“I’m afraid neither of those two scenarios is going to happen.” Behind his back, Mr. Spencer pointed to the horse.
Insistently.
“Should I get on the horse?” she whispered, uncertain what he wanted.
In answer, he pointed even more… pointedly. And she barely comprehended a hissed answer. “Yessssss.”
“Oh, but you are wrong.” Culpepper moved at the same time she did and in that moment, his thugs leapt at Mr. Spencer.
Get on the horse. Get on the horse. But how? She’d only ever ridden side-saddle, as any proper English lady did. And that was without a hairless cat clinging to her and without an angry duke coming after her menacingly.
Shoving all of that from her mind, she lifted her slippered foot and, hopping on her other, placed it into the metal stirrup hanging down. Ignoring as best she could the fact that she was exposing far too much of her stockinged legs, she gripped the saddle horn and heaved herself onto the saddle.
Landing on her belly, the result of her efforts was far too reminiscent of being carried atop Mr. Spencer’s shoulder less than ten minutes before.
Only this time, rather than gaping at Mr. Spencer’s bottom, she was staring at the side of the horse’s stomach, one leg dangling off the horse’s tail end, and her other foot trapped at an awkward angle in the metal stirrup.
The sounds of fists slamming against flesh and resulting grunts coming from behind her did nothing to mollify her panic.
“Come here, Archimedes.” Culpepper’s shoes appeared in her vision. From this perspective, the padding in his calves was quite apparent.
Tabetha arched her back at the same time she attempted to slide her leg around to sit up, but Culpepper pushed down on her back. “Stay right there, My Lady.”
How had she not realized he was such a menace? She closed her eyes and winced as the cat scrambled away from the duke, digging his claws into her… bum!
“Come back here, my precious pet.” Culpepper was all but smothering her now, his torso and waist pressing her face into the side of the horse while he grasped for poor Archimedes.
Poor Archimedes, indeed! She grimaced again. The more Culpepper tugged at the cat, the deeper the cat’s claws dug into her flesh. All the while, the horse was becoming agitated beneath her.
If she didn’t do something, if somebody didn’t do something, this was going to end quite poorly.
Before she could come up with any sort of inspired plan, Culpepper flew off of her and sprawled on the ground. Archimedes scrambled back to her shoulder, and she was straddling the horse with Mr. Spencer’s body fit snugly against her from behind.
“Hiya!”
The horse leapt into motion at her rider’s command just as Tabetha risked a glance backward, bemused at their unlikely escape. One of Culpepper’s servants was assisting the duke to his feet, but the two henchmen writhed on the ground—one of them, bloodied, holding his jaw, and the other, clutching at his groin.
Had she foreseen any of this happening, she admitted to herself, she believed she might have settled for an earl instead.
“You should have handed over the damn cat,” Stone growled, his jaw stinging and one eye already swelling closed.
“Try telling that to the cat! Archie was having none of it,” she grumbled in front of him. “Besides. It was a good idea, you have to admit. If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t have gone along with it.”
“You didn’t allow me a choice in the matter.” He’d been willing to argue with Culpepper, or Tabetha, but not both of them at the same time. Or perhaps he needn’t have argued with either of them. “Maybe I should have just let him have both of you.”
He didn’t mean it. Well, not where the cat was concerned, but there was no way in hell he would have simply handed Lady Tabetha over. Even if she was the most frustrating, spoiled, infuriating debutante in all of England.
He tugged her closer to him, uncomfortable with how close Culpepper had come to claiming her.
He’d foolishly underestimated Culpepper’s desperation, thinking it was merely common courtesy to inform the man that his fiancée hadn’t been kidnapped by highwaymen or carried away by a wild animal. He’d thought to put the duke’s mind at ease knowing she’d merely changed her mind. And he’d hoped the duke would be as motivated as anyone to keep news of the aborted elopement from becoming London’s latest scandal.
He’d thought wrong.
“What should we do now?” She didn’t sound nearly as defiant as she had a minute ago.
Stone smoothed her hair, which, like the person it was attached to, seemed set on annoying him.
“We’ll take a room in town.”
“But won’t he come after us?”
“He won’t try anything while there are witnesses about.” Culpepper would wait to attack until they were alone again. The key was to not give the blighter a chance.
A plan, simple though it was, was taking shape in his mind. “We’ll get food, some rest, and hunker down. I’ve no doubt that by now, your brother is headed in this direction. Likely, Blackheart has sent a band of his men as well. Doubtless, they’ll show up within three or four days.”
Hiding out wasn’t exactly his preferred course of action, but with Tabetha involved, it was the safest one.
“So… we’ll hide from him? At an inn?” she asked. With his hand curved over her abdomen, he felt, so much as heard her dramatic sigh. “I’m bored silly just thinking about it.”
“I’m happy for some boredom.” And food. And sleep. Preferably in that order.
Visions of steaming meat stew, a stiff drink, and a warm bed danced in his head as he pulled up on the reins outside of a modest-looking inn, The Tartan Scarf.
After dragging Tabetha and the damned cat off the horse, he handed off Poppy, flipping a coin to the groomsman with particular instructions that she received a full rubdown and the best grain he had. If he was going to break a promise to anyone, by god, it wasn’t about to be a horse.
Inside the taproom, a middle-aged gentleman stood behind a tall desk, watching the three of them warily over his spectacles. Stone probably ought to have taken a moment to wipe the blood off his face. He glanced down. His hands were bloodied as well.
“Welcome to The Tartan Scarf. A single chamber for you, then?” the man asked in an accent that reminded Stone they’d crossed into Scotland.
“That’s correct.” Stone palmed a coin onto the counter and mustered an enthusiastic smile before Tabetha could offer up her opinion on their lodgings. He needed to protect her from Culpepper until Westerley or Blackheart arrived, and he couldn’t protect her if he wasn’t in the same room as her.
“Mr. and Mrs. Rock Chester. Married the little woman today, isn’t that right, honeybunch?”
He dropped an arm around her shoulder and squeezed her against him.
This was the perfect opportunity to get under her skin. After her harrowing experience, she might even give up on her ridiculous quest to become a duchess. She might even admit he’d been right.
Although he wouldn’t wager on it.
She squirmed, clutching the ridiculous cat, but he didn’t relax his hold.
“How many nights will you need, Sir?” The innkeeper reached for the money and then slid his guest book across for Stone to sign.
“Three, perhaps more.” Stone waggled his eyebrows, sliding a lecherous glance to the lady at his side. “We’ve traveled a long way for this.”
He bit the side of his cheek to keep from laughing at her pinkened cheeks and aghast expression. She was responding precisely how a newlywed lady might on the afternoon before her wedding night.
All appeared as it should.
Except for the cat. He was at a loss as to how he’d explain Archimedes away if the innkeeper took issue with the unusual-looking creature.
“Number five. Top of the stairs and to your right.”
Stone glanced at the staircase, pleased to realize their chamber would face the road. This way they could keep a
n eye out for Culpepper and Westerley at the same time.
“We’ll need a meal sent up. Cream please, for my cat.” Tabetha had gathered her dignity enough to step forward and begin making demands. “And I’ll need a bath.” She narrowed her eyes and glanced over at Stone. “As will my husband.”
“I’ll just use your water, honeybunch.”
Apparently conscious that the innkeeper was watching them closely, she pinched her lips into what could almost be considered a smile but failed to keep her pert little nose from scrunching up in disgust. “Anything will be an improvement.”
Which managed to send the man into a fit of laughter. “You’ve a feisty one there, Mr. Chester. Don’t you worry, little lady. We’ll have that bath made up right away. Along with a complimentary bottle of champagne and cream for your puss. I’m Mr. Hettrick. Just ask for me or my wife if you need anything else.”
Chapter 6
Mister and Mrs.
Tabetha’s first instinct had been to demand her own chamber, thinking Mr. Spencer’s intentions were less than honorable.
Rock Chester! Such a bounder!
And then he’d gone and called her his honeybunch! Of course, he was doing this to torture her.
But before she could make any real arguments, she realized the fib was necessary for the two of them to avoid Culpepper’s notice. The fake name, pretending to be a newly married couple… She would, however, have appreciated it if he’d discussed it with her first. And it hadn’t been necessary for him to speak in such a crude manner when discussing how many nights they’d be staying, implying…
Mr. Chester—ha!—unlocked the door and then gestured for her to enter with an exaggerated bow.
The chamber wasn’t particularly large, although it smelled of lemon oil, as though it had been recently cleaned, and late afternoon sunshine streamed through the window.
He barely allowed her to step inside before closing the door behind him and sliding the locks into place. Without so much as a word, he then threw himself onto the bed, still wearing his soiled clothing and not bothering to remove his muddied boots.
“What are you doing? You’re filthy!” She eyed him in disgust.
“Wake me when the food arrives,” Mr. Spencer answered without opening his eyes. Archie was apparently prepared to let down his guard as well, relinquishing his claim of her, jumping onto the floor and across the room to settle on a wooden chair.
“Wouldn’t you like to clean up first, Mr. Spencer?” Tabetha winced when she took a good look at him. Rationally, she was aware that he’d been in a violent skirmish, but in the time they’d taken to get away from Culpepper and check into the inn, his eye had swollen practically closed, and the cut on his lip had oozed a fair amount of blood.
“I’m Stone.” He covered his eyes with one arm. “Or Rock. Whichever you prefer.” He didn’t sound nearly as bossy as he normally did. He sounded tired.
Tabetha bit her lip.
Despite his propensity for making a pest of himself, she hated that he’d suffered because of her.
Furthermore, he hadn’t been a pest today. Oh, she hated that he’d been right about Culpepper, but Mr. Spencer—Stone—had turned out to be something of a godsend. He’d shown up to rescue her and then he’d defended her and poor Archie.
Even if he’d been somewhat brutish about all of it.
Squashing her normal aversion for the sight of blood or any bodily fluids, for that matter, she wet a handy linen in the bowl of water set out on the dresser and crept across the room.
Stone lay breathing evenly, leaving himself open for her inspection.
Torn waistcoat worn over a linen shirt, a well-made pair of breeches, and a dirty pair of Hessians. She frowned. Aside from the boots, his apparel wasn’t exactly designed for travel.
“What are you wearing?” she asked.
“I was coming to take you driving when we found out. My hat’s on the side of the road a few hundred miles back, as is my cane.” His lips hardly moved as he answered. “I didn’t bother stopping to change before coming after you.”
Tabetha slowly removed her bonnet and dropped it onto the foot of the bed. Had he been concerned, or had he merely been making good on his promise to her brother? Apparently, he hadn’t stopped to shave, either.
Even with her watching him, he lay completely relaxed, breathing slowly and evenly.
It was hardly fair that men could sleep after being horizontal for less than ten seconds. Her father had been able to do that as well, and Westerley.
“Stone?” She crept closer and hovered the damp cloth over the cut.
“Hmmm…” he mumbled.
Leaning over him, she admired the thickness of his lashes and found herself studying the rest of his features. What might have once been a perfect nose cricked to the left and although it ought to distract from his looks, somehow only added to his very dependable exterior. His cheekbones were high and defined. She couldn’t really make out his chin as it was hidden by the beard he’d allowed to grow over the past few days but from what she could remember, it was a rugged and stubborn chin—much like the man himself.
She dabbed the cloth at his bottom lip, which was full and surprisingly soft looking. When he flinched, she drew back. “Does it hurt?”
“I’ll live.” His eyes were half-open now, and he watched her… warily.
“I’m sorry,” she managed around the huge lump that had formed in her throat. The lump was an odd combination of guilt, shame, and self-pity. “You wouldn’t be hurt if I hadn’t been so stupid.” She wiped the blood from his chin and then pressed the cloth against the cut itself.
“I won’t argue with you.” His mouth moved beneath her hand.
“I’m a horrid person.”
“Not horrid.” His eyes opened and for what felt like the first time, they weren’t mocking her.
Stone found himself staring into the saddest brown eyes he’d ever seen. A vague sense of lavender teased his nostrils where she held the damp cloth against his mouth.
“Everyone is going to hate me!” she moaned.
“Not quite everyone.” But his mind flashed back to Westerley’s curricle and Creighton’s foot. And then there was the fact that he had failed to give Peter a proper send off to Brighton. It was on the tip of his tongue to agree with her assessment, but she was doing quite well on her own. Even so… “I don’t hate you.”
She sniffed but then sent him a wobbly grin. “That’s big of you.”
“I’m like that,” he teased. “Big.”
She shook her head.
Miracle of miracles, she was acting nothing like the spoiled debutante he’d become accustomed to. She looked nothing like her, either.
Most of her golden hair was dangling down her back and around her face, her gown was muddied, wrinkled, and torn, and rather than taunting him for his lack of lordliness, she was acting with—was it really possible?—humility.
He could tell her the cut was nothing. He could explain that his eye would return to normal in a few days. And it wasn’t necessary for her to know that he suspected one of his ribs might be bruised. But who was he to stop this delightful bout of remorse on her part?
“You’re welcome to tell me that you told me so.” Her bottom lip protruded slightly more than her upper one did when she pouted.
“I told you so.” He chuckled, unable to help himself, and then regretted it when he was rewarded with a painful stab on his left side. He knew she’d had it rough when she didn’t rise to his bait.
“You were right.” She was stroking his jaw with the cloth now. Stone took full advantage of her repentant moment, relaxing into the bed and enjoying her touch. “He wasn’t going to be worth it. He was horrible.” She made a sound that wasn’t quite a sob but wasn’t even close to laughter. “All he wanted was my dowry. Of course, I understood that the money partly compelled his proposal. But I assumed it couldn’t be the only thing that attracted him.” Another sound. This one, a definite sob. “What have I
done?”
A mournful wail followed her question.
And as much as he was enjoying her conceding that he’d been right all along, Stone couldn’t stand to watch her fall apart completely. Ignoring the pain in his side, he pushed her hand away and sat up.
“Sit.” He patted the mattress beside him.
“I’m filthy.” But she lowered herself onto the mattress anyway. To comply so easily, she truly must be feeling low.
“Can I ask you something?” He watched her closely.
She frowned but nodded.
“Why a duke?”
“I need to be a duchess.”
“No one needs to be a duchess.” So much determination had to come from somewhere.
“I do.” She lifted her chin, showing some of the spirit he was used to.
“Why?”
She crushed the linen cloth she’d been using in her fist, and then opened it and smoothed it on her lap. “Because—"
A knock sounded at the door, cutting her off quite effectively.
“Either that’s our food, our bath, or both.” He spoke to the top of her head and then rose to allow a handful of servants to enter, one carrying a large tray of food, three others with steaming buckets of water who efficiently filled a small tub that was tucked behind the screen on the opposite side of the room.
“Can we bring you anything else, Mr. Chester?” the woman who’d brought the food asked.
He examined the contents of the tray. Bread, cheese, olives, fruit… champagne. “A bottle of whisky? Perhaps two?”
“Of course, Sir.”
Five minutes later, he was alone with the demoralized debutante once again. Her misery weighed heavily in the silence.
“If you don’t take advantage of the hot water, I will.” He glanced at the forlorn creature on the bed and then crossed to the chair. “Down, cat,” he ordered.
Archimedes glared defiantly back at Stone until, apparently sensing he had softer, more comfortable options, hopped off and jumped onto the bed instead. At least it wouldn’t shed.
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