Angel's Guardian

by Scottie Barrett

  “Perhaps, we should come back when Mr. Wykes is not so busy,” Angeline said.

  Beatrice waved the suggestion away, clambered down from the carriage, and fetched the basket from the back of the wagon.

  The vicar handed Angeline down. He commented on the unseasonably warm weather as they followed behind his sister who was bustling up the path.

  Mrs. Wykes opened the door to them. “Angel,” she cried and quickly shucked off her apron which was dusted with flour. She pulled Angeline into her arms and Angeline couldn’t help noticing how frail she’d become.

  Once inside the quaint farmhouse, Beatrice thrust the basket out to her. “We wished to say hello to some of our new neighbors.”

  Mrs. Wykes hesitated a moment before accepting it with a nod of thanks. She quickly stashed the items in the cupboard. Angeline suspected it was to hide them from her husband.

  As they sat around the table sipping weak tea and sharing pleasantries, Angeline’s gaze kept flicking to the window. Her heart beat ticked up a couple of notches, when she finally caught sight of Draxford coming in from the fields. Two men Angeline recognized from neighboring farms accompanied him. Despite his gruff response at dinner, it looked as if he’d come to give Wykes another chance. The aid he provided though, would not be tempered with compassion or warmth. Draxford believed in concrete solutions, emotions were superfluous.

  He issued some kind of order to the men which sent them running to do his bidding. Draxford seemed to have adapted his soldierly discipline to his civilian life. Angeline did not doubt that with his help it was just a matter of time before the farm was set right.

  Draxford stopped at the water pump and ducked his head under it. He straightened and scraped his wet hair back from his forehead. As he glanced over at the farmhouse, Angeline quickly shifted out of his line of vision.

  With trepidation, she heard his boot heels on the porch. He rapped his knuckles once on the door before opening it. He gave a terse nod to the vicar and his sister. “Pardon me, but I would like to speak with my ward.” He did not bother to disguise the anger in his voice. Angeline set her teacup down with a rattle and followed him out.

  He waited to confront her until they were a distance from the house. They stood beneath an ancient oak. The tree was nearly leafless and cast very little shade yet a chill ran through her. She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders.

  Draxford crossed his arms over his chest. His shirt sleeves were rolled up revealing his sun-browned forearms. A muscle in his jaw worked as he stared at her. He stood silent as if he were trying to rein in his temper. Despite the coming scolding, she could not stop herself from admiring him. Drops of water trailed from the ends of his hair down his muscular throat. What she would not give to lick up every one of those drops. She knew naked lust shone from her face but she couldn’t pull her gaze away. Her gaze drifted to the snug buckskins hugging his muscular thighs to the top boots splattered with mud and back again to the growing bulge in his breeches. She pulled in a shivering breath.

  “Christ Almighty.” He adjusted the fit of his buckskins. “Brat, you must stop looking at me in that way. It is damned inappropriate.” His deep voice sounded raw.

  Chastened, a blush spread over her entire face. “Yes, sir.”

  She kept her focus on his strong chin as he spoke. “I will assume you visited the vicar without an escort, never having been properly introduced to the man in the first place. And to compound that, you likely left the house without giving anyone notice.”

  “Yes, I’m guilty of those transgressions.” Her mouth set in a challenging pout. She instantly regretted her obstinacy. “I’m sorry. You deserve far better than to be saddled with the likes of me.”

  “An apology? Now you worry me. Are you feeling well? Your eyes have an unnatural glitter.”

  “Perfectly well,” she said, though her head was still pounding and the chilled feeling seemed to be increasing. “Vicar Firkins and his sister would very much like to meet you.”

  “I fully intend on meeting the vicar,” he said ominously.

  “Oh, please do not fault them. This visit was entirely my idea.”

  “I do believe you could persuade the devil to do your bidding.” He dragged a hand over his face in obvious irritation. “I’m not fit to meet anyone in this condition. Go away, Minx, and give me a chance to recover.”

  As she approached the house, Angeline heard Beatrice’s overbright voice and followed the sound to the orchard.

  Beatrice turned to Angeline with a smile. “I was just mentioning that the village baker never has more than a meager amount of dessert goods on offer. I was thinking Mrs. Wykes could supply him with fruit tarts.” Her smile broadened.

  Angeline threw a questioning glance at Mrs. Wykes who burst out laughing. “Angel’s too sweet to say it aloud, but nobody would pay for my baking. The boys have been known to use my biscuits in their slingshots.”

  “Then we will have to think of something else to earn a little pin money.”

  The vicar, his hands clasped behind his back, sidled up to Angeline. He dipped his head and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Poor Mrs. Wykes. Once Beatrice settles on a project she is impossible to shake.”

  Beatrice peppered Mrs. Wykes with questions as they strolled the grounds. Soon they were all following her back to the house so she could inspect Mrs. Wyke’s doilies to determine if her tatting skills could be profitable. When Draxford stepped through the door Beatrice finally stopped talking and just blinked in wonder at him. Though he’d put on his jacket he had not bothered with his neckcloth, his collar gaped at the throat exposing the entirety of the upside down fleur-de-lis. From his great height, he scowled at Vicar Firkins who quickly moved away from Angeline’s side. Beads of sweat were forming on Mr. Firkin’s upper lip as he stepped forward and greeted his benefactor.

  His sister offered a timid curtsy, but her shyness did not last for long. “What a curious mark. I hate to be impertinent, but how did you come by it?”

  “Beatrice!” her brother admonished.

  The only signal Draxford gave that he was taken aback by the question was the slight arching of one of his brows. Angeline’s ears perked up, she was dying to hear the story.

  “It happened years ago. I was a mere lieutenant. I was taken prisoner during a battle in Albuera. I injured a French officer while escaping. When I was recaptured the officer decided I deserved a little reward.” He rubbed the side of his neck. “I did not make the same mistake twice.”

  “You mean trying to escape?” Beatrice asked.

  “No” —his gaze shifted from the vicar’s sister to Angeline— “leaving that officer alive when next I broke out.” There was a slight narrowing to his eyes and his jaw thrust forward as if daring her to judge him. Angeline locked eyes with him and refused to flinch. The intensity melted from his expression.

  The vicar chuckled knowingly as if he would have done the same, eliminated the enemy who’d marked his flesh with a reviled symbol.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Draxford nodded in the direction of the empty dining room chair. “Where’s the girl?”

  “Tabby brought a tray up to her.” Constance took a sip of her wine. “She’s been with your aunt all day doing the beadwork on her mask.”

  He slammed the table with the flat of his hand and Constance jumped. “The devil she has.” His instinct was to bring the brat home himself. The girl defied him at every turn.

  Nicholas yanked the bell pull to summon a servant. When he didn’t get an instant response he strode to the door, threw it open and gave orders to the first servant he saw. “Send Wick with the carriage to fetch Miss Kent from Vicar Firkins.”

  He snatched the decanter of port from the sideboard and returned to the table.

  As they finished dining, Constance recited the gi
rl’s shortcomings, but it was just noise to him. He kept his ears tuned to the sound of wheels in the courtyard.

  The plates had long been cleared and he was already on his fourth glass of port but it was doing nothing to calm him. His blood was boiling by the time the carriage pulled up the drive.

  Wick removed his hat as he entered the dining hall. “The vicar said to tell you that Miss Kent has taken ill and he does not believe she should travel tonight. Miss Beatrice, his sister, will see to her care.”

  Nicholas recalled the feverish light in her eyes at the farm. “Keep the carriage hitched.”

  Constance laid a restraining hand on his arm. “I’m sure Miss Firkins is perfectly capable of caring for her.” He glanced down at her pale fingers gripping his sleeve. “You should not give that spoiled child the satisfaction of running after her. She brought this on herself.”

  Constance withdrew her hand as Nicholas got to his feet. “And, Wick, fetch the physician. I want him here when I return.”

  “For a simple complaint?” Constance set her napkin down carefully beside her plate. “If you insist on this then I shall come with you and soothe the situation.”

  “I believe I can handle this on my own,” he said

  ***

  Cottagers peered from behind their curtains as the carriage passed, obviously, unused to so much traffic on their quiet lane.

  The vicarage door opened as Nicholas headed up the short path. Without waiting for an invitation, he stepped inside. Miss Firkins glanced curiously at the quilt he carried. He’d come armed, more for his own protection than Angeline’s.

  “I’m here for my ward.”

  “Poor thing, dozed off over a cup of tea. I was just making up the bed in our unused room.”

  Nicholas was in no mood for small talk.

  The parlor was dim except for a dying fire in the hearth. Angeline was curled into a corner of the sofa, her face cushioned by her hand, a blanket tucked to her chin. The vicar popped up from the chair facing the sofa, dropping the book he was reading to the floor. He turned and bowed stiffly. Nicholas fought the urge to knock him against the wall.

  “What the hell are you thinking, man? Sitting in the same room with a sleeping young woman?”

  Angeline jolted awake. He couldn’t blame her, he’d entered like an angry bull. It only took him three strides to cross the small room. She blinked up at him as if disoriented. He sure as hell didn’t like the high color he was seeing in her cheeks and the glossy, unnatural look to her eyes. He threw the thick quilt over the blanket her hosts had provided and rolled her up as tight as a sausage before scooping her off the sofa. Her mussed hair tickled his chin and he stomped back down the narrow hallway in a hurry to deposit his tempting package in the carriage before he lost all reason. He ducked out of the cottage with only a grunt of thank you to the vicar and his sister.

  The driver opened the coach door and Nicholas lifted her into the carriage and set her gently on the bench. She smiled drowsily at him and tried to worm her way out of the blanket.

  “Keep it on, brat,” he demanded as he climbed aboard and sat across from her. He removed the glass chimney on the lamp and lit the oil-wick. Angeline narrowed her eyes against the brightness.

  Draxford rapped hard on the ceiling and the carriage was off. The wheels hit a dip in the road and his arm shot out to prevent her from tumbling forward.

  Angeline managed to wriggle her arm free and grab the overhead strap.

  “Stubborn chit, you’re shivering.” He reached across and yanked the curtain shut and then jerked the one closed on his side of the vehicle. The heavy leather curtains kept the night air from seeping through the window sash.

  Angeline settled back against the cushion and covered her eyes, trying to block out the lamplight.

  He quickly extinguished the flame, throwing the carriage into a darkness so complete that he could only make out the rough outline of the quilt.

  “I knew there was something wrong with you today you were far too docile.”

  “It was not docility. I was merely grateful that you’d given Farmer Wykes another opportunity.” Her voice sounded a little raspy. “You are a kind man.”

  “I’m no such thing,” he said.

  What sounded very much like a sob came from the lump of blankets. “I cannot stop thinking of the dangers you faced in battle. Of your captivity.”

  Nicholas wondered if the fever was making her delirious. “Have you been drinking?” He leaned toward her to see if he could catch a whiff of alcohol.

  “A thimbleful of sherry. Beatrice said it would help my throat.” Angeline made another sobbing sound. “I was so selfish wanting you home, never imagining what you might be suffering.”

  It shook him. As far as he knew, no one had ever shed a tear on his behalf. “I wish I hadn’t opened my bloody mouth.”

  “I was grateful to Beatrice for asking about your tattoo. You never speak of your experiences,” she said, ending on a quivering note. Unrestrained weeping soon filled the confines of the carriage. His collar seemed to have a stranglehold on his throat and he ran a finger under his collar to loosen it.

  “Save your tears. I’m not worth them,” he said.

  His brusqueness had the desired effect, her crying ceased, but she hiccupped and sniffled for the remainder of the ride.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Angeline stirred from a feverish dream to find Draxford in her room. She recalled his fury at finding the vicar keeping her company, and yet here he was.

  Feeling fuzzy headed, she threw off the blankets and stepped out of bed. Her body wracked with chills, she walked over to where he sat slumped in the wingback chair. He’d shed his jacket and waistcoat and his untied cravat was draped around his neck. His fine cambric shirt clung to his chest with sweat. Obviously, he’d rekindled the fire before dozing off. He was keeping the room warm like a nest. Despite feeling to blame for his miserable night’s sleep, Angeline could not deny how comforting it was to have him near. Resisting the impulse to crawl into his lap, she returned to her bed and fell instantly to sleep.

  On the third day, Angeline woke free of symptoms, except for a slightly scratchy throat. She looked across the room. The chair stood empty. She’d woken in the night to find Draxford keeping vigil again by the fireplace.

  Tabby soon delivered her tea and toast along with the news that the physician insisted that she stay in bed for another day. Angeline couldn’t help concluding that her very intimidating guardian had helped influence the physician’s orders.

  Forced to entertain herself while confined to bed, Angeline had Tabby bring her the butterfly mask to work on. With a sixth sense for creative endeavors, Gladys found her way to Angeline’s bedside armed with feathers and boxes of glittering beads.

  In the early afternoon, Tabby delivered a small bouquet. She frowned at the sight of Angeline’s coverlet scattered with exotic feathers, tinsel and sequins.

  “The vicar again,” she said as she placed the flowers on the bedside table. “This one has a note attached.” Tabby’s eyes were lit with curiosity as she handed it to Angeline.

  Angeline perused the note, not caring that Tabby read it over her shoulder.

  The sentiments scrawled on the card were bold, too bold for the placid vicar. Certainly, Beatrice had had a hand in composing it.

  Ridiculous, she thought, and crumpled the note. The intimation of a future betrothal was nothing more than evidence of Beatrice’s controlling nature. Marrying the landowner’s ward would help cement a permanent position for her brother.

  Determined to get some fresh air, Angeline rang for a bath. Tabby clucked her tongue in disapproval, but the bath was soon forthcoming.

  Feeling revived from a long soak, Angeline shooed Tabby out the door so she would not be held to blame for abetting her escape. A
ngeline dressed herself, leaving off the most complicated of her layers, her petticoats and stays.

  After fashioning her still damp hair into a loose braid, she gathered her sketching material. There was a short rap at the door followed by Constance slipping into the room without waiting for an invitation.

  “Tabby told me the vicar has shown an interest.” She walked straight to the little bouquet. She shook her head in obvious dismay at the state of the note. She smoothed out the wrinkles as she read it. “More than an interest, I see.”

  She carefully refolded the note and tucked it beneath the bouquet. “You are certainly a talented flirt.” She turned to face Angeline. “If he offers, you will accept him.”

  Angeline’s eyes widened, she doubted her hearing. The time spent in the freezing nursery to mold her into the perfect mate for Hugh Stanbury, had that just been some strange lark?

  Constance walked over to the bed and plucked the butterfly mask from the coverlet. She held it aloft, angling it so that it glittered as it caught the sun’s rays. “My cousin is a pleasure hound. But there is a price to pay for it. His profligate ways have reduced his social station, to say nothing of his fortune. A person cannot indulge ones vices as he has and stay solvent forever.” She set the mask down and turned to face Angeline, her blue eyes, pitiless and cold. “Marrying you would allow him to hitch his fortunes to the major’s. But he wants more than that, he actually wants you! Only improved, so you will not completely embarrass him. But he miscalculated. He’d assumed a girl with a whore for a mother and a cuckolded, murderer for a father would not have any other takers.”

  Angeline swallowed hard, a painful lump forming in her throat.

  “You’ve been indulged long enough. Whichever besotted fool asks for your hand first will be your husband.” With her shoulders held stiffly, Constance headed toward the door. She stopped suddenly, and bent down to pluck Draxford’s cravat from the rug by the hearth. Her face flushed with obvious anger. She stared at the cravat rather than look at Angeline. “Have you any idea what a man like Major Draxford can accomplish? His ascent through the ranks was due to merit and sheer force of character. Do you know how rare that is?”