by Deb Marlowe
“Clearly, he did not feel that way about you,” he countered.
“I’m the one he didn’t break.”
She said it so simply. Like it was not a monumental achievement. It was, he knew. He could well imagine it, though he had no wish to. This carriage was too small to contain the fury he felt when he thought of all that she must have been through.
He stuck to logistical issues instead. “I thought perhaps those pages contained information on his hideaways, since you knew where to find him in Somerset.”
“No. Nothing like that.” She met his gaze steadily. “That is not how I know how to find him.”
Well. There seemed no way to respond—except to wait and see if she would expound upon it.
She did not.
Silence stretched out again. Not easy, this time, though. He allowed it to fill the carriage with awareness and expectation and whatever magic she spun that made him want to know every small thing about her, with the distance she always imposed upon them and his despair that he was never going to bridge it.
The Brentford tollgate came and went and at last he cleared his throat. “I had thought we were agreed,” he began.
“On?”
“Have we not declared that we would be friends? This,” he gestured, “does not feel friendly.”
“No?”
“Friends talk. Share.”
“I shared my favorite color,” she said defensively.
“Friends converse. They laugh.”
“I do have friends, Stoneacre,” she said with a roll of her eyes.
“Then treat me as one,” he challenged. “Or will it be too difficult?”
“No. Too dangerous,” she countered with a direct look that beckoned him, like a shimmer of light from a long and shadowed corridor.
His heart suddenly tripped to a faster gait. “Less dangerous than the alternative.”
“True enough.” She leaned back. “But I have already shared a secret this morning. If you wish to further our friendship, then I believe it is your turn.”
“Fine. But I do not wish any further discussion of Marstoke.”
“I heartily concur.” She raised a brow and he noticed it was blonde again, and briefly missed that earthy bit of red. “So, what shall it be?”
He opened his mouth, then shut it again. “I find myself perplexed.”
She bit back a grin. “What was it you said to me? Tell me what you love? What you hate?”
“Very well. I love my sister.”
“Not fair,” she objected. “That can hardly count as a secret.”
“It counts as a miracle.”
She laughed. “Truly?”
“Without a doubt. She’s just as stiff-necked and prideful as my parents and I hate the nickname she gave me as children with an unholy passion. Which is why she still uses it.”
“Now, that sounds like a story to pass the time.”
What on earth was wrong with him, bringing up such a subject? But he rather thought he’d tell her every embarrassing story he knew, to hear that laugh again.
“Very well.” He settled back into the cushion. “We played at pirates, often, when we were small. We staged dashing sword fights and survived tempests and sea monsters and wicked French privateers out to capture us for reward.”
“How intrepid.”
“We were, rather. I received a splendid model of a two-masted schooner for a birthday present and I would take it across the lawns to the lake to sail it. Patrice was only allowed to the lake if her governess accompanied her, so whenever she grew tiresome and wanted to change the game to Pirate Princess or Pirate Bride, I would take my model and abandon her.”
“Wretched boy,” she said with feeling.
“I was, indeed. One day she evaded her governess and came after me. I had the boat in dry dock that morning, which meant I had it with me at the end of the dock while I tried to reattach a sail. She teased me, wanting to sail it on her own. I refused, naturally.”
“Naturally.”
“She fussed and fumed and tried to snatch it away. I pushed her back and she fell in the lake.”
Hestia looked horrified.
“It should have been no great matter. My father was not fool enough to raise us near the lake without teaching us how to swim. But the shock of it—she opened her mouth and got a mouthful of lake water and in the ensuing coughing and sputtering, she became confused and frightened. She panicked. I couldn’t get her to listen to me. I knew I had to go in after her, but in doing so, I tripped over my model ship and one of the masts stabbed deep into my thigh.”
“Oh, dear. But you did save your sister.”
“I did. And had to be stitched up, afterward. I walked with a limp for months, which sent my father into despair and allowed my sister to dub me Gimpy.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“And one would think that she would be too grateful to torture you so.”
“Alas, if only that were how sisters worked.”
“I never had a sister. Not a blood sister, to share and compete with and all that comes with it.”
“I know that Callie Russell certainly counts you as family, as does Lord Truitt.”
“She is family, as far as I’m concerned. I have been gifted with sisters of the heart and they are all a true blessing.”
They spoke for a while then, of the friends who had become her family. Callie and Tru. Brynne and her husband, the Duke of Aldmere. And of her son, Rhys, who had just married her protégé, the urchin they’d all first known as Flightly.
And all the while, Stoneacre rocked between wonder and despair. Here it was, everything he’d hoped for with Hestia. Conversation and a bit of teasing and a growing sense of intimacy. Heat and the sparkle of tension flared between them, increasing a little each time their knees brushed or their gazes met. But it was fleeting and the knowledge hurt. He wanted to shout in denial as the carriage began to slow.
He looked out. “Hounslow,” he said. “We’ll change horses here. We might as well disembark and freshen up and find a bite to eat.”
He handed her down when they pulled into the courtyard at the Bear. And when the touch of her hand and the brush of her skirts against his leg caused his breath to catch—he told himself it was his own fault.
Every nursery maid, nanny and tutor that he’d ever had—and there had been a long line of them—had warned him to be careful what he wished for.
Now he knew exactly what they meant.
Chapter 7
Sometime in his reign of terror, Lord M—came up with the idea of marking his false brides. I myself wear the scar carved into my finger where my wedding ring would have been. When I tire of fighting his cruelty, I look at it and remember the sisters who wear the same mark.
—from the Journal of the Infamous Miss Hestia Wright
* * *
The Brown Bear was spacious, inviting and very busy. The late afternoon hour appeared to have brought a selection of locals out to enjoy the comforts of the taproom, which lay to the right of where Hestia stood in the entryway of the inn. Stoneacre spoke with the innkeeper, while she wondered why it appeared to be taking such a long time to settle an account for a change of horses.
Wandering toward the taproom, she peered inside. It held a loud and congenial crowd. They appeared to be embroiled in a rollicking debate over which sort of pig feed produced the best bacon.
Why had she hesitated to tell him about Marstoke’s lists? Sighing, she admitted that she knew why. It was personal, her crusade to find those women. All of the work she did was valuable. She truly believed it. But finding those women felt special to her. Every time she could offer help or a shoulder to cry on, or even just a listening ear—it bound them. And it helped to heal her own soul, just a little.
Crusade was the right word, too. She followed that list with nearly religious fervor, determined to find them all.
But sharing something so meaningful—it left her feeling exposed. Letting him s
ee that was lifting the mask a bit, allowing a glimpse of the private creature inside. And she hadn’t allowed herself to feel vulnerable around a man in a very long time.
She supposed that was the least she owed him, for his help. But it felt . . . significant.
“It would seem there is a problem with their private parlor,” Stoneacre said, approaching. “It is unavailable, but we can take a quick bite in the taproom, or request a box to take with us. There will be a small bit of a delay with the horses, however, as they only have one groom tonight.” He paused. “I assumed we would travel on, at least to Reading. I know it grows late—”
“Yes, we should push on, but if we have to wait in any case, I don’t mind the taproom.” She took a step closer to the open door and looked over the crowd once more. “No one here looks to be a London brothel keeper en route to or from a meeting with Marstoke, but we should be careful. Inconspicuous.”
She gave herself credit for not scoffing at the idea even as she proposed it. She had dressed in a plain traveling gown and pelisse, but Stoneacre, with his height and breadth, his striking looks and exquisite tailoring, looked every inch the lofty lord.
She kept her face turned down as they moved to a small table in a corner. A few men glanced at them, but the villagers in Hounslow were used to travelers. Their argument raged on as Hestia and Stoneacre settled in.
“Not one of them have the right of it,” He leaned over her shoulder to speak as he pushed her chair in. “A hot mash of mixed grain is always best for bacon.”
She glanced up in surprise. “Another hidden talent, my lord?”
“I do have an estate of my own to manage,” he reminded her. “My tenants are quite as opinionated as these fellows on the matter. And a properly fattened pig can mean the difference between comfort and want thru the long winter.”
She thought about that as the innkeeper’s wife brought out slices of game pie and pints of her own home brew. “I assume you’ve undergone extensive training to take over your father’s marquessate, as well?”
“Of course.”
It was a casual answer. He was more interested in the excellent meal than in impressing her with his inheritance. Her heart swelled a little more with affection for him. Truly, he appeared to be Marstoke’s opposite in every way. A man of power who viewed it as a responsibility instead of a right. One who did his duty and then labored in his spare time to improve the world, instead of grasping for more of it and casually destroying the rest.
Duty. The thought struck a chord as she took a long drink. “You mentioned your father was distraught over your accident with the model ship. Was it so bad? Did they fear for your life?”
“It was damned painful and slow to heal, but my father feared for my gait, for the most part,” he said with a sigh. “He could not bear the thought of his son and heir walking with a limp for the rest of his days.”
Her brow lowered. The question must have shown in her face.
“My father,” he paused and appeared to be considering his next words. “My father is an . . . idealist. He has an opinion and a preference on all things and likes everything just so.”
“I’m familiar with the type.” Her heart fell a little and she told it sternly to stop. The Marquess of Woodbury’s inclinations would never be anything to her. She also suppressed the sudden and terrifying urge to ask about his mother. That could certainly lead to no good. “That cannot have been easy to grow up with. I speak from experience, as he sounds as if he would get on exceedingly well with my father—who also wished for every small thing to perfectly align. But I imagine it was worse for you, being the heir.”
“I was far from perfect,” he said wryly.
“No one is perfect.” She raised her pint. “But in all honesty, Stoneacre, you approach closer than most.”
He laughed and raised his glass as well. “May the sentiment travel from your lips to my family’s ears. Although they would think your standards are lamentably low.”
No. Could they see the pair of them now, his family would think her an enterprising female of the worst degree, and would likely start planning on how to pry him from her clutches.
“They don’t approve of your work for the Privy Council? I should think they would be proud.” She paused. “Oh, but I know of several tricky situations you’ve landed in—and I’m sure there are countless more. They fear for your safety.”
“Their concern would be more palatable if it had to do more with me and less with the transfer of the title.”
“Ah. They are after you to marry.” A ribbon of sorrow leaked from her icy core, easing from the crack that he’d opened with his kiss.
“Worse. My mother has progressed to the point of throwing available young chits at my head.”
In the blink of an eye, sorrow to turned to indignation and a wholly unreasonable anger. Her fist tightened around her glass, but her mask—thank the heavens for her mask—saved her from betraying herself further.
Enough. She pulled hard on the reins of her wayward emotions. It was ridiculous to resent a concerned mother and some innocent, nameless girl.
Saints, but she did not want know that girl’s name.
“You are no longer a young buck, sir. As I am no longer a girl. I suppose your mother is to be commended for waiting this long,” she said lightly, though it cost her.
He snorted, but his mouth was full, so he did not reply further. She turned her attention to the crowd again. A few more locals entered, and another traveler. After a moment, though, she realized that they had indeed attracted some unwelcome attention.
A man stood next to the door. Tall, with a broad brow and thick black hair and strong, slashing eyebrows, he sipped his ale and glanced their way more than could be explained with natural curiosity. When he wasn’t surreptitiously watching them, he was exchanging glances with a man at the bar. That one was shorter. He looked painfully thin and wore a sour expression on his long face. Leaning on the bar with his elbows, he ran a long, speculative gaze over Stoneacre.
The tall man appeared to be watching her closely. She gave no sign that she’d noticed their interest. She and Stoneacre finished eating quickly, though, and the innkeeper’s wife returned to clear the table. “Your lady can use a private room to freshen up, sir,” she said, glancing between them. “No need for her to go out to the common necessary.”
“You are so very kind.” Hestia stood. “I’ll go now, if you don’t mind, as the horses are surely nearly ready.” With a nod, she followed the woman out, and noticed the thin man followed, crossing the room and taking up a position with the other man near the door.
In the entry hall, she touched the woman’s arm. “Thank you again for your kindness,” she said, her voice low. “I am thankful to be able to stay inside. There are so many strangers about, when one travels.”
“Aye. And there is still occasional trouble about here, and no mistake.” The woman kept her tone quiet, as well. “I got a feeling in my bones these last weeks. And there have been men about I don’t know and cannot vouch for.” She patted Hestia’s hand reassuringly. “You’ll be safe enough inside, though.”
“Thank you. I know you must be busy in your kitchens tonight, with such a crowd. I can find my way if you’d like to just give me directions.”
The innkeeper’s wife nodded in gratitude. “I do have a mess of dough all risen and ready to be worked. Thank ye, ma’am. If you’ll just head to the passage behind the stairs, you can use the first room to the left.”
The woman bustled off and Hestia waited to be sure there was no one to see before she stepped behind the open taproom door. She just made it in time, too, as the thin man who had been watching stepped out. He crossed to the front door and looked out, then returned to his companion right inside the taproom. Hestia moved closer, squeezing into the narrowing space and listening.
“She’ll be harder to grab if she don’t go outside alone,” he complained.
“Don’t know as she’s the one that they are
looking for, in any case,” the tall man countered.
“I do wonder,” the thin man agreed. “This one looks younger than I would ha’ thought. And not the least bit dangerous. Did you see her? She don’t look tough. And he don’t appear to be the bloke they said she’d be travelin’ with.”
In the dark behind the door, Hestia blanched. Had they been warned about her? And who were they expecting to be with her? Isaac, perhaps?
“Hmm . . . she is a looker, though, and they did say they’d pay well for any pretty ones we could bring in.”
Hestia’s eyes narrowed. So, Marstoke’s London associates knew to watch for her—and they had taken the opportunity to watch out for themselves, as well. But Half Moon House had taken out miscreants like these before—vultures more than men, recruited to linger in streets, at stage stops and coaching inns, looking for women to abduct or trick away and sell into prostitution. Hestia and her people did their best to frighten them off, but hard cases were served their own brand of injustice and turned over to the press gangs. She’d make sure these two were given the same choice.
“What about the nob? Think she’s his wife?”
“Nah. He’s dressed finer than she. And did you see him fuss over her seat? She’s got to be his fancy piece.”
“Too pretty to be his wife, I s’pose.”
“Worth the trouble, though? That’s the question.”
“Definitely worth it, if she’s the one they asked about, but they’ll take her anyway. I’d surely pay to diddle her, were I—”
A noise sounded on the other side of the door, in the entry hall. The men stopped talking. Footsteps approached and Hestia sucked in her breath, barely breathing behind the door. Through the crack she saw the innkeeper pause and eye the men with disfavor. “Here now, the pair o’ ye. Stop lingering in the doorway, ye’ll make the taproom look more crowded than it is, should someone come in. Go on in or get out. Can’t have you chasing off business.”
They grumbled back and eventually abandoned their ales and left the inn. Hestia waited for the entry hall to empty, then went to use the room offered by the innkeeper’s wife. When she carefully emerged, watching the shadows, she returned to the taproom to find Stoneacre gone.