His eyes narrowed, yet he said nothing. What in the world was he thinking? Why did he not respond?
“Please, Captain. Why did you leave without saying goodbye?”
He winced. A sign he was softening, perhaps?
So, she prodded him. “What did the baronet tell you?”
“You should know. You’re the one who sent him to me to say you wished me gone.”
She flinched, his icy reception of her suddenly making sense. Of all the wicked, scheming plots the baronet had manufactured—offering marriage to her because of her dowry or claiming Lady Pelham as his cousin—this one was by far the worst.
“I would never wish you gone. Never! I was dreading the day that you and Emma would have to leave.”
He stared at her, a terrible stare that could cleave truth and lies from the most protected of hearts, and finally his chest deflated as he blew out a long breath. Unfolding his arms, he leaned forward and planted his elbows on his knees. “All right. Tell me what happened with you and your baronet.”
She bristled. “Please, stop calling him that. Sir Jonathan is not mine, nor ever shall be.”
“But he is the man you chose, that night we…” His gaze drifted to her lips.
Heat climbed up her neck and spread over her cheeks. “I never said such a thing.”
His eyes snapped back to hers. “Neither did you say you wanted me to take you away, nor that you wanted to leave.”
“I did not say anything!” She threw up her hands. “I was so torn, so conflicted, that I ran off without giving you an answer. You told me to think carefully before I answered, remember? I needed time for that.”
“You needed time to talk yourself out of loving the baronet?”
“No, Samuel.” Her voice broke, and she leaned toward him, laying her hand over his. “I needed time to listen to my heart. Do you not know? Can you not see? It is you that I love, only you. Despite the baronet’s title, you are the true nobleman, not him.”
His breath hitched, yet he pulled away. Something unsettling charged the air between them, rife with words that should’ve been spoken long ago. Her throat closed. Was it too late? Had any feelings he might’ve had toward her cooled and vanished like a mist?
Sorrow pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Oh Abby…”
Whatever words he’d intended to say languished into silence. Was he struggling to turn her away? To tell her goodbye? Hot tears burned behind her eyes at the possibility.
“Forgive me,” she murmured, then licked her lips, her mouth impossibly dry. “I see my declaration is unwelcome. I should not have spoken so boldly.”
“No.” He stood and averted his gaze, his face twisting into a grief no man should have to bear. “It is I who is the real criminal here. I stole your heart from a man who could provide for you. I had no right to ask you to give that up for me.”
“You cannot have stolen what was freely given.”
“Go back, Miss Gilbert, while you still can. Go back to a man who can give you what you deserve.”
“Don’t you see? I am never going back.” She shot to her feet and cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. “You are the man who can give me what I deserve.”
His jaw flexed beneath her touch, the rasp of his whiskers prickly against her palms, and for a moment, he said nothing, merely studied her with that same unnerving, brown gaze of his.
Finally, he spoke. “Then you do not know what you truly deserve.” He pulled away. “If you will not return to Brakewell Hall, then I will see you safely to London.”
Turning, he stalked into the kitchen, each of his steps driving another nail into her heart. She stood alone in the big room, with nothing but unanswered questions and a hole in her chest, bleeding out the last of her hopes and dreams. Apparently love was never meant to be hers. Her stepmother had been right all along.
She was a stupid girl.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Samuel pounded each step hard into the gravel of the Blue Bell’s courtyard, relishing the pain in his leg. He deserved it, this torment, and the closer he drew to the carriage where Abby waited with Emma, the deeper he dug in his boots—especially when Abby turned at his approach.
Grey morning light draped her figure, the cloudy day as sullen as the stiffness in her spine and hurt in her eyes. He’d caused that injury. His words. His resolve. Yet by all that was holy, he’d had no choice in the matter! He couldn’t provide for her. At the moment, he couldn’t even provide for himself. But as he closed the distance between them, with the waft of her citrusy scent and the way her gown rode soft along the curves of her body, he wanted her so badly, his teeth ached.
Stopping in front of her, he schooled his face into a blank slate. It would do neither of them any good to unleash his true feelings. “Are you ready?”
Emma popped her thumb into her mouth and turned her face away from him. Was he to be shunned by the child as well?
Abby threw back her shoulders. “I am, but what about Emma?”
He ground his jaw, hating the iciness in her voice, hating even more the estrangement hanging thick between them. But it wasn’t to be helped, not until he could figure out a way to care for her. His best hope at the moment was to take her to Brentwood’s and see if his wife might keep Abby on to help tend their brood. Abby was certainly good with children, and he could properly court her there while he earned some money out on the heath. Or maybe, if God and Brentwood smiled upon him, he could take on a few of those lucrative security jobs of Brentwood’s. And if not…well, he would turn London upside down if need be to find Abby a safe place. Anything to keep from returning her to a family who didn’t love her until he could claim her as his own.
Emma reached up with her free hand and rubbed Abby’s cheek, as if by instinct the child sought to console her.
“We’ll stop at the Gable Inn and return Emma to her father.” He turned on his heel to retrieve Pilgrim. Let the driver help her into the carriage, for no doubt she’d slap away his hand should he offer.
And she probably would have. For the next five days, Abby held herself aloof, shutting him out at every possible turn. The one time he did hold up his gloved hand to aid her into the coach, she’d gazed at his fingers as if he held out a black adder, then she’d sniffed and hefted herself up unaided. Each night at dinner, she ate in her room with Emma, her door securely locked. When they stopped to change out the horses and the driver, she handed Emma over to him and took care of her personal needs without a word. The tension was taut enough to stretch across a river gorge and walk upon it from one bank to another.
And with each mile they traveled, the worse he felt. Should he tell her of his plans before he even asked Brentwood if it was a possibility? Would it not be cruel to dangle such a hope before her?
Clicking his tongue, he guided Pilgrim onto the last stretch of road leading to the Gable Inn, helpless to stop the raging in his soul. He was less than a man. He was a beast, for any man worth his salt could provide for a wife. But not him. He’d had to rely each day on the graces of Abby’s purse strings for the food in his belly and the roof over his head—and over hers and Emma’s.
Self-loathing and the grime of travel crawled into every crevice of his skin as he swung off Pilgrim. He brushed away the worst of the dirt on his trousers while waiting for the carriage to catch up.
In front of him, the Gable Inn stood as proud as ever. He tethered his mount to the front post, busying his hands until he heard the carriage door open and Abby’s footsteps draw near. He turned, and the shimmer of tears in her eyes nearly dropped him to his knees.
She clutched Emma to her breast, nuzzling the child’s head with her cheek. “Shall I say my goodbye here?”
His chest squeezed. He knew this moment was going to be hard, but now that it was here, he realized just how wrong he’d been. It would be impossible for Abby to let the child go without tearing out yet another piece of her heart.
“No, come with me.” He strode to
the stable yard, biting down so hard, his jaw crackled.
God, please, have mercy. Abby can’t do this. I can’t do this!
But sweet blazing fireballs, what else was he to do?
Filling his lungs with air, he prayed for courage and strode into the coolness of the Gable’s big stable. Ahead, a familiar set of broad shoulders hunched on a stool near a workbench.
“Hawker, we’re back.”
The large man turned at Samuel’s approach, the sour stink of an unwashed body and cheap rum clinging to him like a Shoreditch harlot. He narrowed his red-rimmed eyes. “Thatcher? What are you doing here?”
Abby stepped beside him. Hawker’s terrible gaze landed on Emma and hardened. Emma stared back, then turned and burrowed against Abby’s shoulder, rubbing her face into Abby’s neck.
“What’s she doing here?” Hawker bellowed.
Samuel clenched his hands. Lord, but this would not go well. He took a step away from Abby, in case his old friend should snap and go on a rampage.
“It’s about your sister, my friend. She…” He swallowed. How to say this gently? “Well, she died peacefully.”
Hawker sat deadly still, his face tightening to granite. Samuel held his ground, unsure if the man would spring or just sit there and never move again.
Slowly, Hawker rose, his stilted steps crushing straw beneath his boots. He held out one hand toward Emma, but a pace away, he stopped and dropped his arm. A ragged sigh ripped from him, blowing out a demon or two.
Then his bloodshot gaze swung to Samuel. “No, I can’t keep her. I won’t. When I look at the girl, all I see is her mother, the woman I’m drinking myself into the ground trying to forget. You take her. You and your lady. She’s your child now.”
Samuel shook his head. “But you can’t—”
“Don’t tell me what I can’t do!”
Hawker dodged past him and stalked into the light, leaving him and Abby in the shadows of the stable, a cloud of questions in the air too numerous to even think about answering.
Abby turned and blinked at him. Her mouth parted, yet no words came out. How could they? He hardly knew what to say himself.
So he pivoted and strode outside as well, as big a coward as his friend. “Hawker, wait—”
“Well, stars and thunder, Captain! And here I was thinking I’d have to haul my hide halfway across England to find you.” Officer Bexley’s familiar voice pulled up alongside him, and his patrolman clouted him on the back. “Good to see you alive.”
Turning, Samuel frowned, unsure which he needed to attend first—the retreating Hawker or the interest in Bexley’s eyes as Abby joined Samuel’s side.
Bex cocked a brow his way. “It seems, Captain, that you hunted down more than just Shankhart, eh?”
“Now’s not a good time, Bex,” he breathed out. “What do you want?”
Bexley lifted his meaty hand and scratched behind his ear, one corner of his mouth turning up. “The magistrate says you’re to return at once. He’s got something for you. Says it’s urgent.”
Samuel grimaced. Sure he did. A contract to shackle him for the next ten years…but if that meant enough income to marry Abby, then so be it. She was worth having no matter what job came his way.
Abby’s gaze pinged between them both and finally landed on him. “Emma and I will wait in the carriage, Captain.”
She whirled, the hem of her gown swishing with her steps.
Bex watched her go, his brows pulling into a line. “Why is the lady still with you? Unless…Ahh.” A slow smile spread across his face, stretching from one edge of his side whiskers to the other. “Ho ho! You’ve gone and fallen for a skirt?” A chuckle shook his big shoulders, drawing the attention of a passing ostler.
Samuel ground his teeth, needing to explain but wanting to ignore—especially when Bexley slugged him in the arm.
“Never thought to see this happen. And a child to boot? You old hound!”
Samuel’s fists shook with the effort of holding back from punching Bexley straight to kingdom come.
His laughter spent, Bexley folded his arms. “Makes sense though, I suppose, now that you’re a man of means.”
Samuel angled his head, studying the man. “What say you?”
“Huh? Oh, I suppose you’ve not heard, eh? Wrapping up the Shankhart affair and all. Remember that lad you rescued off the heath? The one we nearly left behind but you found?”
How could he forget? The lad’s scratches had scarred the back of his hand. “The orphan, yes?”
Bex nodded. “Turns out the boy isn’t an orphan after all. He’s the son of a wealthy fellow, an earl or some sort, who was out of the country on business. The lad was en route to the man’s estate for safekeeping in his absence. Apparently their hired guardian took a fall and broke his arm. Not wishing to be delayed, the foolish women decided to go it on their own across the heath with naught but their driver and manservant, thinking to hire a new guardian at the next inn.”
Samuel shook his head. Funny how one seemingly small decision could affect the lives—or deaths—of so many.
“When the boy never arrived,” Bex continued, “the boy’s father offered quite a reward for his return. The magistrate got wind of it and checked into the missing lad of Devonshire. You were the one what found him, so you get the reward. But the earl isn’t long for London, and peers don’t like to be kept waiting. That’s why I was sent to fetch you. The man wishes to reward you in person.”
The words circled slowly, coming to roost as gingerly as the sparrows atop the peak of the Gable’s roof.
But he didn’t believe a word of it.
He narrowed his eyes at Bex. “This is a poor jest.”
Another laugh rumbled in Bexley’s throat. “’Tis no jest. You’re a moneyed man now, or soon will be. Why, I figure ye ought to have more than enough to buy that land you been scarpin’ about.”
Moneyed? Him? He clenched his jaw to keep it from dropping and lifted his gaze to the sky, shame burning a hole in his gut.
Forgive me, God, for casting aside hope and wallowing in a lack of faith. You have answered my prayers for mercy time and again. Truly, Lord, Your goodness knows no bounds.
Then he took off at a dead run.
Tears came easily these days, as prolific and never ending as a spring rain. Sucking in a shaky breath, Abby fought back another round, tired of weeping. Tired of life. Tired of everything.
She cuddled Emma closer to her breast, next to the place where her heart used to be, and strode past the carriage to a green patch of lawn in front of the Gable. Who knew how long it would take for the captain to sort things out with Emma’s father—if things could be sorted at all. The man had seemed adamant in his rejection of his daughter, and oh, how Abby ached for the girl. She knew firsthand what it felt like to be spurned so cruelly by a parent who should have loved her. What was to become of Emma? The uncertainty of the girl’s future was as nebulous as her own.
“Oh little one.” Tucking her chin, Abby murmured against the top of Emma’s head. “We are an unwanted pair, are we not?”
Emma squirmed. “Ah-ma?”
“Yes, my sweet.” A sob welled in Abby’s throat, choking her voice. “I will ever and always be your ah-ma, no matter what happens.”
The child was too wriggly to hold on to any longer, so she let her down and pulled out a small felt rabbit from her reticule—the one and only purchase she’d made while wedding shopping in Penrith. Emma clapped her hands and reached for the toy, having no idea that her fate was likely even now being decided by the captain and her father—or would be, after the captain finished his business with the bearlike man who had joined him.
Oh Samuel. Would that we might have been able to come to an understanding of our own—a lifetime of an understanding.
But that hadn’t happened, nor ever would. She sighed. The captain had spoken little the past five days. Not that she’d given him much of a chance. What was the point? Clearly he’d decided she was not the
woman for him, and once his mind was made up, there was no turning him.
While Emma played at her feet, alternately gnawing on the little bunny then lifting it up to the sunlight, Abby leaned back against a tree and stared out at the road. How different things had been a month ago when she’d first traveled that dusty path. She’d been a naive girl then, full of hopes and dreams, so certain of a happily ever after.
She flattened her lips. And now look at her, backtracking to a home she’d vowed never again to see. Already she could envision the pinch of her stepmother’s face and hear the screech in her voice once she found out Abby had refused the baronet. Her father would likely wash his hands of her, pensioning her off in some small cottage as a spinster to grow old all alone. Despite the warmth of the summer afternoon, she chilled to the core.
No, that would never happen, not if she could help it. She was good with children. Perhaps in London, she might find occupation as a governess—though without references, that might be a stretch. Better yet, Wenna had commented on her skill with a needle. Employment in a dress shop might be a more attainable situation. But how to keep herself until such a job might be found?
Absently, she reached up and fumbled for the watch brooch beneath her bodice. Her throat tightened as she rubbed her thumb over the glass face. Could she truly part with this last piece of her mother to begin a new life?
Boot steps crushing gravel broke into her misery, pulling her gaze as the sound grew louder. Captain Thatcher dashed past the carriage and closed in on her and Emma. Something had been decided, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know what exactly.
Bracing herself, Abby stepped away from the tree trunk and straightened her shoulders. For Emma’s sake, she’d stay strong, no matter the outcome.
The captain stopped in front of her and yanked off his hat, then wiped his brow with the back of his hand. His brown gaze held hers, yet he said nothing. He stood silent, the afternoon breeze lifting wisps of his dark hair, his fingers turning his worn felt hat in a slow circle. A muscle clenched on his jaw. Whatever he had to say clearly cost him in ways she couldn’t begin to understand. Did he fear to tell her, perhaps, that Emma was to be given over to a foundling home?
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