The Noble Guardian

by Michelle Griep

  His teeth flashed white as he chuckled. “Lady Pelham paints her version of the truth with wide strokes. Get too near her, and you shall be splattered.”

  Her smile faltered. What was that supposed to mean? She tucked away the strange remark to mull on later. “Well, this much is true. The lady seems very fond of you.”

  “Does she?” Stooping, Sir Jonathan swiped up a wild daisy mid-stride and handed it to her.

  Abby’s smile disappeared altogether. He had to know his cousin admired him. She’d discovered as much in a five-minute conversation with the woman. Did Sir Jonathan perhaps harbour feelings for Lady Pelham as well? Yet if he did, how could Abby possibly cast a stone when, in her own heart, she longed to be kneeling at the bedside of a rough and rugged lawman?

  She pulled her hand from Sir Jonathan’s sleeve and twirled the daisy in her fingers. “I was also surprised to find Captain Thatcher lodged above the stable. I realize parts of the manor are in need of repair, but is there not a more comfortable room to which he might be moved?”

  Sir Jonathan turned onto a pea-gravel path, too narrow for them to walk side by side. She followed at his back, noting for the first time the colour of his dress coat. Green. At least that much of Lady Pelham’s information had been correct. But must he wear the same shade every day?

  “It is easier, my dear, for Mencott to attend your captain by housing him in the stable master’s quarters. He is in the best possible place for now.”

  She bit her lip. Why was her thinking so contrary? Clearly Sir Jonathan really did care about the captain. She lifted the daisy to the sunlight, admiring the white petals and thoughtfulness behind the gift.

  “It is kind of you to show such hospitality. I should have known you would move him to the manor once he is mobile.”

  “Nothing of the sort. Once the man is able to stand without keeling over, we shall say our goodbyes.”

  The baronet’s words blended with the sharp trill of a woodcock, both grating to her ears. Of course the captain would be leaving—but that didn’t mean she had to think about it right now.

  She dropped the daisy into the dirt. It was naught but a weed anyway and blended in with the rest. Most of the garden was overgrown with ivy and lamb’s ears running rampant. She’d seen better tended plots on Fisherman’s Row in Southampton.

  The narrow path ended, opening onto a stretch of ankle-high grass that swept back to the manor. Once again, Sir Jonathan offered his arm and smiled down at her, sunlight glinting off the blue in his eyes. A woman could get lost in that gaze, that handsome face, the strong lines of his jaw and dimpled chin.

  But not her. She rested her fingers as lightly as possible on his sleeve.

  He covered his hand over hers, his touch cool. “Now that you have finally arrived, I expect you are anxious for the wedding. With the banns already read in my parish and in yours, there is no need to wait. Does the day after next suit?”

  “So soon?” She gasped, then pinched her lips shut. Such a churlish response might put him off, and then where would she be? Packing to go back to her awful family?

  She blinked up at him, feigning innocence as the cause for her hesitation. “But you see, Sir Jonathan—”

  “Jonathan.” He squeezed her fingers.

  “Jonathan.” She pushed out the name. “I cannot possibly be ready in only two days. I have not yet finished my trousseau. I was hoping for a day or two in Penrith to purchase the last of my needs.”

  He arched a brow at her. “Have you extra money for such trifles?”

  “Yes, my father gave me a goodly sum.”

  “I see.” He stopped and, facing her, captured both her hands in his. “Well, you must transfer that money to my safekeeping. No wife of mine need trouble herself over worldly matters such as finance. That is what a husband is for, darling. I will accompany you to town, of course.” He leaned close and whispered against the top of her head. “I should like to see what fancies you in the shops.”

  A shiver crept down her back, and she told herself the sensation must be a good response to his affection. Yes, naturally her body would react in such a fashion. Any woman would tremble to have a handsome man speak such intimate words to her alone.

  Even so, she pulled back a bit. “Might we go visit Emma now?”

  His blue eyes narrowed. “You seem inordinately attached to the child.”

  “I am the only mother she has ever known. Granted, it has only been for a few weeks, but we have been through a lot together.” A smile curved her lips as memory after memory surfaced. Emma’s first steps. Her ah-be-da baby gibberish. The smell of her salty-sweet skin after sleeping hard against Abby’s shoulder.

  She squeezed his fingers, as if by touch alone she might make him believe. “You will adore Emma as well. Once she gets to know you—”

  “You forget, my sweet.” He dropped her hands and pinched her cheek. “I have houseguests to attend to. The men and I are taking in a spot of fishing today. See to the child, if you must, but I expect you to be dressed and down for dinner by seven. Will you do that for me?”

  The conversation moved from Emma to fishing to dinner so fast, she stuttered. “I—I…of course. I look forward to it.”

  And she should. Dinner with the man who would be her husband in the manor that would be her home was a dream come true.

  But deep down in her heart, she wished she were back on the road with the captain, looking forward to a homely meal in a smoky pub with a sleeping baby on her shoulder.

  Dinner with Sir Jonathan and his guests did not change that sentiment. The four-course meal lodged like a brick in Abby’s stomach as she sat on the sofa in the drawing room. Next to her, the colonel’s wife, Mrs. Wilkins, chattered away like a magpie. Abby picked at a thread on the hem of her sleeve to prevent her hands from stopping her ears. The woman hadn’t come up for air since she’d latched arms with Abby immediately following the baked apple pudding.

  As the woman droned on, Abby’s gaze drifted to the corner of the room, where Colonel Wilkins and Parker Granby engaged themselves in a quiet hand of picquet. The colonel was a man of few words, as was Mr. Granby, and both were likely quite pleased Mrs. Wilkins had found a new victim to regale.

  Opposite them, Parson Durge—aptly nicknamed for his strange penchant to wear a black cassock over his trousers—bent over another table close to Abby’s side of the sofa. He held a large magnifying glass in one hand as he studied a book on entomology, exclaiming aloud now and then on some wonderful quirk of insect lore.

  But none of these guests interested Abby nearly as much as Sir Jonathan and Lady Pelham. They congregated near the pianoforte, riffling through sheet music. An innocent enough occupation, especially since they stood a good arm’s length apart. All the same, Abby frowned. Other than a gut feeling and several offhand remarks by Lady Pelham, she had no evidence of anything illicit between the two. Still, suspicion gnawed away in the corner of her mind that far more than kinship drew them together.

  “…wouldn’t you say, Miss Gilbert?”

  Abby snapped her attention back to the colonel’s wife, painfully aware she’d neglected the last several minutes of the woman’s conversation. “I…er…” How was she to answer a question she hadn’t heard without offending the older lady?

  Think. Think!

  Forcing a fake yawn, she lifted her fingers to her lips. May God—and Mrs. Wilkins—forgive her. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Wilkins, but with the excitement of finally arriving here yesterday after such a long journey, I confess I am still a bit fatigued.”

  “Of course you are.” Mrs. Wilkins leaned over and patted Abby’s knee, the movement wafting a somewhat musty smell of overripe melons. Everything about the woman was beyond seasonal, from the outmoded cut of her floral gown to the tight pull of her grey hair, styled in a fashion that died twenty years ago.

  “It was a champion thing of you to travel so frugally, my dear. Rented chaises are so unreliable. Perhaps once the manor is restored, Sir Jonathan will
once again be able to own a carriage of his own.”

  Ignoring the woman’s queer odour, Abby dipped her head closer and lowered her voice. “Are you saying the baronet has no carriage?”

  Mrs. Wilkins shook her head so quickly, her silver earbobs jiggled. “Not a one.”

  Abby pursed her lips, thinking back on her earlier visit to the captain above the stable. While she’d not entered the bottom half, she’d swear in a court of law that she’d heard horsey whickers and shuffling hooves.

  “Yet he owns horses,” she thought aloud.

  “Only for racing.” Mrs. Wilkins glanced aside to the pianoforte, then scooted nearer to Abby. “I think you should know, dear, that the baronet’s luck is dismal. However, I am sure that will all change now you have arrived. I had always hoped a valiant woman would come along to save the baronet from his money woes.”

  Abby pressed her lips flat to keep from gaping. Did Sir Jonathan really love her, or did he love the dowry she came with? Had he chosen her that night at the MacNamaras’ ball because she’d captivated him or because he’d learned she was the daughter of a wealthy merchant?

  Resonant laughter pulled her gaze back to the pianoforte. Whatever jest had been shared between Sir Jonathan and Lady Pelham heightened the colour on the lady’s cheeks, painting her face a becoming shade of scarlet. Her green eyes twinkled in the sconce light, her black hair framing her pixie face in perfect spiral curls. She was a picture, this woman. A masterpiece. The sort to beguile and mesmerize any warm-blooded man.

  Parson Durge’s book slammed shut, and Abby startled from the sharp thwap of it. In four great strides, the man left the table and took up residence next to Abby on the sofa. Still clutching his magnifying glass, he gestured in the air with it, emphasizing his words. “Did you know, ladies, that the female praying mantis eats her mate? Head first. In fact, some begin eating the male’s head before the mating process is finished.”

  “Oh dear!” Mrs. Wilkins gasped. “Such scandalous talk!”

  Abby blinked. She’d suffered through many a gathering of her stepmother’s eccentric guests, but Parson Durge outshone them all.

  He drew the glass close to his eye—enlarging the brown orb well out of proportion—and stared at her as if she were a beetle to be dissected. “I would say, Miss Gilbert, that you have saved Sir Jonathan from a very painful fate. The mantis Lady Pelham would have shown him no such mercy.”

  So she wasn’t the only one to harbour such suspicions about Sir Jonathan and the lady’s relationship. But true or not, it wouldn’t do them any good for rumours to travel outside the walls of Brakewell Hall. Gossip, once birthed, often grew into a deadly cancer.

  She forced a pleasant smile to her lips. “Pardon me for disagreeing, Mr. Durge, but you are misinformed. The lady is Sir Jonathan’s cousin. They could not marry even if either were so inclined.”

  The parson’s bug-eyed stare swung toward Mrs. Wilkins, and the two exchanged a glance. Without another word, he rose and strode back to his book, the hem of his cassock swaying with each step.

  Mrs. Wilkins reached for her teacup on the small sofa table, averting her gaze. Was she afraid Abby would take her to task as well?

  “I am sure, Miss Gilbert, all the parson meant to say is that it is a good thing you are doing, that you are a good woman.”

  Heat warmed Abby’s cheeks. Had she jumped to a conclusion? Was she overly sensitive?

  “What is this? Are we speaking of my bride’s goodness?” Sir Jonathan approached and held out his hand to her—and Abby’s face flushed all the hotter. How much of the conversation had he overheard?

  Accepting his offer, she placed her hand in his, and he pulled her to her feet, then bowed over her fingers and kissed a benediction atop them. As he straightened, his voice curled out in a low caress. “You are goodness and light, you know. Kind to a fault.”

  All eyes turned their way, the parson’s magnified behind glass, Lady Pelham’s brow arched with avid interest. Even the card-playing duo swiveled their gazes away from their game.

  Abby pulled back her hand and ran her fingers down her skirt, abhorring all the attention. “Thank you, Sir Jonathan, but there is nothing special about me. I am certain that if you had the opportunity to do good for someone, you would, without a second thought.”

  “Ahh, such precious naivete.” He chuckled and waved a hand in the air. “One must always count the cost and determine how much such an act would cut into profits, be that monetarily or emotionally. You will never be a success if you give away more than you have, my sweet.”

  Her brow crumpled. “I do not mean to be disagreeable, but did not our Lord do that very thing? He gave His life, defeating hell and death. I can think of no greater success than that.”

  “Yes, well,” he snorted, “if you believe such tales to be true.”

  “You do not?” A sudden coldness sank in her belly.

  Sir Jonathan threw back his head, his laughter shaming. “Such gravity for a dinner party? Come.” He held out his arm. “Lady Pelham has agreed to play for us. Let us sing and save such dreary topics for a rainy day, hmm?”

  A slap across the face couldn’t have stunned her more. What kind of irreverent man was she engaged to? The urge to run into the night and seek the quiet, solid sanctuary of the captain’s company coursed through her veins, growing stronger with each beat of her heart.

  Bypassing his arm, she pressed her fingers to her lips, once again feigning a yawn. “Forgive me, Sir Jonathan, but I am really rather weary. Perhaps another time.”

  She flashed a smile at the rest of the guests. “I bid you all good evening.”

  Murmurs of good night followed her to the door, and when she finally stepped into the corridor, some of the tension of the long evening fled from her shoulders—

  Until a deep voice warmed her ear.

  “I will see you to your room.” Sir Jonathan looped his arm around her waist and guided her toward the stairway.

  She clenched her hands against an irrational desire to bat away his touch and peered up at him with a tight smile. “No need. I do not wish to rob your guests of their host.”

  “It is no inconvenience whatsoever, my sweet.” His fingers pressed against her side. A possessive type of embrace. The kind she’d hoped for ever since Father had spoken of Sir Jonathan’s offer of marriage.

  Even so, she pulled away and grabbed the bannister.

  Undaunted, he kept pace at her side. “I have arranged for a ride into Penrith five days hence. Will that suit?”

  “Yes. I should like that.”

  “Good. Then we shall wed the day after your purchases arrive.”

  Her slipper hit the riser on the last step, and she stumbled onto the first-floor landing.

  The baronet’s arm shot out, steadying her. “Take care, darling. I would not want you tumbling down the stairs.”

  Though he spoke of concern, a shadow of foreboding draped over her.

  He pulled her close again, this time tightening his grip. His thigh brushed against her gown as he led her toward her room. His hand rubbed up and down her waist. Being alone with this man in the garden was one thing, but here? In the shadows of a sconce-lit passageway? A chill shivered down her spine, the involuntary reaction nothing at all like what she’d experienced when standing close to the captain. Though she had no familiarity with intimacy or passion, she was certain the odd sensation had nothing to do with physical desire.

  They stopped in front of her door, and before a “good night” could pass her lips, the baronet swept her into his arms.

  She gasped. “I really do not think—”

  His mouth came down hard on hers. Wet. Hot. His long arms wrapped around her like steel bands, entrapping her. She wanted—needed—air. Space. Freedom. But his hands cupped the back of her neck, forcing her head up so that he could deepen the kiss.

  She’d heard tales of her sisters’ stolen kisses, but none of them had mentioned the clenching of one’s gut or sudden rise of nause
a.

  “I have been waiting a long time for this,” Sir Jonathan whispered against her skin as his lips trailed down the curve of her neck. His hands drifted, moving down her back, to her waist, to her—

  She planted her hands on his chest and shoved him away with all the strength she possessed. “Sir Jonathan, please! We are not yet married, sir.”

  His blue eyes smouldered to a smoky shade. “You will be mine within the week. Why trifle over a few days?”

  He reached for her again.

  She arched away, searching for the doorknob behind her. “Yet I insist. Good night, sir.”

  As soon as her fingers met brass, she yanked open the door and darted inside, slamming it shut before he could follow. Shaking, she leaned against the wood and braced herself, on the off chance he might try to gain entry.

  Silence hung thick and heavy, the tick of the mantel clock and beat of her heart overloud in her ears. Had he gone?

  “Soon, my innocent dove.” The baronet’s muffled voice leached through the door.

  She stiffened.

  “Very soon.” His husky words seeped into her like an unholy prophecy.

  A breath later, his footsteps padded down the corridor, then disappeared altogether.

  Abby pressed her fingers against her lips, hating that the baronet had taken such a bold liberty. Hating even more that as his soon-to-be bride, she would have no choice but to welcome such advances.

  But most of all, she hated the unstoppable desire to find out what it would feel like to be kissed so passionately by the captain…for that could never be.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Time and the full-hearted embraces of a child were the best elixirs in the world, diminishing Abby’s revulsion of the baronet’s advance four days ago. Thankfully, since then, Sir Jonathan had been nothing but the utmost gentleman—seating her first at dinner and making it a point to include her in the conversations of his guests. Most importantly, he kept his caresses to a simple brush of his fingertips against her cheek or a light peck atop her hand when seeing her to her room at night. Perhaps she had been a bit harsh with him. After all, he’d merely been showing his eagerness to have her as his bride. What woman wouldn’t want that kind of attention?