The Hired Hero

by Andrea Pickens

  “But you have two horses. And they are already saddled.”

  “You have no proper riding clothes and—you can’t mean...”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. It is the simplest and quickest means. I shall be your groom. Trust me, I’m quite good at pulling it off. Luc— a male cousin has on occasion taken me to mills and a tavern with no one the wiser.

  He closed his eyes. “He should be birched.” There was a slight pause. “You are serious, aren’t you?”

  “Have you another idea?” she challenged. When he didn’t answer, her mouth set in a line of grim satisfaction. “Besides,” she added. “No one will be looking for two men traveling east. Come, let’s not waste any more time.”

  Davenport pushed back from his desk. “Do you mind if I have my damn breakfast first?” he snapped irritably. “Then I intend to pack a valise. And shave.” His eyes strayed once again to her garb. “I suppose we ought to take another look in the attic as well. You’ll need...some other things if we are to carry on with this harebrained idea.” He shook his head slowly. “I should be birched, though I fear I shall face far worse before this is all over.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Of course, please see to anything you feel is necessary, my lord. As long as we are ready to leave in, say, forty five minutes?”

  He stalked from the room, muttering darkly under his breath.

  * * * *

  Caroline took a sip of tea and nibbled at a piece of toast from the tray that the earl had sent in to her. It seemed Fortune had looked kindly on her at last. Despite her boast to the earl, the thought of traveling alone, disguised as a man, having to brave the ostlers, the common rooms, the long stretches of deserted roads was a daunting, if not terrifying thought. It would be nice to have a companion, however ill-tempered.

  Good lord, he had been angry, angry enough to strike out at her. She would not have blamed him if he had, for she knew she had goaded him unmercifully with her quick tongue. Her lips compressed ruefully as she recalled how many times both her father and Lucien had warned her that a lady must learn to curb her emotions or risk placing herself beyond the pale. But the earl had held back. Some emotion she couldn’t decipher had flickered through his eyes at the last minute, holding him back. It was as if he was...ashamed of his actions.

  That puzzled her. A rakehell wasn’t supposed to have any emotions, at least not any decent ones. Or perhaps she had misunderstood Lucien’s whispered explanations on the subject—it was so annoying having to depend on someone else’s experiences for information. Regardless, it appeared the Earl of Davenport was not entirely without feeling. He could very well have let her slip to her death under the pounding hooves and not a soul would have blamed him. And then, his arm around her waist had been nearly gentle as he had helped her recover. It was all so very confusing. Even now, though he had stalked from the room in an ill temper, he had been thoughtful enough to send breakfast in to her.

  She let her breath out in a sigh. No doubt it was best not to dwell on it overly—especially those interesting eyes and pleasant laugh. All she should care about was whether he could bring her safely to town, nothing else.

  A sharp rap came on the library door. Davenport stuck his head into the room, making a point of letting his gaze linger on the clock on the mantel.

  “Are you ready? Or, like most females, do you mean forty five minutes to indicate we won’t be leaving until after noon?”

  Caroline brushed the crumbs from her breeches as she stood up and shrugged into her coat. The earl waited as she paused by the mirror to tuck her hair up under the wool cap, then turned on his heel, leaving her to follow in his wake. He ignored the incredulous looks from both Mrs. Collins and Owens as the two of them strode through the entrance hall. Caroline managed a brief smile, then shot forward to keep the heavy oak door from slamming on her nose.

  Outside, Davenport flung a leather portmanteau over Nero’s flanks, then tied a another set of bags at the back of the other horse’s saddle. As he turned, he noticed Caroline looking with longing at the stallion.

  “Don’t even think of it,” he growled.

  Caroline sighed and let him give her a leg up onto the smaller mount. “My lord,” she ventured as she set her boots into the stirrups. “I have one other question—are you armed?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Do not let that lively imagination of yours run away with you. Though you may relish the idea of pistols at dawn and other such nonsense, I do not. You may rest assured that our journey will pass without incident. “

  For the first time, Caroline felt a stab of guilt. Did she truly have a right to bring another person into danger? The papers at her ribs were an all too uncomfortable reminder that what lay ahead was no ordinary journey. It was for their country, she reminded herself. Surely even a dissolute rake would feel honor-bound to help, if he knew the truth.

  The earl swung himself into the saddle and, without a backwards look, spurred his horse into a canter.

  An hour later, Caroline found herself wondering if the earl was going to utter a word during their journey. He ignored her presence and kept up a rapid pace without so much as a glance as to whether she was still with him. She set her jaw and used all of her considerable skill to keep up. From her position behind him she noted that he rode with an effortless grace, handling the spirited stallion with a subtle command rather than engaging in a heavy handed battle of wills. The animal moved with a confidence, exuberance even, yet there was no doubt as to who was in control. Grudgingly she admitted that in this, at least, he was bang up to the mark.

  As they reached a long stretch of flat road, Davenport slowed his horse to a walk. Caroline urged her own mount forward to ride abreast with him.

  “You ride tolerably well,” he said curtly, before she had a chance to say anything.” You may count yourself lucky.”

  The compliment she had intended to make died on her lips. “What do you mean?”

  If you hadn’t been able to keep up, I would have ended this harebrained scheme an hour ago.” He paused. “I still might,” he added under his breath.

  Caroline’s voice became heated. “But we have an agreement!”

  “Yes,” he replied coolly, not taking his eyes from the road ahead. “But be that as it may, if it had been beyond your powers, I’d not risk your neck—or mine. I’ve no intention of having to play nursemaid, no matter what the reward.”

  So he thought to manage her like his horse! Caroline reined in her temper, however, settling for what she considered a mild response.

  “Satisfied?”

  “For now.”

  She restrained the urge to deliver a swift kick to his shins.

  After a strained silence, she tried another tack of questioning. “Are we to travel on back roads for the entire journey?”

  “Do you wish to set the route as well?” he countered, a touch of sarcasm creeping into his tone.

  She noticed that he avoided using her name, and in fact had ceased making even the slightest attempt at polite address—now it was not even “Miss”. Really, the man was infuriating. But he was her only choice.

  “As I am unfamiliar with this part of the country, it would be a useless endeavor on my part.”

  “Ah, something on which you are not the expert,” he muttered acidly. “I hadn’t thought it possible.”

  That struck her as unfair. “Are you always so deliberately rude to ladies?” she inquired through gritted teeth.

  He finally turned to look at her. “Ladies?” His brows arched up as his eyes swept over her breeches, shabby coat and drooping cap. “I thought I was riding with my groom. As such, there is little need to be charming.” With that, he spurred Nero into a trot.

  Some time later, they made a brief stop beside a river to allow the horses to drink and take a short respite from the road. Davenport fished out a packet of cold ham and a wedge of Stilton, along with half a loaf of bread and a bottle of cider out of his bag. He laid everything out on the ground, and after help
ing himself to a good portion, went to stand with his back to her, looking out over the water as he ate.

  His behavior was worse than boorish, decided Caroline as she helped herself to a few morsels. But then, what else should she expect from a such a man? Why, he probably had no more sense of civility than his horse. If he was determined to be unspeakably rude throughout the entire trip, she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing that it piqued her. And she certainly wouldn’t admit she wasn’t up to matching his stamina, which was an admission he also seemed intent upon wresting from her. So though she dearly would have liked to linger and rest her aching limbs in the late morning sun, she hurriedly finished the last of her cheese and caught up the reins of her mount.

  “Whenever you are ready,” she called with a show of obvious impatience as she hoisted herself into the saddle.

  Davenport threw the remains of his meal into the swirling currents and remounted without a word.

  * * * *

  He was being unspeakable rude. He knew it, yet the knowledge only made him feel more disgruntled at his situation. It was his own fault, really, but that stark truth also did nothing to improve his humor. What the devil had caused him to agree to shepherd the young lady to London? The money? He wanted to tell himself it was that, but he knew the truth. Something in those sparking eyes had revealed a touching vulnerability. And he, fool that he was, had been incapable of turning his back to it.

  His hands tightened on the reins, causing the big stallion to shy to one side. With a silent curse, he patted the horse’s neck in apology, then suddenly urged him into a full gallop, as if the effort could give vent to his anger. A string of oaths followed, all directed at himself. How had he been such a gudgeon once again, to let a helpless young lady use him to her advantage?

  His mouth quirked involuntarily at the corners as he recalled the image of her pounding neck and leather out over the field on his stallion—perhaps helpless was not exactly the right word for this young lady. But then his jaw set as he wondered, not for the first time, why it seemed to be the cruel ones that attracted the opposite sex, like a moth to a flame. Helen’s face came to mind, her porcelain skin suspiciously darkened, her eyes desperate, crying for help. He had forgiven her for turning to him after—but he had not forgiven himself.

  It wouldn’t ever happen again. He meant to care for nothing but himself now, nothing but his lands and restoring them and his name to respectability. This morning had been a regrettable lapse in judgement, but he had been tired and preoccupied with other problems. She had taken him by surprise. It was damned unfair of her to expect him to be her knight in shining armor.

  Well, he wouldn’t be. He would merely be the mercenary. Get her to her family, collect his blunt—if there truly was any to collect—and be gone, as quickly as possible. That was all she had hired him for. And that was all she would bloody well get.

  * * * *

  It was damned unfair of him, she fumed as she coaxed her tired horse into a gallop. Why should he be so angry at her? She could hardly be accused of forcing him to agree to the deal. And he would be well paid for his effort. So what was causing him to act in such an unpleasant manner? Really, he was the most ill-tempered, ill-mannered gentleman she had ever encountered—but maybe that was because he was no gentleman.

  It was strange though, he did seem to have a streak of kindness, which he endeavored to keep buried, as if he were...embarrassed by it.

  Her horse could no longer keep up. And she herself was so weary and aching that she could barely sit up in the saddle. She let the animal slow to a shuffling walk. If he wanted his money, he would damn well have to come back and get them. Otherwise.... Her brows knitted together. He had what little funds they possessed. But she had a horse, and a disguise and a head start on whoever was....

  It must have been the bright midday sun that made her suddenly so very tired, for normally she would never, ever, have slipped from the saddle.

  When Caroline’s eyes fluttered open, she was lying by the side of the dirt cart path, her head resting on one of her saddle bags, the earl’s coat covering her from knee to chin. She turned her head slightly, out of the glare. He was stretched out beside her, propped up on his elbows, staring off into the distance. His profile was to her, a pensive look on his features. By the set of his jaw and the tiny lines of strain etched at the corners of his eyes and mouth, it seemed to her that he was waging some sort of internal battle. She studied his face carefully. It was a complex one, the emotions not easily readable, as they were on someone less guarded, like her cousin Lucien—lord, she always knew what he was thinking! But what truly puzzled her what that even in catching him off guard, she still saw no hint of the hardness, the cruelty so graphically depicted in the painting above his mantel. It was not something so easily hidden. Why, the artist had seen it as the essence of the man, yet where was it? How could she miss such an obvious thing?

  Davenport turned to her. “Awake, are you?”

  She struggled to sit up. “I’m ready to...”

  His hand caught her shoulder and kept her from rising. “Rest a little longer. We needn’t push on any harder today.”

  “I won’t go back... “

  He smiled briefly. “No, I don’t imagine you would. You are a very determined young lady.” He reached for the bottle of cider beside him and offered it to her.

  “Groom,” she corrected, essaying a game smile herself. She sat up and took a long swallow. It was tepid and flat but it tasted wonderful. “Thank you.”

  He nodded, suppressing another twitch of his lips.

  Caroline turned her face to the sun and impulsively took off her cap and shook her out her hair. It cascaded over her shoulders, glinting a pale amber in the bright light.

  “Mmmm,” she said softly, taking in the warmth. For a few minutes she just lay there. When she looked back up at him, he was regarding her with brows drawn together, mouth compressed in a tight line.

  “Why are you so angry with me?” she asked.

  His features quickly composed themselves into an impassive mask. “What makes you think I am angry with you?” Unconsciously, his hand came up to rub at the thin white line on his cheek.

  “You do that quite often, you know. How did you get that scar?” she asked impulsively.

  He stiffened.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I don’t mean to upset you any further—it’s just that if we are to be in each other’s company until London, I thought it might be possible to have a conversation. If you would rather not....” She let the words trail off.

  His breath came out in a sigh. “If you imagine it is an interesting story, you are quite mistaken. I was merely engaged in a fencing match with my brother. The button on his foil must have come off. The point caught my cheek before either of us noticed what had happened.”

  “Oh, he must have felt dreadful for cutting you so!”

  Davenport gave a harsh laugh. “You think so?” Then he fell silent.

  “Do the two of you not get along?”

  “It hardly matters. He’s dead.”

  She bit her lip. “I’m...sorry.”

  “I’m not.” He got up abruptly to his feet and walked off towards where the horses were grazing.

  She rose and followed him. He was checking the saddles and girths. “You needn’t get up. Why don’t you rest a little longer so I won’t have to scrape you out of the mud yet again,” he growled.

  Caroline laid a hand on his forearm. “I’m truly sorry, my lord. I didn’t mean to stir painful memories.”

  “Cut line—you have no idea what I am feeling,” he snapped, brushing her hand away. He stopped short at the stricken look on her face.

  To her intense mortification, she felt tears welling in her eyes. She thrust his coat at him. “You are right, sir, I don’t—except for the obvious fact that you have taken an intense dislike to me. I shall endeavor to stay out of your way as much as possible for the rest of the trip.” With as much dignity as sh
e could muster, she turned to fetch her saddlebags.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” he muttered.

  * * * *

  The inn was a shabby affair, small and run down, like the rough dwellings they had passed since turning onto the rutted country road.

  Davenport drew to a halt before they reached the unswept stableyard. “We shall be unlikely to meet any other travelers here,” he remarked. “And it should be cheaper than along the main roads—though no doubt we shall be flea-bitten by morning. “ He turned to Caroline. Neither of them had spoken since their exchange of words some hours earlier. “Leave the talking to me. Contrary to what you might think, your voice does not sound in the least like that of a groom.”

  “I am not a complete idiot,” she said stiffly. “My cousin also counseled me to keep mum.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Then how did you expect to pull off the masquerade on your own?”

  “I should have thought of something.” She was silent for a moment. “I know, I could have feigned that an indisposition had robbed me of my voice—I would have had to whisper, and that I can do in a low tone.”

  He repressed a grin. “You are incorrigible.”

  “No, my lord. I am desperate.”

  When they dismounted, it took a few minutes before a gangly lad of no more than fourteen shuffled out from the stables to take the horses.

  “See that they are properly rubbed down and fed,” ordered the earl as he handed over his reins. “There’s a copper for you if you do.”

  That brought a glimmer of interest to the boy’s slack face. “Awlright, mister. I’ll take care ‘a ‘em good.”

  Davenport slung his bag over his shoulder. Caroline did the same. On reaching the door, he took firm hold of her arm. “Lean into me,” he said in a low voice as they crossed the threshold. “And keep your head down.”

  Caroline needed little encouragement. She was exhausted, and his shoulder felt reassuringly solid and warm as she slumped against it.

  The tap room was dark and smoke was already beginning to swirl in the fetid air, though only a handful of locals sat hunched over tankards of ale. The murmur of voices ceased as heads turned to look at the newcomers, but quickly picked up again when it became obvious they were of no interest. A wiry man of indeterminate age, came around from behind the bar, taking in their nondescript clothing and dusty boots with a practiced eye. When the earl asked for a night’s lodging, he named a price and demanded payment in advance.