The Hired Hero

by Andrea Pickens

  Davenport started forward again, slowly, quietly, every muscle tensed. At that moment, a lad of no more than fifteen or sixteen years emerged from the murky depths of the building, leading a fully saddled Nero. The earl’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

  The scamp was stealing his horse!

  “You there! Stand where you are!” he bellowed as he broke into a run.

  The lad’s head came up with a start. He appeared frozen for a second but then moved with astonishing quickness. Thrusting a boot into the shortening stirrups, he vaulted into the saddle and jammed his heels into the stallion’s flanks. Nero tossed his head wildly and shied to one side, but the boy handled the reins with skill. His heels came down again, urging the animal forward. Davenport’s outstretched hand missed the bridle by inches.

  “Damnation!” he roared as he skittered to a stop and watched them gallop out across the field.

  But luck was with him. As the horse came to the edge of the woods, the boy chose the cart path to the right. The earl still had a chance to catch them. He turned and ran into the stable. Cursing roundly as he barked his shins more than once in the darkness, he found the other saddle and bridle and hurried to the stall of his other horse. The animal had no chance of catching a prime goer like Nero, but he didn’t have to. Davenport finished tightening the girth and mounted, an ominous expression on his face. He set his own mount off at a good clip. Unless the lad had an intimate knowledge of the area, he would stick to the beaten path.

  Well, if he did, he was going to run into a little surprise.

  Davenport guided his mount through an adjoining field. They cleared a tumbled stone wall and skirted the edges of a newly planted field of wheat. In the middle of a large copse of beeches, the earl guided his horse onto a narrow trail, barely wide enough to pass through without the branches slapping at his boots and breeches. They emerged at right angles to a wider path, whose ruts and ridges gave evidence of frequent cart travel. Davenport smiled in grim satisfaction and reined his horse to a halt. It appeared they were in time. In the distance, he could hear the muffled rhythm of pounding hooves.

  A dark shape rounded the corner. The earl could just make out the lad’s head bent low over Nero’s neck, still urging the big stallion to give his best effort. And no doubt Nero was in clover. There was nothing he liked better than to be allowed to race neck and leather through the countryside.

  Traitor, thought Davenport sourly as he readied his own horse to match strides with him.

  The thief had the benefit of speed and stamina while Davenport had the element of surprise. The earl liked his chances.

  As his stallion approached, Davenport charged from the cover of the trees. He drew alongside and reached for the reins. Nero shied violently to the right. Knowing his stallion’s habits, Davenport was ready for it. The lad was not. As the earl’s hand instinctively followed the movement of the horse’s head, the sudden change of stride pitched the young rider forward. He lost his stirrups and slipped sideways from the saddle. Both of his hands clung to the edges of the leather while his feet hung precariously close to the flailing hooves. The earl managed to grab the reins and fought to bring the spooked stallion under control. Suddenly, with a sharp yelp of pain, the lad’s grip gave out with one of his hands. In another moment he would be trampled.

  Serves him right, thought Davenport to himself. His own neck was at risk too, trying to manage two wildly galloping animals. But with a silent curse he let go of Nero and reached down to grab the lad by the collar of his jacket.

  “Let go!” he shouted, as he reined in on his own mount.

  The youngster needed no encouragement. His strength was gone and the last of his fingers slipped from the saddle. Davenport’s mount was too winded to offer any resistance to the pressure on the reins. The animal slowed to a trot, then stopped dead in its tracks, sides heaving and sweat lathering its flanks. The earl held the young thief by the scruff of his jacket, as if he were disposing of a weasel from a dovecot. It took great restraint not to wring the lad’s neck as he would that of an offending predator. Instead he satisfied himself by dropping the lad none too gently onto the rutted ground.

  “You damn young fool,” cursed the earl as he dismounted. “I should take my crop to you. Don’t you know you could be trans—”

  It was then that he noticed that the lad’s hat had fallen off. There was a mass of hair, honey colored hair, spilling over the pale face. His eyes traveled lower, to where a pair of slender—and very shapely— thighs were revealed by a pair of tight buckskin breeches. With a start he realized they were his breeches, from when he was a boy.

  He closed his eyes and groaned.

  Caroline lay in the dirt, too stunned to move. The pain in her shoulder was so intense that she could taste bile in the back of her throat.

  “You!” roared Davenport. His face had lost the look of blank surprise and was now clouded with anger. “You nearly got both of us killed! What the bloody hell were you thinking, trying to ride a blooded stallion?”

  She struggled to a sitting position, clutching at her arm. The oversized jacket had slipped on her shoulder, making her look even smaller and more vulnerable. Her face was pinched and streaked with mud while her lips were pressed tightly together, trying to suppress the slight quiver at their corners. Yet when she looked up at him her eyes held only a spirited determination. “I ride as well as any man—it was you who caused the problem by charging out of the bushes like a...a highwayman.” she managed to retort.

  His jaw dropped in astonishment. “A bloody highwayman,” he sputtered. “You impudent chit. You were stealing my horse!”

  “I wasn’t exactly stealing him. I was going to give him back.” She brushed away the loose curls that had fallen to obscure half of her face. It was obvious he was furious. She knew the prudent course of action was to remain silent, to allow his anger to simmer down from its initial boil. But for some reason she couldn’t stop herself from going on, more because defiance helped keep her own half frightened spirits up than to intentionally goad him on..

  “You know, you should give him his head more often—a top of the trees horse like that needs a good run to keep him up to snuff.”

  Davenport wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. “What?” he asked in an ominously low voice.

  “I said, I hope you know how to handle him properly.”

  His eyes were as dark as smoldering embers. “You call that handling him properly, flying neck and leather out of control? It’s a wonder he didn’t throw you sooner.”

  “I was not out of control! I’ll have you know I have been riding blooded stallions since I was six and can handle a mount as well—or better— than most men.”

  He couldn’t quite believe he was standing here brangling with her. His eyes went down to her breeches and boots. “So you like something spirited between your legs?” he snapped.

  Caroline’s eyes followed his. She had worn breeches around Lucien and her father’s grooms for ages, but suddenly her legs looked, well, nearly naked. Color flooded her face and unconsciously she curled up like a hedgehog. The movement sent a jolt of pain shot through her shoulder, causing her to bite her lip nearly hard enough to draw blood.

  He looked as if to say something, then walked over to where she lay. “Are you all right?” he asked curtly.

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She was determined not to disgrace herself by crying out or casting up her accounts for the second time in front of the earl. She would take whatever punishment he chose to mete out like...a man. Rumor had it the man possessed a devil of a temper. What would he—

  He reached down and lifted her to her feet. When her legs buckled slightly, his arm came around her waist. “Come. Sit down over here.”

  He guided her to a fallen tree by the side of the path and settled her on its broad trunk. Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Caroline took a few deep breaths and the pain and dizziness subsided.

  “Better?”

  She nodde
d again.

  Davenport turned to stare down the dirt farm track. His jaw clenched and the sparks in his eyes betraying the war that was raging within. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I apologize,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “That was an unpardonable remark.” He shook his head in disbelief. “The chit steals my horse and here I am apologizing,” he continued to himself. His fingers moved absently to his cheekbone and began to massage the thin white line running across it.

  Caroline slanted him a sideways glance. “I’m sorry as well. I know I...provoked you. Truly, I did not wish to steal your horse, but you wouldn’t help me. I had no choice. You don’t understand—I have to get away from here.” Her hands tightened in her lap. “Right now.”

  Davenport let out a exasperated sigh. “We will discuss this in a more suitable place. Will you be all right for a moment while I fetch Nero?”

  A strangled sound came from Caroline. He thought for a moment that she was finally succumbing to girlish hysterics then realized she was trying not to laugh.

  “Oh, tell me a man of your reputation didn’t really name his horse Nero,” she managed to say in answer to his quizzical look.

  His lips twitched at the corners. “One must have a sense of humor to survive in this world.”

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  Caroline wasn’t sure the earl’s study was exactly the spot she would have chosen for their confrontation. He looked even more forbidding seated behind the massive oak, hands steepled him on the tooled blotter, stormy blue eyes crashing into her like waves against the strand. It was uncomfortably familiar, having faced her father under similar situations on countless occasions. Besides, there was the little matter of...

  “And now, Miss—.” There was an emphatic pause, which he drew out like a duelist unsheathing a rapier. His voice, though low, was equally sharp. “Kindly put an end to the theatrics. If you wish to continue enacting a Cheltenham tragedy, join Mrs. Siddons on the boards—I will not tolerate it any longer under my roof. I mean to know who you are, and I mean to know it now.”

  It was only at the last sentence that the volume rose drastically. But if the desired effect was to reduce the young lady seated before him to flinging herself at his feet in contrition and immediately confessing her identity, he had sadly miscalculated his own oratorical skills.

  Caroline’s head hunched down towards her shoulders and her face took on an expression that one of the brasher young grooms at Roxbury had characterized as “mulish.”

  There was nothing but silence.

  Davenport’s gaze continued to wash over her, the blue of his eyes darkening to a scudding gray. His fingers began drumming on the scarred wood. When it became evident that words were not forthcoming, he rose and slowly walked to stand beside her chair. Caroline was not lacking in stature herself, but from where she was seated, the earl seemed to tower over her, his broad shoulders and powerful torso only reinforcing the appearance of holding the upper hand. She imagined that was the intention.

  The nerve of the man, to think he could bully her with his ultimatums!

  She resolutely refused to look up at him. Instead, she locked her gaze on the first item on his desk that caught her eye. As she focused in on it, she found that for the second time that morning she had to strangle the urge to laugh. It was a book. On the breeding of sheep.

  “Well?” It came out as a baritone rumble.

  “It is you, sir, who may stop the histrionics. They do not intimidate me. I will not tell you my name. It is of no concern to you in any case.”

  Outrage flared in Davenport’s breast. “When I am forced to drag some half dead chit out of the mud, have her nursed back to health at an expense I can ill afford, only to have her steal my property...”

  Caroline had the grace to color.

  “... then it damn well is my concern. I mean to have your name, make no mistake about it.” His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I should just haul you into the village—it seems there I should learn who you are soon enough.”

  Caroline shot up from her chair. “The only mistake I have made is landing on the doorstep of a profligate wastrel who has squandered his last farthing on drinking and gaming and...and other pursuits, no doubt, instead of taking care of his responsibilities, like a true gentleman. Why, it seems you are insensible to even the most basic decencies of your class, like helping a lady in distress, you—you odious man!”

  Davenport’s patience, already dangerously frayed, snapped. For weeks he had borne the shrill demands of countless creditors, the suspicious looks of his tenants, the whispered innuendos of his neighbors. More nights that he cared to remember he had struggled with the ledger books, fighting against despair to come up with a way to restore his estate and family name to respectability. She spoke of common decencies—what of Helen! To be so cavalierly accused by a chit barely out of the schoolroom, with no acquaintance of him except through rumor, was too much to bear, especially when she owed him her very life. How dare she speak to him like that?

  His hand came up in the air.

  Caroline flinched, more at the look in his eyes than from the threat of physical violence. They were flooded with anger, but there was some more. In their depths was expression of intense pain.

  Davenport caught himself. Is that how it began, he wondered. A simple loss of temper that suddenly moves from thought to deed. The bruises on the face before him, though lightened, were still very much in evidence, ugly, raw reminders of somebody else’s anger. He thought of Helen’s face, how similar the damage looked. Except her eyes did not spark with spirit anymore as this young lady’s did. How many times did it take to beat the will out of another person? He jaw clenched. And why would someone filled with life and humor and dreams allow it?

  The thought of how easy it would have been to cross the line make him nearly ill. Was he really not so very different from Charles after all? He had never been so utterly ashamed of himself. His hand fell to his side and he moved slowly around to slump into his chair. Running his hand through his hair, he turned to stare, unseeing, into the cold black coals of the unlit fireplace.

  “What would you have me do?” he asked in a voice barely above a whisper. “I have a small sum...”

  Caroline cleared her throat. “Ahh...actually sir, you do not.” She took the leather purse she had removed from the earl’s desk earlier that morning out of the pocket of her jacket and laid it in front of him.

  For a brief moment, Davenport wondered if he was beginning to lose his sanity. He stared at it, speechless. Then he threw back his head and began to laugh.

  It was a pleasant sound, a rich mellifluous baritone that rang true to the ear. She also noticed that he really had the most expressive eyes. Just then they had softened, the color lightened by humor to a hue as airy as the sky. Minutes before, when he had been so angry, they had been as impervious as slate. There was a raw complexity too, but never the cold, calculated cruelty depicted by the painting in the next room.

  The sound of his laughter trailed off and his face took on an expression of bemused resignation. “Seeing as I am at my wit’s end, perhaps you have some idea as to how to proceed.” His glance traveled over her breeches and boots once more. “You seem to have no lack of imagination.”

  Caroline sat down abruptly. “As a matter of fact, I do have a proposal.”

  His mouth twitched at the corners. “I rather thought you might. Well, let’s have it.”

  She squared her shoulders. “You are obviously in dire need of funds. I am in dire need of reaching a certain destination without further delay. So I propose a partnership of sorts. If you will help me get there, I will pay you very well.”

  “And just where are you going?”

  Caroline hesitated for a moment. There was little sense on prevaricating on that point. “London.”

  “How much?”

  “A thousand pounds.”

  Davenport gave a bark of laughter. “Good lord, are you truly intent on making a monkey o
f me this morning? Or have you received another knock on the head, one that has caused you take leave of your senses?” He shook his head. “A thousand pounds, indeed.”

  “It is no joke, sir,” said Caroline indignantly. “I promise you, when we reach London you shall have it.”

  He merely chuckled. “Yes, I shall eat gooseberry tarts perched atop Parliament, too.”

  “You doubt my word?”

  He stopped laughing.

  “Do you?” she persisted. “No doubt you would not think of insulting a man’s honor by refusing to accept his word.”

  The earl’s brows came together thoughtfully. “Hmmm.” Once again his fingers began drumming on the desk as he mulled over her words. The fact of the matter was, he needed to pay a visit to his man of affairs in town at some point soon. And even though the odds were her offer was merely a desperate ploy, in the event that her family would be grateful—he could sorely use a thousand pounds. But there was something else as well, something oddly touching about her pluck....

  “Let me make sure I understand you,” he said very slowly. “You wish to hire me to escort you to London, for which service I will receive one thousand pounds?”

  “That is correct, my lord.”

  “Very well, we have a deal, Miss...”

  “My name is Caroline.”

  “Truly?”

  She nodded. “Yes, but other than that I shall not say.”

  His lips pursed but he did not argue. He merely leaned back in his chair and leveled her with a piercing gaze. “Now that my role is little more than a hired lackey, have you given any thought as to how we may travel to London? I take it you have inspected the stables well enough to know I wasn’t telling you a hum when I said there is no carriage.” He picked up the meager purse and let it drop again. “I doubt there is enough for two fares on the mail coach, even if we take outside passage.”