The Noble Guardian

by Michelle Griep

  And so she fell into a pattern of sorts. Her days were filled with enjoying Emma’s silly grins and sloppy kisses as they spent afternoons with the captain. Her evenings were occupied by the baronet and his houseguests. All in all, it was a perfectly pleasant existence—save for the nettling feeling that would not go away whenever Lady Pelham entered the room.

  Abby shoved aside all thoughts of the woman and swung Emma to her other hip, then pushed open the back door to the stable yard. Sunlight washed the world in a golden glow, and she squinted. It took a moment for her vision to adjust to the brightness—and when it did, she did a double take.

  Across the yard, the captain hobbled down the stable’s stone stairway—without use of the makeshift crutch old Mencott had fashioned for him.

  She clutched Emma tighter and dashed across the gravel. “Oh, you are doing better!”

  Emma squealed, from the wild ride and the sight of the captain. And Abby didn’t blame her. It was all she could do to suppress her own squeal.

  Abby caught up to him as his boots hit the cobbles. He said nothing, but he didn’t have to. The flash of a wince tightening his face said enough.

  She stifled a sigh. Every day he pushed himself too much, asked more from his body than it could give. And each time pain flickered in his eyes, another piece of her heart broke off.

  She frowned. “Shall I help you back upstairs?”

  “I am not a fragile flower, lady.” He winked—knowing full well the name ruffled her—and reached for Emma.

  Abby twisted aside, keeping the girl beyond his grasp. “Do you really think it is a good idea to hold this squirming worm?”

  “You worry too much,” he grunted. “Life is more than good ideas. It’s the risks that return greater results.”

  He stepped to the other side of her and pulled Emma from her arms, swinging the child up high into the air. “How’s my girl?”

  “Ah-pa!” Emma shrieked, and when he lowered her, she wrapped her arms around him and giggled into his neck.

  Joyful tears filled Abby’s eyes, blurring the scene. She’d never tire of watching this man love this girl and vice versa—especially since they’d nearly lost him. Swallowing, she dabbed away the dampness at the corners of her eyes with her knuckle.

  The movement pulled the captain’s gaze toward her. “Are you all right?”

  “I am.” She grinned and swept her hand toward the old workbench just outside the stable doors. “Shall we sit and let Emma play?”

  He shook his head. Emma giggled and planted her hands on his cheeks. “I came down here to stretch my leg, not sun myself like a lazy alley cat.”

  “Do you mind if Emma and I join you?”

  “Not at all.” He peeled Emma’s hands away, but each time he succeeded in releasing one and reached for the other, she slapped her freed palm right back again.

  Abby’s grin grew. “Good. I would have joined you even had you denied me. Come, little one.”

  Before the captain could protest, she retrieved Emma and swung her down to the ground, keeping tight hold of the girl’s hands. Emma bounced a moment, then kicked out one chubby leg after the other, eager to walk. Abby followed behind, now and then letting go so Emma could practice walking on her own.

  The captain’s hobbling step joined her side. “She grows more every day.”

  “That she does. Mrs. Horner tells me she is quite the handful, especially when I am not around.” She gazed up at him. “Will you be able to manage her on your own when you take her back to her father? I will not be traveling along to care for her, you know.”

  His lips twitched into a smirk, his silence and the accompanying scolding from an overhead martin speaking volumes.

  Heat crept up her neck. “I suppose that was a ridiculous question. You round up highwaymen and bring them in. One small girl should be no challenge for you.”

  “I think, Miss Gilbert, that you’re finally getting to know me.” A slow smile brightened his face, and sight of the rare appearance tingled in her belly.

  As they rounded the back of the stable and moved onto the grassy path leading to the garden, laughter floated on the air. Abby’s jaw tightened reflexively at the merry chuckle, for the origin was unmistakable.

  On the far side of a vast stretch of creeping ivy, a green-coated man and a blue-skirted woman batted a shuttlecock between them. Lady Pelham and the baronet, unattended by anyone else, appeared to all the world as if they were a happily married couple.

  A hot mix of shame and anger boiled in the back of Abby’s throat. Why couldn’t Sir Jonathan employ better discretion? She swooped up Emma and turned to the captain, intent on suggesting they take a different route before he witnessed the sight.

  But too late. He narrowed his eyes at the pair.

  Abby forced a light tone to her voice. “Emma would like to see your horse, I think. Shall we go back to the stable?”

  His gaze swung to her, a dark glint deepening the brown of his eyes. “Tell me, Miss Gilbert, how are your wedding plans coming along?”

  “Oh…um…” Shifting the kicking Emma to her hip, she sidestepped him and headed back toward the stable, calling over her shoulder, “I am not quite ready yet.”

  Despite his injured leg, he caught up to her. “I should think you’d be more than ready. Your baronet was all you could talk about on our journey here. Or is it, perhaps, your groom is the one who is not quite ready?”

  La! Neither of them were. But after the hardship of the cross-country journey, she couldn’t very well admit aloud that the captain’s astute guardianship all the way across England may have been in vain. Besides, once she married the baronet, of course he would send Lady Pelham away.

  Wouldn’t he?

  She flipped Emma around, allowing the girl to face forward, and wrapped her arms tight against Emma’s middle. “Do not be silly, Captain. There are a few more necessaries I must purchase in Penrith, that is all. Then everything will be set for the wedding.”

  He eyed her as he might a potential criminal, searching for truth between the thin spaces of her words. She looked away, the scrutiny too much to bear.

  “Who is the lady with your baronet?”

  The directness of his question startled her, and her step faltered. His strong hand gripped her arm, righting her.

  She pulled back, scorning her own awkwardness. “Lady Pelham. She is his cousin.”

  “Hmm.” The gravelly sound grumbling in his throat indicted and condemned without a word.

  Frowning, she stopped and turned to him. “What does that mean?”

  “Maybe nothing. Or maybe everything.” A murderous shadow darkened his gaze. “The baronet…is he treating you well?”

  Instantly her mind slid to the stolen kiss. The force of Sir Jonathan’s embrace had been brutal. His lips had devoured her like an animal, not a loving and tender suitor.

  Abby nuzzled her cheek against the top of Emma’s head, banishing the ugly memory to the past where it should be buried. After all, the baronet had not been untoward since then. So why did it still chafe to be in his presence, while being with Samuel felt so comfortable?

  She lifted her face to the captain. “Sir Jonathan is all politeness and decorum, and I have nothing more to say on the matter.”

  A muscle on his jaw pulsed as he studied her, indicating some kind of mental battle raged inside his head. She didn’t dare look away, though. Any semblance of retreat on her part might label her a liar. And who knew what he’d do if he believed the baronet was mistreating her, for she’d witnessed the captain’s raw strength when unleashed.

  Finally, he blew out a long breath. “I should head back.”

  Her brows pinched together. Was his face paler? His breath laboured? Had he overtaxed himself? “How are you faring?”

  “I’m fine. I promised Mencott I’d help him mend some of the tack, that’s all.” He reached out and rubbed his hand over Emma’s head, mussing her hair. A slight smile lifted the corners of his mouth, but when he pulle
d back, it faded—then completely sobered as he stared into Abby’s eyes. “You know we’ll be leaving soon, Emma and I.”

  “I…I know.” Her throat closed, the admission tasting as bitter as horseradish. She didn’t want either of them to leave. Ever.

  A wild impulse rose to her lips, and without thinking any further on it, she blurted, “Say you will come to dinner tonight, at the house. We have so little time left, you and I, and I do not want to waste a minute of it.”

  Reaching, he kneaded a muscle at the back of his neck. “That’s probably not a good idea.”

  “Did you not just tell me life is more than good ideas? That it is the risks that return greater results?” She nodded toward the manor. “This will soon be my home as much as the baronet’s, and I should think I may invite whomever I like to dine with us. After all, his friends are here. I deserve to have mine as well.”

  “Well, I am glad to see your spunk is still intact.” A grin broke over his face like a ray of August sunshine—the effect stunning and ruggedly handsome.

  Three smiles in the space of a quarter hour? That was a victory.

  “So you will come?” She rose to her toes. “Please?”

  He sighed. “Just this once.”

  He stalked off without another word, his step determined but a bit stilted each time he put weight on his injured leg.

  Abby squeezed Emma tighter and whispered against her downy hair. “What will we do without him, little one, when he leaves us behind?”

  Slowly, Abby lifted her head. That was a battle for another day.

  For now she must convince the baronet to allow the captain to dine with him and his guests.

  A firing line would’ve been easier to face.

  Samuel tugged at his collar and slipped a covert glance across the table at Abby. Which fork would she pick up? Ever since sitting down in the baronet’s dining room, the long line of silver flatware in front of him blasted grapeshot into his confidence. He had no idea so many different-sized forks or spoons existed, let alone which one to employ for which course. This type of dainty banqueting was better suited to Brentwood or Moore. Oh, sweet mercy. If they could see him now, sitting here sweating over the selection of a butter knife, they’d laugh him halfway across the continent.

  Just as he fingered the farthest utensil on the left, the man across from him speared him with a direct gaze.

  “I don’t suppose a man like you is used to this sort of gathering.”

  Samuel set his jaw to keep from grinding his teeth. It took a lot of gall for the long-gowned fellow to pretend to know what a man should or should not be like. When Abby had introduced him as Mr. Durge instead of parson, Samuel had thought she might’ve made a slip of the tongue. But after listening to the fellow’s colourful language and heretical ideas, no doubt remained. Mr. Durge was no saint and, in fact, blasphemed the clergy by wearing a cassock.

  He met the fellow’s gaze. “What kind of man would that be, sir?”

  “I am sure you do not need me to spell it out.”

  “By all means, enlighten me.”

  The man narrowed his eyes, a wicked flash sparking like that of a cat about to bat around a mouse. “The kind of man, Captain, to eat with a fork and knife at a fine linen table, set with imported porcelain. Surely this is an oddity for you.”

  Samuel upped the intensity of his stare, a skill he’d honed over the years of interrogating criminals. At this point, offense was his best defense—and he intended to be as offensive as possible. “You’re right. Usually I gnaw raw meat off a bone, bare handed. I’m surprised the baronet allowed me in here.”

  Next to him, a strangling choke burbled in Mrs. Wilkins’s throat, and she shot out a jeweled hand for her water glass.

  Nervous laughter tittered out of Abby. “Oh Captain, such a jest! I assure you all”—she swept her gaze around the table—“that I have never once seen the captain gnawing on bones of any sort.”

  Next to her, at the head of the table, Sir Jonathan Aberley leaned aside and caressed Abby’s shoulder with a possessive touch. “You cannot expect a man who deals in ruffians and rogues to maintain sweet manners, my dear.”

  The fish in Samuel’s gut sank like a lead weight. He’d like to show the baronet some of his manners, right at the end of his fist—especially if the man’s fingers slid any closer to the bare skin just above Abby’s bodice.

  Seated at the so-called parson’s elbow, a living, breathing weasel perked up. Parker Granby, his eyes two black beads set close to a nose better used as a parakeet perch, angled his head toward him. “Well, I, for one, would not want to ride roughshod along the highways and byways of the wilds. It must be a hard life, I imagine.”

  “Must it?” Samuel stabbed a bite of meat and lifted it to his mouth. “Fresh air quite agrees with me.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose simple pleasures are to be enjoyed now and then.” A sneer rippled across Granby’s lips. “I find that the simple are often the most content, unruffled by avarice or ambition.”

  Samuel bit down hard on the chunk of meat. A bullet taken sideways often did the most damage. Clearly this fellow was an adept marksman with his mockery, and this was exactly why he preferred the dust of the road to the carping of upper society.

  Abby gasped and leaned back in her chair, shooting her own daggered look at Mr. Granby. “Surely you are not suggesting the captain is a simple man, sir.”

  “I should think not, Miss Gilbert.” Mr. Granby speared a bite of his food. “I hardly know him.”

  Patches of colour deepened on Abby’s cheeks, and it took all of Samuel’s restraint to keep from leaping over the table and popping the man smack in the middle of his weaselly nose. Baiting him was one thing. Toying with Abby, quite another. One more word from the fellow and—

  A light touch on his sleeve jerked his gaze to the right.

  Lady Pelham angled toward him, a single black curl caressing her shoulder like the snake she was. God forgive him for such a harsh judgment, but it’d only taken a few minutes to see beyond her polished façade into the reptilian scales of her soul.

  “Tell me of your home, Captain.” Her lips parted into a sultry smile. “I find London to be an exceedingly exciting city.”

  Of course she did. Most strumpets thrived there. He reached for his glass and eyed her over the rim. “I don’t live in London.”

  “But you are a runner.” She launched the derogatory term more accurately than a French mortar shell. “Do you not operate out of Bow Street?”

  “I do.” He slugged back a drink of wine, then set the glass on the tablecloth, relishing the burn down his throat. “Yet I house in Hammersmith.”

  “Oh…I see,” she drawled.

  He gritted his teeth. By the curl of the lady’s lip, what she saw was a poor man unable to pay the high rent in the city—which goaded even more, because she was right.

  Two servants moved in, removing plates and setting down bowls of greenish soup. The pleasant twang of lemon and parsley erased some of the bitterness of the lady’s words, but not all.

  The baronet picked up a wide spoon and indicated Abby with the tip of it. “My bride here informs me that you are quite proficient with a gun.”

  Samuel’s gaze shot to Abby, who took a sudden interest in her soup. Why on earth would she have said such a thing to the baronet?

  Opposite the baronet, at the far end of the table, Colonel Wilkins planted his elbows on each side of his bowl and laced his fingers over it, his interest clearly piqued. “What do you shoot, Captain?”

  He gazed at the grey-haired fellow. If the parson was not really a clergyman, was this fellow truly a colonel? Only one way to find out. “I carry a nine-inch land pattern, sixty-two calibre.”

  One of the Colonel’s thick, white eyebrows lifted. “Ahh, light dragoons, perhaps?”

  So the man did have military experience. Samuel nodded. “The Nineteenth.”

  “Well!” The colonel blustered and dropped his hands to his lap. “I am surpr
ised you survived. If I recall correctly, that regiment was not known for their quick thinking.”

  The slur lit a blaze in his belly, driving heat up his neck and over his ears. “Wellesley would’ve lost Assaye were it not for our detachment.”

  “Yet you must admit, Captain, that the assault was not of your own contrivance, but under orders from my colleague, Colonel Maxwell.”

  “That has little to do with it,” he gritted out. He was the one on the front line. He was the one dodging a rain of deadly fire, losing brothers, facing hell—and bearing a crescent mark on his cheek to remind him daily of the carnage.

  “I should think it has everything to do with it.” The colonel dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Last time I checked, a colonel outranks a mere captain.”

  Beneath the table, Samuel’s hands curled into fists. This was not to be borne.

  The baronet tapped his spoon against his goblet. “Back to the subject at hand, gentlemen. I myself have little use for pistols. Real damage is done with a Girandoni, though they are not for the faint of heart. Have you ever tried one, Captain?”

  Samuel swung his gaze back to Sir Jonathan, unsure which man aggravated him more—the pretentious baronet or the know-it-all colonel. Though he might as well add the pretend parson and Granby to the mix.

  “No, sir, I have not,” he answered, and for good reason. That particular rifle was expensive, accurate, deadly—and frowned upon by most militia, for the usage of such most often targeted officers, a grievous breach of the rules of war.

  “I thought as much.” Sir Jonathan bent to sip a mouthful of his soup, then set down his spoon and leaned back in his chair. “Besides being costly, such a weapon requires special training to operate. No slur intended, Captain, but the Girandoni is not a firearm for the common man. If you like, I will show one to you after dinner, for I do not suppose you have ever had the opportunity.”