A picture of her being skewered by a sword rose up in her mind. Instant death. She shuddered and glanced at his hard face. Yes, lesson number two would be important to remember.
She sought the privacy of the bushes while he finished his repast and upon her return he quickly gathered up his bundle, putting the knife into his pocket. He scanned the glade and seemed to be concentrating on something.
‘What’s the matter?’ She looked past the willows and saw nothing but tangled weeds and fallen logs.
He hesitated then swung away to untie the horses. ‘The shadows grow long. It is time we left.’
She could have sworn he’d been about to say something else but she was grateful for the decision to get moving. Her cloak did not keep her truly warm. It gaped around her waist and exposed her body to the cool breeze drifting off the brook.
She wrapped it more tightly around her and waited while Finch hurriedly repacked the horses. The little bay whickered a greeting and she crossed to him and stroked his nose, sensing Finch’s eyes upon her as she did so.
He watched her constantly. Perhaps he thought she would escape but Mr. Booth’s words were enough to convince her that she wouldn’t survive in these forests, even supposing she could get away.
Finch helped her to mount her horse then did the same. ‘Not long to go now,’ he said.
She did not ask him how long for his face did not invite further questions but concentrated instead on coping with the soreness of her inner thighs.
Although she’d ridden at Fencarrow, it had been in small doses over territory she knew well. Her body wasn’t used to the rigors of riding for hours and when she climbed into the saddle she had to grit her teeth not to wince.
‘Are you hurt, Lily?’
The name jolted her. She’d forgotten they were playing the Ashton family. ‘Not at all. I am enjoying the ride.’
He leaned forward in his saddle, his eyes narrowing. ‘You do remember lesson two?’
‘I remember. I am fine.’ Wild horses would have to drag her to London and back before she mentioned her thighs.
He obviously remained unconvinced but short of ordering her to walk, he didn’t have much choice but to take her at her word.
‘So be it,’ he said gruffly. ‘But I want you riding in front.’
They headed in a more northerly direction, across a spur and into another valley. Finch pushed her along at a quick pace and would not countenance another stop. She hung on grimly, praying that their journey would end soon.
As daylight faded they came to a small inn set in front of a treed hillside. Its dark timber beams and small mullioned windows gave it a comforting solidity that reminded her of Robin’s Mill Inn at home. Wood smoke rose from the chimney and red geraniums bloomed at the door. The place looked warm and welcoming. Just what she needed.
They rode around the back of the inn and a stable hand came out from behind a stall door. His brown trousers were held up with suspenders and his blond hair looked as mussed as a cartload of hay.
He hurried over to them and grabbed the chestnut’s bridle. ‘You took your time,’ he said in a low voice to Finch.
This man had been waiting for them? Then he must be part of the network too. Younger than Finch, he had sharply angled cheekbones and a crooked nose that looked to have been broken. She would have thought him a ruffian except for the intelligent gaze that swept over her with a shrewdness that made her squirm.
Finch swung down from his horse, no worse for his long afternoon’s ride. ‘Gannet, we got here as soon as we could.’
Gannet? Did everyone in the network have a bird name? How interesting.
‘Run into trouble?’ Gannet asked.
‘None to mention, although …’ Finch shook his head. ‘Later. Let me introduce my sister, Lily.’
Gannet narrowed his eyes at Finch before turning towards her with a smile. ‘Nice to meet you. I trust the journey wasn’t too hard and that John was a good companion?’
She flicked a glance at Finch then turned back to Gannet. ‘He was … passable … although he pushed me to ride many hours in this uncomfortable saddle.’
‘Ah,’ Gannet said with a solemn look at Finch. ‘Only passable.’
Finch huffed. ‘You know as well as I do that we don’t have much time.’
‘True enough but she’s new to this.’ Gannet looked at her with something approaching sympathy. She warmed to the young agent who seemed less fierce than her chaperone.
‘All the more reason then,’ Finch said grimly, strolling over and standing in front of her with his hands on his hips. ‘Are you getting down from the beast who burdens you so?’
‘I will,’ she said airily, not willing to admit her legs felt like lead. ‘But just so you know, I could have ridden longer.’
‘Is that so?’ A smile tugged at his mouth as he lifted her down without a word, his hands steady around her waist as she adjusted to the firm ground under her feet. ‘Better?’
His capable hands held her for only the shortest time but she found them unexpectedly warm and useful in that moment. Had he seen her swaying with fatigue? She wouldn’t put it past him. He seemed to have three eyes instead of two.
‘Thank you,’ she said smoothing down her skirt. ‘I feel perfectly fine.’ That wasn’t wholly true but she didn’t want to appear weak or unable to play her part. Especially in front of men who were experts in disguise.
For an instant, she thought a flash of admiration sparked across Finch’s face, before he went over to unstrap his luggage. ‘The rooms are reserved?’ he asked Gannet quietly.
‘Two as instructed.’
‘Good.’ His eyes flicked to the windows of the inn. ‘How many inside?’
‘Fifteen, maybe twenty all up. Mostly locals, I think.’
Finch made a noncommittal noise and lifted down the satchel and slung it over his shoulder. ‘You have the coach ready?’
‘Not yet. The village blacksmith only had two. One is loaned and the other needs a new axle. I paid him handsomely for the second one and he said he’d have it fixed by nine tonight.’
‘That’s later than I’d like.’ Finch fingered his beard and cast her a quick glance. She held her breath. More than anything she wanted a decent meal and a wash.
‘Do what you can,’ Finch said to Gannet at last. ‘We’ll stay the night and leave first thing.’
‘Are you sure?’ Gannet replied. ‘That isn’t in the plan.’
‘Lily is tired,’ Finch said, his eyes assessing her again. ‘Just make sure the coach is ready as soon as possible.’
‘It will be. Only I think you’re making a mistake.’
Finch shrugged, his face set. ‘She’s new to this, remember?’
Gannet gave him a crooked smile and with a nod in her direction led the two horses away.
What a piece of luck. She’d have the chance to attend to the soreness between her legs and sleep in a real bed for a change.
‘Come on then, Lily. Let’s see about dinner.’ Finch took her elbow and guided her around to the front of the inn.
A black horse stood tied to a post rail, its coat shiny with sweat. It hadn’t been there when they’d arrived.
Finch’s stride slowed and in a sharp whisper that only just reached her ears said, ‘Remember — we are brother and sister.’
Chapter Seven
Finch pushed open the inn door. Noise spilled out and with a slight tilt of his head, he indicated she should precede him. She stepped inside and Finch closed in behind her, his satchel held in his left hand, his right stuffed in his pocket.
The taproom’s ceiling hung low with thick overhead beams that gave it a dark and oppressive feel. A fire roared in the hearth and the yellow light illuminated a number of men, all sitting at roughly-hewn tables set with jugs of ale. They turned their heads and conversation eased as Finch’s gaze raked the room.
With a slight nudge, Finch escorted her across to the landlord at the bar. ‘Mr. John Ashton and my sister, Miss
Lily Ashton. I believe rooms have been reserved for us?’
‘Yessir,’ the innkeeper said. ‘The maid’s been airin’ them this last hour.’
‘Good,’ Finch said. ‘We will require them for the night as our plans have changed.’
‘Nary a problem, sir. And I s’pose ye’ll be wanting a meal?’
‘Yes. What are you serving?’
‘We’ve a beef pot pie or a pork cutlet with charred corn.’
Her stomach hadn’t fully recovered from her enforced starvation and flipped at the sound of the food.
Finch turned to her with a smile on his lips and a warning in his charcoal eyes. ‘I know you must be hungry. What would you prefer?’
‘The cutlet and corn thank you, John.’
‘And for yerself sir?’ asked the innkeeper. ‘Will ye have the same?’
‘No, I’ll have the pie with a pint of your best ale.’
‘Very good, sir.’ He hurried into the back room to relay their order.
Finch scanned the taproom again and looped her arm through his with an engaging smile that took her breath away. ‘Let’s get a table in the parlor, my dear.’
Her eyes widened at his endearment until his fingers tightened on her arm. She flushed, recollection flooding back. He was playing the part of her brother.
She’d always thought a brother would be fun. Someone to join her in cutting the weed or riding across the headland. Someone more daring and capable than Rosalie. But possibly she’d been wrong. Finch had assumed a proprietary control that was rather restrictive.
He led her through to the private parlor, a smaller room off the taproom that was dominated by an equally large fireplace. There were six wooden tables and three were occupied. The diners looked to be traveling tradesmen, except for a large man in a dark green jacket sitting near the fire.
Finch didn’t look in his direction and proceeded to install her at a table in the back corner. She sank wearily down onto a rickety chair and removed her cloak while Finch took a seat opposite where he could see the rest of the room. He placed his bag on the floor near the wall.
The man in the green coat raised his glass to Finch. ‘Late to be getting in. Come far?’
Finch’s lips curled into a smile as he assessed the man. ‘Not too far. My sister isn’t a good traveler.’
Her chest swelled. That was so unfair. She’d traveled all day without a single complaint.
‘Feeling better now we’ve stopped, Lily?’ Finch asked kindly.
‘Much better.’ She smiled sweetly at the green coat. ‘Such an illness did I have on the road that I thought not to make it here at all. Only my brother was so considerate and chivvied me along like you wouldn’t believe.’
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Finch’s mouth tremble.
‘Aye, traveling can be rough,’ the man said with a nod of his head. ‘Particularly for a pretty young thing like yerself. But a meal will put yer to rights, eh?’
Finch stretched out his legs in a leisurely manner almost as if he was sitting at his own table. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Mr. …?’
‘Crawley. And who do yer be?’
‘Mr. Ashton and my sister, Miss Ashton.’ Finch inclined his head but his eyes never left the other man’s face. ‘Do you live near here?’
The man took a swig of ale then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Nah. On me way to buy a pig.’
He didn’t look like a farmer. If she had to guess, she’d say he looked like a naval man. Something about his gnarled hands and scoured face told of long days in the sea wind. She’d seen plenty of men in Fencarrow just like him.
The innkeeper came in with their food and Mr. Crawley resumed his drinking. Finch’s pie looked delicious, the pastry crisp and flaky, and he made short work of it but her appetite had strangely deserted her. She made only a half-hearted effort to eat the cutlet which had been nicely cooked, the fat rendered brown.
‘Not to your liking, Miss Ashton?’ Crawley’s gaze skittered over the remaining food on her plate.
She smiled and held her stomach. ‘A little of my sickness remains and I cannot do the food justice. I think, John,’ she said to Finch in a quiet voice, ‘that I should seek my room.’
‘Of course, my dear,’ Finch said taking a last sip of his ale. ‘We will find the innkeeper and see you settled for the night.’
‘That would be lovely,’ she said without a lie.
She picked up her cloak and draping it over her arm, stood and walked between the tables towards the door. As she passed Crawley’s table, he put out his hand to stop her. ‘Sleep well, Miss Ashton.’
She looked into his sharp eyes and smiled hesitantly. ‘Why thank you, Mr. Crawley. Your consideration does you credit.’
Finch’s hand tightened on her arm and with a slight nod in Crawley’s direction, led her out of the dining room. He spoke quietly to the innkeeper who bade them follow him into a gloomy hallway that ran the width of the building.
‘Let me get the maid and she’ll be right with ye,’ the innkeeper said. He called out and an older woman with frazzled hair that had escaped her cap, emerged from a back room further along the hallway.
‘This ’ere is Mr. Ashton and his sister,’ said the innkeeper. ‘Can ye show ’em to their rooms?’
‘Aye.’ The maid gave them both a quick glance then led them up a narrow set of stairs at the end of the hallway. ‘This is your room, miss.’ She paused at an open door further down the landing on the left. ‘And your room is to the right, sir, next to the stairs.’
Finch smiled at the maid. ‘Thank you. These will be fine.’ The maid bobbed her head and left.
Adeline went into her room and sank onto the bed, laying her cloak across the quilt. ‘This is lovely. I’m glad we’re stopping here for the night.’
Finch ignored her and dumping his bag just inside the door, prowled the room, stopping to peer out the small window.
‘Is everything all right?’ She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. If only she had a comb she could fix it properly.
He yanked the curtains closed and made sure the edges overlapped. ‘Stay in your room tonight.’
He could have added “please” or told her his reasoning but he did neither. Bristling, she said, ‘I have no reason to do otherwise.’
‘See that you don’t.’ He walked to the door and pointed at the iron key. ‘And see that you lock your door.’
She huffed out a breath of exasperation and his dark eyes swung towards her. ‘It’s for your own safety.’
‘I understand but must you be so … so …’
‘Careful?’
She’d been about to say controlling but at the banked danger in his eyes, quickly said, ‘Exactly.’
‘It’s best to minimize risk. There are too many strange men in this inn.’
‘I’m sure you’re right and … thank you for your care today.’
He dipped his head. ‘Your “sickness” was unfortunate but tomorrow should be better.’
Even now, when they were alone, he played a part. Sometimes she wondered if she would ever know the man behind the spy.
He squatted down to his bag and pulled out a lidded jar which he gave her. ‘Liniment. Good for aches and pains.’
The network’s most experienced spy saw too much and divined things too easily.
‘Goodnight, Lily.’ He held the door a fraction longer.
‘Goodnight.’ She held up the jar. ‘Thank you, John. This is much appreciated.’
He smiled briefly and left. She closed the door and turned the key. Alone at last, she lifted her skirts to inspect her chafed thighs. As she’d suspected, they were flushed red, the skin tender to her touch.
It had been two days since she had last washed thoroughly. Her body felt grubby and a lingering smell of horseflesh wafted into the air every time she moved. She dropped her skirt and went over to the pitcher on the dresser. Unbelievably, it was empty.
She must see the maid and arrange
for some warm water to be sent up. Perhaps she ought to ask for soap and linen cloths as well, and she might see if she could borrow a comb.
She headed towards the door then stopped. Finch had warned her to stay inside her room. But she’d been downstairs only moments before and there’d been no sign of danger. She could see the maid in the back room without anyone noticing.
Turning the key, she slipped out and tip-toed along the landing. When she came to Finch’s door, she sidled past, hardly daring to breathe.
She eased down the stairs, which thankfully didn’t squeak, and rounded the corner into the hallway. She’d only gone halfway when Mr. Crawley stepped out of the taproom and shut the door behind him, cutting off the noise.
‘Miss Ashton.’ He grabbed hold of her arm. ‘Feeling better?’
Her heart stalled and her stomach somersaulted at the strong smell of ale on his breath. ‘Please sir, your hand.’ She shook him off with a panicked shrug that brought a slow smile to his lips.
‘Tell me,’ he sneered. ‘Where is that brother of yours?’
‘I would imagine he’s in his room.’ She took a sideways step to walk around him. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I must —’
‘Not so fast.’ He blocked her way and his arm whipped up to hold a dagger to her cheek. ‘Where are you traveling, my pretty?’
She gasped, aware that even if she screamed, no-one would hear her here. Finch was upstairs behind a closed door and the men in the taproom wouldn’t hear her over their own noise. ‘You forget yourself sir,’ she ground out. ‘I’m sure my brother will —’
‘Aye, your brother,’ he spat. ‘I’ve been on ’es trail for some time. ’E’s a scourge on our country.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she stammered, not daring to move with the tip of the blade only a breath from her skin.
‘The république,’ he hissed.
Did he mean France? She’d heard sailors in Fencarrow talking about Bonaparte’s empire. But what did Mr. Crawley want with Finch? ‘I assure you sir, you have the wrong — ’
Mr. Crawley’s eyes shifted abruptly as a dark shadow lunged past her. Finch batted away the blade at her face and pushed her behind him. He met the onslaught of Crawley’s riposte with a flash of his deadly knife.
An Unwilling Spy Page 7