by Anne Gracie
As if women were all the same to him: old, young, pretty, plain.
But once, just for a few moments, when he thought himself alone and unobserved, she’d seen him gazing out over the company with the bleakest expression. She remembered thinking then that he had the saddest eyes she’d ever seen.
Then someone said something that drew him back into the present, and it was like a blind coming down—the bleakness vanished as if it had never been, and he was the sophisticated rake again.
Had he been jilted? Was he heartbroken? Something had to account for that desolate expression.
She studied him now as he stared out into the darkness. The last dying light had faded and the moon was hidden behind clouds. She couldn’t quite read his expression; she could only see his stern, unsmiling profile, but his body looked tense, his jaw clenched tight.
“There now.” Mrs. Baines stood back and surveyed the preparations with satisfaction. “There’s faggots to start with—”
“Faggots?” As far as Lily knew a faggot was a bundle of wood, not round meaty balls in some kind of gravy.
“Savory ducks, then, some people call ’em,” Mrs. Baines said.
Lily looked closer. “They don’t look like ducks to me.”
“Of course not, young miss—they’re made of pig’s liver, pork and bread crumbs,” she said, as if Lily were showing appalling ignorance.
“What’s that spiderwebby stuff they’re wrapped in?”
Mrs. Baines laughed heartily. “Pig’s caul, of course. Ah, you Londoners . . .” She shook her head.
“Famous for her faggots, Ma is,” Betty said proudly.
Mrs. Baines smoothed her apron modestly. “Best in all Yorkshire, I’ve been told, though I don’t know about that.”
Edward turned away from the window and Lily was glad to see the bleak expression was gone from his eyes. There might even be a faint glimmer of amusement, though in the lamplight she couldn’t be certain.
“I’m sure they’ll be delicious, Mrs. Baines,” he said.
Beaming up at him, Mrs. Baines waved him to the table. “Now, sir, sit yourself down and make a start on ’em while they’re hot. You got to eat, keep up your strength, fine big lad like yoursel’. I’ll away back to the kitchen, and Betty and one of the boys will bring the rest up in a few minutes.”
Lily hid a smile as he held a chair for her to be seated. With his lean, rangy build, Edward was apparently the kind of man that women enjoyed feeding. Her brother, Cal, was the same. Nobody was suggesting Lily needed to keep up her strength, even though— Heavens! It must be days since she’d eaten.
She hadn’t felt at all like eating before. The drug had made her feel so queasy. But now—her stomach rumbled again—she was ravenous.
Betty was back in a twinkling with the rest of the meal, assisted by her little brother Jimmy. She placed all the dishes on the table and directed Jimmy to bring a couple of jugs over. “There’s Pa’s best ale for you, sir—he said to tell you sorry, but we don’t carry table wines, no call for ’em around here, see. And Ma thought the young lady might like a bit of barley water?” She gave Lily a worried look.
Lily nodded. “Perfect, thank you, Betty.” When she was a little girl, Nurse used to give her barley water when she’d been sick, and now it was just what she felt like.
Betty gave a relieved grin and wiped her hands down her apron. “Right, then, if there’s owt else you want, just call down the stairs.”
The door closed behind her and a sudden silence fell as Lily and Edward were left alone.
After a moment he said, “I sent a message to your brother. He’ll receive it tomorrow, in the morning if the messenger makes good time.”
“Thank you. He—well, all of them must be so worried.”
“We’ve done the best we can.” His gaze skimmed her. “That bath has done you good. You look quite fetching in that dress, and the color suits you. You’ll feel even better once you’ve eaten, I’m sure.”
Lily agreed. She surveyed the table. It was a veritable feast. As well as the faggots there was mutton pie, the crust light and golden and smelling heavenly. It was served with mashed potatoes, carrots glazed with butter and a little grated nutmeg, and a dish of stewed greens. Also on the table was thick, crusty fresh baked bread, butter and honey.
He filled her glass with the barley water, picked up the jug of ale and waved at her to start. “No need to wait. A good ale takes a while to pour, so you go ahead.”
She said a quick grace under her breath then buttered a slice of bread. It was fresh and smelled delicious. She bit into it and chewed slowly. Bliss.
“Will you try one of the faggots? They’re an old Yorkshire country dish, very good.”
“I’ll try a bit,” she said cautiously. “You seem to know a little about this part of the world. Are you from Yorkshire?”
He cut a slice off one of the faggots and placed it on her plate. “Gravy?”
“Just a little, please.” She took a cautious bite. “Oh, it’s very tasty.”
He placed the rest of the meatball on her plate, then cut her a generous slice of the pie. Tender chunks of meat and rich gravy spilled from the flaky golden crust. He passed her the dish of greens, the carrots and the potatoes, ensuring she’d been served before filling his own plate.
“That was wonderful,” she said when she’d cleaned her plate. She leaned back with a happy sigh. “I hadn’t realized I was so hungry.”
“Long time since you ate, I expect.” He polished off the rest of the pie and buttered a fourth slice of bread. He’d eaten nearly three times as much as she had and yet somehow, he still looked as lean and hungry as a wolf.
She took a deep breath. “Mr. Galbraith, would you lend me some money, please?” She’d made her decision while she was taking her bath. And before that, while she was lying trussed like a goose in the cavity under Mr. Nixon’s seat, she’d vowed to become more independent.
He looked up frowning. “Money? What for?”
“To pay for a coach ticket back to London.”
He returned his attention to his dinner. “You’re not returning to London on the mail coach.” He said it as if she had no choice, no say in the matter.
“Yes,” she said firmly. “I am.” She’d already experienced the worst coach trip she could imagine. The Royal Mail could not be so difficult. People traveled on it all the time. “I’ll take Betty with me, if that makes you feel better. I’m sure her mother would allow it if we paid her well enough, and Betty and I would chaperone each other. It would be quite respectable. As long as you will lend me the money for the ticket. Naturally my brother will repay you.”
“Well, he won’t, because I’m not lending you a penny.” He snorted as if the very idea of her traveling on the Mail were ridiculous. “I’m returning you to your brother’s care and that’s the end of it.” He sounded quite cross, as if she’d offended him in some way.
But she was not a package to be delivered. “Mr. Galbraith—Edward, I’m extremely grateful to you for rescuing me and taking such good care of me while I was . . . indisposed, but I’m in a much better case now, and there is truly no need to put yourself out for me.”
“I’m not.”
She gave a frustrated sigh. “If I were a total stranger, would you change your plans and turn back to London in order to return me to my family?”
He barely even considered her question. “But you’re not a stranger, you’re Cal Rutherford’s sister and I owe it to our friendship to protect you, just as I would expect him to protect my sister in a similar situation.”
“Do you have a sister?” she asked, momentarily distracted by the idea of him with sisters. On the few occasions she’d seen him, she’d gained the impression he was very alone.
“No. No siblings at all,” he added, anticipating her next question.
“Sa
d for your parents.”
“They’re both dead,” he said indifferently.
“Mine are too, but I have Cal and Emm and Rose and George. And the aunts,” she said on a soft surge of emotion. She’d always taken family for granted.
There was a short silence. The fire crackled. Outside in the distance an owl hooted.
She straightened her spine and returned to the matter under dispute. “Whatever you think my brother might expect, I can see no reason why your plans should be ruined simply because I landed myself and my mess in your lap.”
“My plans weren’t ruined.”
“But you were traveling north for some reason, I presume.”
He shrugged. “A house party. Nothing important.”
“But your friends will be disappointed when you don’t show up, won’t they?”
He gave her a flat look. “They’re not my friends.”
“They’re not? Then why would you—?” She broke off. “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.”
A knock sounded on the door and the innkeeper’s daughter entered with a covered dish, followed by her brother carefully carrying a jug. “Gooseberry pudding with custard,” she announced. “Put it there, Jimmy—careful, it’s hot.”
Ned was not displeased to have their conversation interrupted. The house party he’d planned to attend was nothing special, just something to do, a way of passing the time.
And how lame was that? Was this what his life had come to, finding the least disagreeable way to pass the time?
He brooded over that insight as the girl bustled about, swiftly clearing the table and passing the dirty dishes to her brother to stack onto a tray.
The people he’d expected to see at the house party? He wouldn’t miss any of them. He doubted they’d miss him, either.
Several of the women invited had given him subtle but unmistakable indications that he’d be welcome in their bed, but he was under no illusions as to the significance of that. If he didn’t turn up they’d find another willing man. There would be no shortage of substitutes.
The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. Was his life really so meaningless? He lifted his tankard and drank the last of the landlord’s good dark ale.
“Shall I bring you up some more ale, sir?” the girl asked. Ned shook his head, and she and her brother swept from the room. The gooseberry pudding sat on the table in front of him, golden and luscious, steaming softly. Lily was staring at it, as if half mesmerized.
“A little pudding?” he asked her.
“I shouldn’t . . . But it looks and smells so delicious . . . Perhaps just a taste.” He cut two generous portions of the pudding, poured custard over each, and passed the smaller bowl to her.
“I take it we are agreed that you will return to London with me, and no further argument.” It wasn’t a question.
She sighed. “I suppose so. Though I don’t like to cause you so much tr—”
“Nonsense.” He cut her off brusquely. “It will be my pleasure to escort you.” And to his surprise he realized it was true. He would much rather spend sixteen uncomfortable hours in a coach with Lily Rutherford—half drugged or not—than spend a week in the bed of one of the jaded ladies of the house party.
Only because he owed her a duty of care, for the sake of her brother, he told himself. His honor—what was left of it—required it.
She finished her pudding with every evidence of enjoyment and sighed as she set down her spoon. “Now I really am full. I think perhaps I’d like to go for a walk, just a short walk to stretch my legs.”
“Not tonight, you won’t.”
She glanced at the window. “But it’s stopped raining.”
“I don’t care about the weather.” His voice was grim. “You’re not leaving this room until I say so.”
Her eyes widened, and Ned cursed himself for a fool. Of course, given her recent experience, she’d put the worst interpretation on his words. He hastened to explain. “Nothing to worry about, just that you can’t go wandering around the inn or the village. If you are to emerge from this mess without damage to your reputation, nobody must learn you were ever missing from your brother’s care. Nobody must see you—I mean nobody from our world, nobody who might recognize you.”
Her face fell. “I know. But surely in this little out-of-the-way place—
He shook his head. “There’s a fellow downstairs who’s a notorious society gossip. He’s an irritating little tick, but he’s seen everywhere—you might even know him. Cyril Elphingstone?”
“Elphingstone . . .” A soft crease formed between her brows. “Is he a slender, nattily dressed man with a pointy nose and extraordinary chestnut-colored hair?”
“That’s him in a nutshell. That’s if chestnut is a sort of reddish-brown.”
“It is. He’s a friend—well, an acquaintance—of my Aunt Agatha. I don’t like him very much. He always has some story to tell that’s often rather nasty underneath. My sister, Rose, calls him ‘the gnat.’”
“Very apt. The thing is, when we were downstairs earlier, he overheard the girl refer to you as my sister. He knows perfectly well I haven’t got a sister.”
“Oh.”
He nodded. “That long nose of his was twitching with curiosity. He did his best to discover who you were, but I put him off.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Just that I was escorting a young relative to London, and of course, he doesn’t believe that, either.”
“Why not? Does he know all your relatives, then?”
Ned opened his mouth to explain, then shook his head. There was nothing to be gained by telling her that no one in their right mind would entrust a beautiful young woman to a man of his reputation. Not that he’d ever been accused of trifling with innocents. In fact, he avoided them like the plague. He preferred women of experience, women who knew what they wanted—his body, not his name.
“It’s Elphingstone’s nature to be suspicious,” he said. “Anything for a good story, I suspect, so don’t step outside this door unless I tell you it’s safe.”
Her mouth drooped. “I suppose you’re right, it’s just that—I know discretion is important, but—” She shook her head. “No, I’m being silly, wanting to go for a walk. I can walk with my sisters when we get home again.” Her lower lip wobbled. She bit on it and turned her head away so he wouldn’t see.
And suddenly Ned realized. She’d spent most of the last two days locked in a tiny, dark, airless compartment, bound and gagged, unable to move. She’d told him how she couldn’t lift her arms, not even to adjust the gag, how it had felt like she was locked in a coffin, and how she’d done her best to keep sensation alive in her feet. And how painful the pins and needles had been when she was finally able to walk again.
Of course she wanted to go outside and stretch the muscles that had been cramped for so long. And to breathe in the fresh air, and to loosen the tension he could see still gripped her body, despite the rest and the bath and the food.
Instead Ned had confined her to a poky little room, and all because of an irritating little busybody. She didn’t deserve that.
“Wait here,” he told her, and left the room.
Lily was surprised at his abrupt exit, but then she was finding Edward Galbraith surprising in a number of ways. She’d believed him the sort of desperately sophisticated gentleman that Aunt Agatha favored, spouting witty and urbane persiflage of the sort that often went right over Lily’s head, the kind of man who would flirt charmingly with Rose and George, who were beautiful, and would look right through Lily, who wasn’t.
Edward hadn’t looked right through her, but neither had he flirted. He’d been brusque and bossy, remote and sometimes curt, and yet, underneath it all, he’d been . . . kind. Protective. Considerate.
He was, she decided, a puzzle.
A yawn surp
rised her. She ought to prepare for bed. She laid out the thick flannel nightgown Betty had lent her, but before she could undo a button or a lace, there was a brisk knock at the door and he was back, a heavy brown cloak draped over his arm and a pair of sturdy lace-up leather shoes dangling from his fingers.
“You’ll need proper shoes, not slippers, if we’re going to take a walk,” he said, giving them to her. “Two steps outside and those slippers will be soaked through.”
“But I thought—”
“There’s a way out the back. Elphingstone’s in the taproom at the front. The girl—Betty, is it?—will keep watch for him. If you still want to go for a walk, that is.”
She did. She swiftly donned the shoes—Betty’s again—doubling the woolen stockings under her feet and tying the laces firmly so that the slightly-too-big shoes were snug and comfortable. She fastened the cloak and tugged the deep hood up to ensure her face was well hidden. Despite its heavily practical fabric and color, a jaunty little gold silk tassel was fastened to the tip of the hood. The small touch of frivolity made Lily smile.
Ten minutes later she and Edward were walking along a narrow path that led between the houses behind the inn and up toward the hills that overlooked the village. The night was dark, with fitful glimpses of moonlight showing between the scudding clouds. They passed the last few houses in the village, warm and cozy-looking, their lamplit windows gleaming golden squares defying the night.
They trudged along the path, skirting a dense thicket of trees, making for the top of the hill silhouetted against the night sky. He’d adjusted his long-legged gait to hers. There was something so special in walking along in the night, side by side, alone and yet together.
“This is lovely,” she murmured.
“Lovely? It’s dam—dashed cold. Are you warm enough?”
“Perfectly warm, thank you. This cloak is very thick.” Her face was actually quite cold and her hands were chilled, but she didn’t mind. Betty hadn’t provided gloves and Lily hadn’t thought of them until they were well away from the inn. She’d been wearing long white evening gloves when she’d been abducted. What had happened to them? She had no idea. Not that satin evening gloves would be at all warm.