She fell hard against him. “Oof.”
“Sodding—!” His eyes flew open, grass green, outraged, and only inches from her face. Oh, and still surrounded by those ludicrously lush eyelashes. “Are you trying to unman me?”
“I was attempting to rise,” Hippolyta snapped back with as much dignity as possible, considering her position.
Another flake of mud fell off her face and landed on his chin, which rather ruined the whole thing.
“Next time”—he clamped hard, firm hands around her waist—“rise”—he lifted her, blankets and all—“without shoving your knee into my bloody bollocks.”
He deposited her on the seat opposite him and sat back down again, next to the only remaining blanket wadded in the corner of the seat.
Hippolyta blinked, feeling a bit breathless. She was in no way a petite woman and Mr. Mortimer had just lifted her as smoothly as he would a tankard of ale. It was a rather…disconcerting show of strength, one that made her feel a bit trembly in her belly.
She placed her hand against that part of her anatomy as if to brace herself as she met his black scowl. “I’m sorry. You needn’t be so rude. I didn’t intend to…er…”
He snorted as she stumbled over her apology and abruptly leaned over to open the window. “Josiah! Charlie!”
“Aye?” came the shout from the box in front.
“Stop the carriage.”
The carriage rolled to the side of the road and then jerked to a stop.
Mr. Mortimer opened the door without looking at Hippolyta.
“Where are you going?” she hissed at him. There was nothing in sight but rolling fields.
He glanced back at her. “To piss.”
The door slammed shut and then she was in the carriage alone.
Hippolyta folded her hands in her lap under the blankets, aware that her own bladder needed seeing to. When he returned she’d have to get out and perhaps find a bush or…
The remaining bundled blanket on the seat opposite moved.
She froze.
What?
A small pointed gray nose stuck out of one of the folds, twitching in interest.
Hippolyta had inhaled to scream when the door was flung open.
She glanced wildly at Mr. Mortimer.
“What?” He frowned, peering around the carriage as he climbed in.
She pointed at the blanket. “A rat!”
He actually rolled his eyes. “That’s not a rat.” He shoved the blanket on the floor without ceremony, revealing a small gray animal, long and lean, with a fluffy tail that narrowed to a point. It had a tiny pink nose, neat round ears, and clever slanted eyes. “That’s a—”
“Mongoose,” Hippolyta breathed, enchanted.
Matthew looked sharply at the little beggar. Few Englishmen knew what a mongoose was let alone could recognize one. In the daylight flooding the carriage she was a sorry sight indeed. Her hair hung mostly down, clotted with mud. The feet that stuck out of the blankets she clutched were shod in rough woolen stockings and ugly buckle shoes. Above she wore a too-large gown that might once have been black but was now the color of dirt. The bodice gaped, revealing a filthy chemise beneath. And he knew after putting his hands around her waist and feeling only thin layers of pliable cloth that she wore no stays. Those plump breasts would bounce when she walked, wild and wanton.
In the light of day, her claim to be a kidnapped heiress was even more ludicrous than on the night before—save for the regal way in which she held herself. She sat there, bundled in old blankets, dried mud streaks on her face, small chin tilted up, like a queen deigning to ride with some pauper.
As if she were doing him the favor.
His upper lip curled up. “How do you know what a mongoose is?”
She widened her eyes mockingly. “Perhaps I was born and raised in India, Mr. Mortimer. Perhaps I used to watch the snake charmers with their mongoose helpers. Perhaps I used to beg my papa for one of my own when I was a little girl. Oh, but I forgot—I couldn’t possibly be who I say I am.”
He scowled. “India.”
Her smile was serene and unsettling. “India.”
His eyes narrowed and he leaned forward across the carriage to growl, “Look, Princess, I’m not buying what you’re selling this morning any more than I was last night.”
“Naturally you know what’s best.”
“I do.” He crossed his arms and sat back, ignoring the disappointed little crimp of her lips.
“What’s his name?” She held out her fingertips—grubby, the nails ragged and broken—to Tommy, who, flirt that he was, chirped and leaped to her side of the carriage.
“Tommy Teapot,” he replied drily, watching as his mongoose stood on his hind legs to sniff up her arm and to her ear before sneezing and dropping down to all four paws again.
“Teapot?” She was smiling, her voice soft for the damned mongoose as Tommy investigated her bundled blankets.
“There was a big copper teapot on the ship. He liked to curl up to sleep in it for some reason. The sailors started calling him Tommy Teapot and”—he shrugged—“the name stuck.”
“A ship?” She glanced up at that. “You’re returning from a voyage?”
“To India.” He sat back, letting his legs sprawl. “Where you were raised, apparently.”
He didn’t bother hiding the disbelief in his voice. Yes, mongooses were rare things in England, but any sailor who had been to India or Arabia might’ve seen one and brought back the tale.
Sailors and prostitutes tended to keep company.
Her lips pressed together into a thin line, making the mud on her chin crack. “I was, actually. Until the age of two and twenty, when my papa took me to Venice.”
He snorted. “Oh, and now you’ve been to the Continent.”
She smiled sweetly. “Quite. But tell me of your voyage, Mr. Mortimer. What were you doing in India of all places?”
“I already told you: mapping and collecting scientific samples. We brought back dozens of plants, scores of preserved bird skins, animal skins, and insects. Books of pressed flowers and leaves, not to mention our notes and sketches. I left our expedition naturalists still debating with my old professor in Edinburgh over the samples we brought back. And the maps we were able to make.” Matthew grinned at the memory. “We were able to map—in detail, mind—from Calcutta all the way to the Himalayas. Rivers, roads, altitudes, everything. Bloody grand, it was.” He scowled. “Until the damnable skirmishing with the French made it nigh impossible to do anything there. It’s just as well I was called back home.”
“It must’ve been a disappointment, though,” she said softly. “You sound as if you enjoyed your work.”
“I did.” He shrugged, glancing away, and thought of the earldom and the debts that awaited him. No more traveling round the world for him now. No more dusty treks, indigestible native food, and near-death experiences. He’d probably have to marry some whey-faced heiress whose most pressing worry was the color of her bloody gloves. “But now I have other matters that will concern me.”
“Oh? What?”
He smiled lazily at her eager little face. “That’s not really your concern, is it?”
“No, I suppose it isn’t.” She sat back, looking irritated. “If you don’t mind, I’ve the call of nature to see to.”
“Not at all.” He swept out his arm in ironic gallantry.
She stood and stepped down from the carriage.
He was right behind her, which seemed to startle her. She whirled, peering up at him anxiously. “What are you—?”
“Don’t fret, Princess.” He pointed to a hedge. “You can do what you need to over there. I’m going to talk to my men—on the other side of the carriage.”
He turned without waiting for her answer and walked around the carriage. He found his men by the horses. Josiah, the older of the two, was leaning against the carriage, his gray hair straggling out from under his tricorne and over the collar of his still-damp greatcoat.
Josiah was a short, bowlegged man in his fifties with a face like leather from having spent most of his life at sea. Charlie, on the other hand, was barely eighteen, fresh-faced, and black-haired. The boy was nearly as tall as Matthew, but as gangly as a stork. At the moment he was bent over, inspecting one of the horses’ hooves.
Matthew frowned. “Has she gone lame?”
“What?” Charlie looked up, his cheeks reddened from the wind. Someday soon he was going to start breaking girls’ hearts with that innocent face. “Oh, no, my lord, I was jus’ checkin’ to be sure.”
“Fine.” Matthew jerked his chin to the boy.
Charlie straightened and came over to where he and Josiah stood.
“It’s ‘Mr. Mortimer’ for now.” Matthew looked between the older man and the youth. “I’d rather she not know about my title.”
Charlie’s brow wrinkled in confusion.
But Josiah chuckled deeply before hawking and spitting on the ground at their feet. “Don’ want th’ lass t’ cling and beg if’n she finds out what a fine name ye ’ave, eh, Mattie?”
“Let’s just get to the next town so we can rid ourselves of her,” Matthew growled.
“An’ are ye sure ye’ll be wantin’ t’ now?” The older man made disgusting kissing noises.
Josiah nearly choked with laughter when Matthew’s only answer was one-fingered.
He strode back around the carriage, ignoring the creeping sensation at the nape of his neck. That sense had saved him more than once during tense situations in his travels. Right now it was telling him to heed old Josiah’s words, despite the teasing. Think twice about dumping Her Highness at the next inn. This time, though, his prickling sense of uneasiness was wrong. The little vagabond was capable of taking care of herself.
Besides, her safety was no concern of his.
Chapter Three
Late one night there came a dreadful pounding on the palace doors. Outside in the pouring rain stood a man wearing naught but a tattered cloak. He said his name was John and that he’d been set upon by robbers on the high road.
But Princess Peony noticed only his lovely smile.…
—From The Prince and the Parsnip
* * *
Hippolyta could hear male laughter and she blinked, feeling hurt as she neared the road. Were they laughing at her, the drivers and Mr. Mortimer? Sniggering over the rags she wore, the mud that caked her hair? She shivered, pulling the blanket she’d taken from the carriage more firmly over her shoulders. She’d never felt more exposed in her life—without her status and wealth, without friends, without even adequate clothing. She didn’t know precisely where she was or how far away London was, and it seemed all of a sudden a very long, dangerous, and uncertain journey.
Tommy Teapot slinked out of the hedge and scampered to where she stood by the road. Hippolyta couldn’t help but smile at the little gray animal, even after her dark thoughts. He’d followed her from the carriage and gone hunting in the hedge while she’d emptied her bladder. Now he stood up, looking around alertly, and she saw he carried a brown beetle in his mouth.
“So you’ve caught your breakfast?” she murmured to him. “Well done, sir.”
The mongoose tilted his head, looking up at her with intelligent beady eyes.
She felt a pang of longing. She hadn’t lied to Mr. Mortimer when she’d told him she’d once dreamed of having a pet mongoose. Long ago, when she’d lived in India. When Amma had been alive and the air had sung with heat, chattering voices, and the scent of dung and spices. Before she’d forgotten the taste of curry, the feel of floating silks, and the language of her mother.
Before she’d learned to hide the part of her that was Indian.
She should never have spoken of mongooses and India to Mr. Mortimer. The Duke of Montgomery had already attempted to blackmail Hippolyta over her mother. The danger was real and already proven. The English were quite contemptuous of those outside their shores, let alone people of different religions, and darker skins.
Her mother had been all three.
Were London society to realize that she was half-Indian, the majority would shun her. And even with Papa’s money very few men would want to marry her.
Her children would be one-quarter Indian, after all.
But…
Mr. Mortimer didn’t believe her, did he? She could babble all she wanted to about India and her childhood and perhaps even Amma and he’d think she was simply spinning tales. The idea was strangely alluring—to talk about her memories, all stored up, without fear of repercussion.
“Ready?”
She looked up at his voice and saw Mr. Mortimer striding toward her, a frown on his face.
Well, it’d be alluring to talk about her memories if she had a companion who was just a bit more likable. “Yes, I’m ready.”
But Mr. Mortimer wasn’t paying attention to her reply. He was scowling down at Tommy. “You’re not taking that in the carriage.” That was apparently the beetle, still clutched between Tommy’s sharp little teeth. Mr. Mortimer moved to stand between the mongoose and the open carriage door. “Drop it.”
“He caught it himself,” Hippolyta objected on behalf of Tommy. “It’s his breakfast.”
Mr. Mortimer transferred his scowl to her. “I’ve some cooked chicken in the carriage for him. He doesn’t need—”
He was interrupted by Tommy’s darting between his legs and into the carriage, breakfast beetle and all.
There was a short silence.
Hippolyta cleared her throat, fighting back a smile. “Shall we go?”
Mr. Mortimer stepped to the side and bowed, sweeping his arm toward the carriage. “After you, Princess.”
She pursed her lips at his mocking tone but nodded and climbed into the carriage. Tommy was nowhere in sight when she looked around.
The carriage rocked as Mr. Mortimer entered behind her. “He’s hiding with his prize, no doubt. You needn’t worry over him.”
He knocked on the roof and sat just as the carriage lurched into motion.
Hippolyta pulled some of the blankets over her lap and spotted a glittering black eye and a pink little nose twitching under a fold. Hastily she flung the edge of a blanket back over Tommy as she heard a distinct crunch.
She cleared her throat. “How far to the next town?”
Mr. Mortimer had pulled out a battered cloth bag and was rummaging in it.
He shrugged broad shoulders. “Don’t know.”
She frowned. “But—”
“We’ll get there when we get there.” He pulled a loaf of bread out of his sack, set it beside him on the seat, and reached into the bag again to bring out a wedge-shaped package wrapped in red oilcloth, which turned out to be cheese.
Tommy poked his head out of the blanket beside Hippolyta, his nose aimed at the food.
“Decided to make an appearance?” Mr. Mortimer drawled to the animal without looking.
“You did say you had some food for him,” Hippolyta pointed out.
“And so I have, but he’ll just have to wait.” He took out a folding knife, opened it, and deftly cut a slice of bread and one of cheese. He handed both across the carriage to Hippolyta. “Ladies first.”
She took the humble fare and blinked, feeling oddly shy. “I thought you’d decided I was no lady?”
He’d bent over the bread as he cut another piece, but he glanced up at her through his ridiculously lush eyelashes and his lips quirked. “Females first, then?”
“Humph.” He’d insulted her—in a backhanded way—and yet she had trouble keeping her mouth straight.
Tommy wriggled out of his blankets and leaped to the opposite side of the carriage. Mr. Mortimer took a chicken wing from his bag and gave it to the mongoose, and the little animal dashed to a corner to devour his second breakfast.
Hippolyta took a bite of the bread and cheese. The bread was stale, but the cheese was sharp and hard and on the whole she didn’t know when she’d had a better breakfast. Hippolyta watched Mr. M
ortimer surreptitiously as she ate. He’d carved off an enormous hunk of bread and a matching slice of cheese and sat sprawled opposite her, chewing contentedly. There was something about his simple enjoyment of the food, the way his throat worked when he swallowed, the competent, concise movement of his strong hands, that was oddly compelling.
She glanced up and saw that his green eyes were on her.
She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.
“Thirsty?” He reached in his bag again and drew out an earthenware bottle, uncorking it and handing it to her.
She drank from it and tasted small beer. Not precisely her first choice—or even her third—but under the circumstances quite welcome.
She handed the bottle back to him. “Thank you.”
He nodded and, watching her, brought the bottle to his own lips to drink.
Inexplicably her mouth went dry again.
The carriage slowed and jerked to a stop.
Mr. Mortimer straightened and glanced out the window. “We’re at an inn.” He looked back at her and his face had somehow lost all expression, leaving her feeling cold and alone. “This is where we part ways, I think.”
Matthew watched the little beggar. She’d dropped her bread and cheese in her lap and her eyes had widened.
“Best finish your breakfast. I’ll inquire if the mail coach stops here.”
He opened the carriage door and stepped down before he could do something stupid and ask if she really wanted to get out here. He’d traveled half the world and had encountered his fair share of cozeners and rogues. They worked mostly by gaining the sympathies of their intended victims. Perhaps Her Highness merely needed a ride to London, but only a fool put himself at the mercy of a female confidence trickster.
The sooner he rid himself of her, the better for all.
With that thought in mind, he strode inside the inn to find the innkeeper.
When he emerged ten minutes later he saw that Josiah and Charlie were feeding and tending to the horses.
He walked over. “Can they go another couple of hours?”
Once Upon a Moonlit Night Page 2