.
Tears burned her eyes and she spun, unwilling to let Lady Pelham witness her reaction. “Thank you,” she forced out before her throat closed. Then she sped to the door.
“Leaving so soon, Kitty? You have not yet taken a bite to eat.”
Abby stumbled into the corridor. Eat? She could barely breathe—and might never again if Samuel was stretched out in a burial shroud in the stable.
Even half-dead, Samuel could tell a lot about a man by the way he handled three things: old age, trousers that wouldn’t stay up, and strangers. Judging by his slit-eyed observation of the grey-haired man across the room, the fellow was a saint. The man’s tread had been purposely light since he’d entered the small chamber. He’d set down a mug on a trestle table without a sound, clearly trying to keep noise to a minimum. Rheumatism gnarled his knuckles into craggy walnuts, growing all the larger as he patiently adjusted the leather braces holding up his breeches. But he didn’t wince or moan or make any sound at all—until his gaze landed on Samuel.
“Well, well! Ye’re not dead, then, eh Captain?” The man retrieved the mug and the only chair in the room.
Samuel pushed up to sit, and a groan ripped out of his throat. Fire burned in his arm and agony flared even hotter in his leg. He sucked in air like a landed fish. Sweet blessed heavens! Death would’ve been far less painful than this.
“Where am I?” he gruffed out.
The old man dragged the chair across the floor, then straddled it at Samuel’s bedside. “This here be the stable house of Brakewell Hall, home to Sir Jonathan Aberley. Ye’re in my quarters. I’m Winslow Mencott, stable master, at yer service.” He dipped his head in introduction.
Ahh…slowly things started to make sense. The lingering dreams of whickering horses and stomping hooves. The familiar scent of horseflesh and oiled harnesses that were as much a part of the room as the gap-spaced boards and cobwebs on the high windows. Apparently the baronet kept strict rules about broken bodies and blood sullying his fine manor home.
Samuel scrubbed a hand over his face, and stubble rasped against his palm. When was the last time he’d shaved?
“How long have I been out?” he asked.
“Tish! Not long enough. I reckon ye could use a good sleep. Ye lost a lot o’ blood, man.” Mencott leaned close and offered the mug. “Here, drink this. ’Tis my old mother’s recipe.”
Thirst unleashed at the man’s suggestion, and Samuel gripped the cup. He swigged back a big swallow, and a queer stench met his nose—which would’ve stopped him were his body not a desert and this the only watering hole to be found. Several mouthfuls drained down his throat before the flavor of the swill registered. Dead badgers soaked in lye would’ve tasted better than this swampy liquid.
He turned aside and spit the nasty concoction onto the floor, the accompanying stab of pain from the quick movement worth the effort. He shoved the mug back toward Mencott. “Are you trying to kill me?”
Chuckling, Mencott retrieved the cup and set it on the floor. “Looks like somebody else already gave that a go and failed. Far be it from me to finish the job.”
Samuel rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, thankful for the truth in Mencott’s words. He had survived. The ordeal with Shankhart was finished. He’d come away broken but not dead, and Abby and Emma were…well, surely since he was here at Brakewell Hall, they must’ve arrived safely along with him. Hadn’t they?
He eyed Mencott. “The woman and child that I traveled with, are they safe?”
“Aye. They’re up at the house.” He tipped his head toward the door, as if the manor home lay just on the other side of the wood.
Reaching with his uninjured arm, Samuel rubbed a knot out of his shoulder. The assurance of Abby’s and Emma’s welfare eased some of the tension in his muscles, but not all.
“And my horse?” he inquired.
“Ahh, now she’s a real beauty.” Mencott nodded, his gaze drifting, and no wonder. Pilgrim was the sort of animal that few horse lovers could forget once they laid eyes on her. Even mud-spattered and burr-speckled, Pilgrim was the finest animal Samuel had ever owned.
“Brushed her down me’self, I did. Gave her the best provender we have.” Mencott glanced over his shoulder, then leaned closer. “But don’t let the baronet get wind of it. He buys only so much of the choice feed for his racehorse. The rest get last year’s hay.”
Samuel nodded, irritated that the baronet didn’t see fit to provide quality feed for all of his stock, yet pleased for Mencott’s favor upon Pilgrim. He shifted on the bed and stifled a wince from a stabbing reminder that his leg was torn up. At this point, Pilgrim no doubt fared better than him and was itching to get back on the road. Which they should. He’d never intended to house beneath the baronet’s roof to begin with. His heart faltered at the thought of leaving Abby behind, but truly, his mission was finished. He’d delivered her safe and sound. It would be wise to collect his payment and Emma, then head back south—and no doubt the baronet would agree.
“Thank you, Mencott, for all you’ve done. I won’t trouble you any further.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and gritted his teeth. Pain sliced deep as the bone in his thigh, and a universe of stars flashed across his vision. He blinked them away, clutching the side of the mattress so tightly, the small scar on his hand from the orphan boy he’d rescued an eternity ago whitened to a thin line. If he kept this up,
he’d be nothing but scar upon scar.
Mencott reared back his head. “Now, Captain, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
He grunted. How many times had he heard that in his life?
Filling his lungs with air, he rose. So did the fires of hell, up his leg and straight to his gut, pushing nausea to his throat. The room spun. Darkness closed in.
And he crumpled like dead wood fallen from a tree.
Mencott’s sinewy arm caught him and eased him back to the mattress. “It’s too soon, man. Rest yer bones another few days. If that leg o’ yours takes to flamin’, ye’ll lose it.”
Samuel groaned. The truth of the man’s words hit him like a bludgeon, and his stomach lurched. He might as well lose his life as a leg. He would not join the ranks of the empty-eyed cripples begging for pennies in some waste-filled gutter of London’s streets.
Mencott adjusted the thin pillow behind Samuel’s back, then leaned over him. “I’ll bring ye up some breakfast directly, if ye think ye can keep from spewing it out on the floor.”
Weary beyond his years, Samuel nodded. “Aye, as long as you keep that drink away from me, I’ll be fine.”
Chuckling, the man retreated and shut the door behind him. Samuel let his head sink back against the cushion and closed his eyes, desperate to end another wave of dizziness.
Moments later, a knock rapped on the door. His eyes shot wide as the wood cracked open a few inches. Out of habit, he reached for his knife—a moot endeavor. His fingers met nothing but the cloth of his shirt.
“Captain, may I enter?” Abby’s voice crept out from behind the door, and his breath hitched at the sweet sound. Traitorous body.
He dragged the thin coverlet up to his waist, covering his bare legs. Hopefully some servant somewhere was patching his ruined trousers.
“You can now.”
The words barely passed his lips when the door flew open, then banged shut as Abby raced to his bedside. Her gown flounced into a big poof as she dropped to her knees. Emotions he couldn’t begin to name rippled across her face, one after the other, too fast to identify. She grabbed his hand in both of hers and pressed it against her cheek. “Oh Captain, I was so afraid. I thought you were…dead—”
Her voice caught, and for a flicker of a moment, the shimmering of a hundred suns welled in her eyes. Tears broke loose then, in a torrent, one after the other, baptizing their entwined fingers.
He swallowed a huge lump in his throat, and though pain slashed an intense trail from shoulder to fingers, he reached with his injured arm and wiped away her tears with his thumb.
“Shh,” he soothed. “Don’t fret on my account. I’m not that easy to get rid of.”
She nuzzled her face into his palm. “I thank God for that, and for you.”
Warmth spread across his chest—but this time not from pain. He could die satisfied now, having known the admiration of such a fine woman. Did the baronet have any idea what kind of a jewel he was about to marry?
The thought slapped him hard. Despite the very real attraction between him and Abby, the ugly truth remained that she still belonged to another.
Slowly, he pulled his fingers away from hers, diverting her from his retreat with a question. “How is Emma faring?”
Abby drew in a shaky breath. “I have not seen her yet this morn.”
Strange, that. Unless…He cocked his head. “Emma did not stay the night with you?”
“No. The baronet did not…well, he did not think it prudent for me to remain as Emma’s caretaker.” Sorrow tightened little lines at the sides of her mouth, but then just as quickly, a small smile erased them. “He did say, however, that I may visit her as much as I like, which I intend to do as soon as I leave here.”
“Perhaps you can bring her by, then. Looks like I’ll be laid up for a day or two.” He flicked his fingers toward his wounded leg.
“I would be happy to.” Abby smiled. “Emma would like that.”
He grunted. “It’s the hat, not the man, that the child prefers.”
“You are wrong, you know. It is entirely the man that enchants.” Her voice thickened, and her smile faded. The blush of a June rose flushed her cheeks.
A charge shot through him. Abby Gilbert mesmerized like none other. He’d remember her like this. Forever. Brown eyes shining into his. A wayward spiral of hair dangling down to her stately neck. The curve of her collarbone kissing the bodice of her blood-flecked gown.
Hold on. Blood-flecked?
He leaned forward, cupping her chin and studying her face. “How are you faring? And speak the truth. For I know this is the same gown you wore yesterday. Do not tell me your baronet put you up in the stable as well.”
“Of course not.” She frowned. “I have a lovely accommodation, and I cannot complain.”
He tilted her face higher, looking deep into her eyes, to where the soul could not deceive. “So, you are happy?”
“I—I am…”
Little liar! Such a ragged tone did not denote happiness—and she never finished the sentence.
The door flung open, nearly as forcefully as when Abby had entered. Pulling away from his touch, Abby shot to her feet.
A man strolled in, clad in a worsted woolen dress coat and ivory trousers. A white cravat spilled out of his collar, as unsullied as the smooth skin on his hands. Clearly the man didn’t work for a living. His blue gaze was direct and disturbing, like too much power given over to a tot, dissecting both Samuel and Abby with one glance.
The man closed the distance between him and Abby, then he draped his arm around her waist. “I thought I might find you here, my dear.” He pecked a kiss on the top of her head, then stared down at Samuel. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, sir. The illustrious Captain Thatcher, I take it?”
The muscles on Samuel’s neck hardened to steel, and it was all he could do to answer in a calm fashion without flying from the bed—injuries and all—and pry the man’s hand off Abby’s body. “I am he.”
A thin smile flicked across the man’s lips. “My bride here speaks highly of you.” He pulled Abby closer. “I am Sir Jonathan Aberley, baronet.”
Of course he was. The pompous dandy.
Instantly he regretted the harsh thought. How many times had Abby admonished him to hope for the best? Expect the best? And oh, how dearly he did wish for the best for her sake. Besides, did it not bode well for her that the man paid her such loving attention? Surely the baronet would make an attentive husband—which is exactly what Abby deserved.
Samuel dipped his head in polite respect toward the man. “I have heard much of you as well, sir, and I thank you for your charity while I mend. I assure you I will not be here long.”
“I should think not. A man of your profession,” he drawled out the word as if it were a dirty sheet to be boiled, “is likely used to such inconveniences. You are, no doubt, adept at maneuvering about while wounded, are you not?”
He met the man’s pointed stare and upped the intensity of it. “I am.”
“Well then, we shall let you get back to your…er, mending, as you put it.” His hand slipped from Abby’s waist to capture her hand. “Come, my dear. Let us leave the captain in peace.”
“But—”
Before she could finish whatever it was she wanted to say, the baronet swept her to the door, where she cast Samuel a backward glance as the man ushered her outside.
As soon as the door shut, Samuel grabbed the pillow and threw it to the floor, then whumped flat on his back, glad for the blinding pain cutting him to shreds. This wasn’t right. None of it. Not his torn-up leg or the hole in his arm. Not the insane urge pumping strong through his veins to steal Abby away from a life that would provide her with ease and security.
And especially not the animosity curling his hands into fists with the desire to thrash Sir Jonathan Aberley, baronet.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Abby gripped her skirt hem up in one hand, taking care not to trip headlong down the stone stairs.
At the rate Sir Jonathan whisked her along, such a fate was a real possibility. What was his hurry?
He stopped once they reached the gravel of the stable yard, and turned to her, running his hands up and down her arms. The intimate gesture ought to make her heart flutter, her cheeks warm, but the only twinge she felt was a slight irritation that she’d not gotten to say goodbye to the captain.
“Such a strange little mouse you are, rising early, scurrying off to the stables.” Sir Jonathan lifted his chin and stared down the length of his nose. “When we are wed, you shall lounge about all day, drinking chocolate and eating dainties, as befits a woman of your station.”
Her brow puckered. Not even her coddled stepmother loafed around in her nightgown all hours of the day. “But there will be a household to run—your household. I cannot do that from my bedchamber.”
“Oh, I think it can be managed.” He winked and dropped his hands, then held out his arm. “Come, let us take a turn about the garden.”
“I would like that,” she murmured halfheartedly, then glanced past his shoulder toward the manor. Surely by now, Emma was beyond consolable. It must be frightening for her in new surroundings with new people.
Abby lifted her face to Sir Jonathan’s. “But first I would like to see Emma.”
Reaching for her fingers, he placed them on his sleeve. “In due time, my sweet. I would have you to myself a moment more.” He patted her hand, then guided her across the gravel, away from the house.
It was a pleasant morning, truly. July sun kissed the earth. Bluebirds sang. Crickets chirped. Yet it took all Abby’s strength to keep from screaming. Why did she feel so patronized by this man? Was it not a natural desire for him to wish to spend time alone with his bride? Should she not be grateful for his attention?
Shame settled thick on her shoulders. Her stepmother had been right. She was a thankless wretch.
Oh God, forgive me.
She snuck a peek at Sir Jonathan. He stood a head taller than her—almost as tall as the captain. She curved her lips into a pleasant smile. “I am surprised to find you up so early. Lady Pelham says you rarely rise before noon.”
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