Gifford's Lady

by Claire Thornton

  She couldn't possibly let Gifford see her like this.

  She cast desperately around the room, and then in sudden inspiration pulled the top sheet off the bed. She wrapped it around her, trying as best she could to imitate the pictures of Roman togas that she had occasionally seen.

  The result was a far cry from conventional respectability, but at least she was modestly covered.

  * * *

  Gifford soused his head and torso under the outside pump. Several small children, an ostler and an old man stood in a comfortable circle around him and watched. A maid and the innkeeper's wife watched from behind the parlour curtains.

  At last he straightened up and scrubbed himself dry with the towel the innkeeper had given him.

  'Are you a pirate?' asked one of the children.

  'No.'

  'Oh.' They all looked disappointed. 'Do you want me to be a pirate?' Gifford asked, puzzled.

  'We thought you might have treasure.' Another child scuffed his toe along the ground.

  'From the Spanish Main?' Gifford grinned, entertained by the brief diversion.

  'In a chest.'

  'Buried. Uncle Jeremiah told us about pirates burying treasure.'

  The children looked at him solemnly. The ostler looked blank. The old man squinted at him suspiciously.

  Gifford shook his head like a great dog. His black hair stuck up on end and drops of water flew everywhere. The children squealed and jumped back.

  'No buried treasure,' he said. 'I'm not a pirate. I catch the pirates.'

  'Oh?' The children looked hopeful. 'What do you do with their treasure?'

  Gifford laughed and dug his hand into the pocket of his breeches. He flipped a coin in turn to each of his audience. He noted with amusement that the children

  all managed to catch their coins. The ostler fumbled his unexpected reward for gawking. The old man prudently tested his coin between his teeth.

  Gifford strode towards the door, giving the maid and the innkeeper's wife just enough time to hide behind the curtain before he entered the building. He saw the curtains flutter, but he was damned if he was going to reward everyone who watched his morning ablutions.

  It was a small inn with only two bedchambers. Anthony was in one, and Abigail and Gifford had shared the other. Its main business was to provide a meeting and drinking place for the local people, but Ned had claimed the innkeeper was respectable. Gifford had no reason to doubt that, and he was grateful it wasn't a busy posting inn. Abigail's reputation was now his first consideration.

  He'd sent Ned with a letter to Malcolm Anderson in Bath. He'd given Malcolm certain instructions and also asked him to reassure Mrs Chesney—and prevent the landlady from rushing straight to Abigail's rescue.

  Gifford had belatedly realised he hadn't given any thought to scandal when he'd set out to rescue Abigail. By now Bath was probably humming with gossip about her abduction. He would let Abigail make her own choice, but he was strongly of the opinion it would be better for him to take her straight to London. At least until the Bath tabbies had something new to gossip about.

  He borrowed a shirt from the innkeeper, which wasn't really wide enough for his broad shoulders, and checked on Anthony.

  His cousin looked tired, and admitted he'd had a restless night, but there was no sign of fever or infection.

  'How is Miss Summers?' Anthony asked.

  'She seems very...resilient.' Gifford frowned, selecting his words carefully. 'He only sold her. He didn't do anything more...personal.'

  'He must be desperate,' said Anthony. 'How could he imagine he'd get away with such a thing? She's hardly—' He broke off.

  'He thought no one would notice—or care,' Gifford said grittily, remembering what Abigail had told him. 'She was just his aunt's poor companion. If we hadn't been there—you and I...'

  'Pullen would have done something. Tidewell, too. And Mrs Chesney and her army of relatives. Miss Summers has a lot of friends.'

  'Yes, she has,' said Gifford. 'They would have gone after her—but they would have been too late. We were only just in time. Only just in time,' he repeated grimly.

  'But now Miss Summers is safe, we have all the time in the world to find Johnson,' said Anthony flatly.

  Gifford looked at him, and knew that his cousin was no more likely to forgive Charles Johnson for what he'd done to Abigail than Gifford was.

  Chapter Ten

  There was only one straight-backed chair in the room. Abigail sat on it, waiting for Gifford. After a few minutes it was clear why he'd decided to sleep beside her. The chair was hideously uncomfortable, and rocked on uneven legs whenever she made an unwary movement. But she didn't want to sit on the bed, it was too suggestive.

  No one had come near her since he'd left. She'd been half-expectant, half-fearful a maid would come. Perhaps Gifford had given orders that she wasn't to be disturbed. She wanted him to come back. She couldn't walk around the inn wearing her makeshift toga, and she didn't know what was happening. She felt very vulnerable. She also felt hungry.

  But even though she was impatient for his return, her heart jumped with nervous excitement when she heard his voice at the door.

  'Come—come in,' she stammered.

  'Breakfast,' he announced, bringing in a heavily laden tray.

  'I am...I am a little hungry,' Abigail said.

  She noticed immediately that his hair was damp, and that he was wearing a coarse linen shirt which wasn't quite big enough for him.

  'Good.' He put the tray down on a roughly hewn dresser. All the furniture in the room was well cared for, but not well crafted.

  'How is Anthony...Mr Hill?' Abigail asked anxiously.

  'Tired. Probably a little weak—though he'd deny that!' Gifford replied, smiling. 'But otherwise he's doing well.'

  'I'm so glad. It would be terrible if he was badly hurt because of me.'

  'Not because of you,' Gifford retorted. 'Unless you fired the pistol.'

  He rearranged the furniture so he could sit on the bed near Abigail with the tray between them.

  She carefully extended a hand from beneath her toga-sheet to accept a plate of bread and butter and cheese from him.

  'I've sent Ned to Bath to fetch your clothes,' said Gifford. 'I did think of asking if any of the women here have a dress you could wear. But I thought you might not be quite comfortable with that. If you wish me to do so...?'

  'No! No!' Abigail said hastily. The idea of revealing to a stranger that she had nothing appropriate to wear was unthinkable. 'What—what have you told them— about me?' she asked more hesitantly. 'Here, at the inn. And—and...did you send a message to Bath with Ned?'

  'I told the landlord that you're my wife. That we were attacked by highwaymen—when Anthony was shot. And that you were so frightened by the incident that you need to recover quietly in your room,' Gifford replied. 'I sent a letter to Malcolm with Ned. May I pour you some tea?'

  'Yes, thank you,' Abigail said, awkwardly adjusting her sheet. She wasn't finding it easy to eat and man-ouevre her plate one-handed and was afraid if she didn't hold on to the sheet with her other hand her carefully constructed toga would come adrift. 'I can't think how the Romans conquered an Empire!' she said in exasperation.

  Gifford's lips twitched. 'Perhaps they didn't wear togas all the time?' he suggested. 'Let me take your plate. Now, you take the teacup—leave me the saucer.'

  'What did you say to Mr Anderson?' Abigail asked, when she'd taken several soothing sips of tea.

  'That you are safe and well, and that I will send a further message as soon as you've decided what you want to do.'

  'I've decided? I have to go back to Bath. Don't I?' Abigail stared at him in bewilderment.

  'You weren't keen to do so last night,' Gifford reminded her.

  'I wasn't thinking clearly last night,' Abigail replied, biting her lip. 'Not even as far as this morning. I suppose I was hoping for a miracle. I'm glad you sent for my clothes. I couldn't go back to Bath dressed like
this. But...there isn't anywhere else I can go.'

  'You were planning to go to London,' said Gifford. 'We could go straight there—by easy stages.'

  'London?' Abigail blinked at him. 'I don't know anyone in London!' she exclaimed. 'Mr Anderson said he would speak to someone—Lady...Lady...I don't remember her name. He surely can't have done so yet. And even if he has, I couldn't...I couldn't go to her now...'

  'I have a house in London,' said Gifford.

  'Your house? But that's...that's...' Words failed Abigail. She stared at Gifford, wild speculations tumbling through her mind. 'You bought me!' she exclaimed, unwarily voicing her thoughts. 'I'd forgotten. You bought me!'

  'Dammit all to hell!' Gifford leapt to his feet, nearly upsetting the tea tray as he thrust away from the bed.

  The crockery clattered. Abigail spilled tea on her sheet. She watched with trepidation as Gifford strode angrily about the room. One minute he'd been as serene as she could have wished—the next he was acting like a furious bull about to charge someone.

  'I did not buy you!' he snarled at her, from the other side of the room.

  'Yes, you did.' She didn't know what streak of perversity prompted her to contradict him, but she was determined not to let him intimidate her. 'I was there. You bought me for—' She broke off, trying to remember her final price. 'I was really expensive!' she exclaimed in amazement. 'I'd forgotten. I was really, extremely expensiveV

  Gifford glared at her. 'Don't get too excited about it,' he growled. 'I don't intend to pay the bastard.'

  'Oh, no! Of course not! But that other man—the nasty-looking one with the stick—he was willing to

  pay a great deal of money for me too. Only not as much as you.'

  'Don't let it go to your head!' Gifford scowled, striding back to loom over her. Her chair wobbled on its uneven legs as she instinctively leant away from him. 'You wouldn't have liked it if he'd bought you. Believe me, Abigail!'

  Abigail swallowed. 'I know that,' she said unsteadily. 'I know that. But I'm t-trying to be positive about all this. No one ever showed any interest in me at all before. Just...just because I'm grateful the nasty man didn't buy me—doesn't mean I can't be a little...a little encouraged that someone was willing to pay anything for me at all.'

  'More likely he couldn't stand to be outbid by me,' Gifford retaliated arrogantly.

  Abigail threw the rest of her tea at him.

  'Oh, my goodness!' She dropped the cup and pressed her fingers to her lips, staring at him in consternation.

  Gifford stared at her in amazement, then looked down at his borrowed shirt. A scatter of tea leaves stuck to the coarse linen, and milky tea dripped to the floor.

  'I'm so sorry!' Abigail whispered, horrified at herself.

  Gifford started to laugh. 'I deserved it for being so conceited,' he replied, tension oozing out of his powerful body. He sat down on the bed again. 'My brother and sister-in-law are currently living in the London house,' he explained. 'I thought you could stay with them for a while. Honor is expecting to be confined

  in...November, I think.' He frowned. 'We might need to make other arrangements before then, but for the time being it seems an excellent solution.'

  'Oh.' Somewhat contrarily, Abigail felt quite put out by Gifford's apparent lack of interest in his purchase. 'So you only bid for me from disinterested gallantry?' she said, then immediately blushed and wondered what had happened to her sense of decorum.

  Her embarrassment wasn't eased by the long, slow look Gifford gave her. His gaze tracked down over her sheet-swathed form, her naked forearm and her bare toes which were all he could see of her. Then his gaze lifted to her eyes, before dropping a little lower to focus on her lips. 'I wouldn't say that,' he drawled.

  He moved until he was sitting on the edge of the bed, then he reached out and hooked a hand behind her head. The steady pressure of his hand against her nape compelled her to lean towards him. The wobbly chair jolted her an inch or two closer. Gifford leant towards her. Their lips touched.

  Abigail gasped.

  His mouth was warm, firm, and gentle on hers. Her lips parted in surprise. He caressed them softly with his mouth. His hand was buried in her thick hair, but he didn't touch her anywhere else.

  Her fingers and toes curled up in response to the first real kiss she'd ever received. She closed her eyes and trustingly surrendered to the experience—and to Gifford. She felt warm all over, but this fire burned from the inside outwards.

  It started deep within her. Warm embers of pleasure burst into flames of excited desire. Fiery excitement

  coursed through her body with increasing urgency until it reached her very fingertips. Almost of their own volition, her hands opened and sought to touch Gifford. She reached blindly but surely for his strong shoulders, and gripped convulsively when she found them.

  Gifford broke the kiss. He groaned softly and lifted his head away from her.

  Abigail opened her eyes, gazing at him in bereft confusion. Without realising what she did, her arousal swollen lips pouted as she leaned further towards him to renew the kiss. Her hands still clutched his shoulders. She could feel the bunching tension in his solid muscles.

  He took one of her hands in his and turned it over, softly kissing the inside of her forearm, then worked his way upwards with exquisitely sensual caresses towards the tender skin of her inner elbow.

  Abigail sighed with pure pleasure. Her bones turned to jelly. She swayed towards him, ready to melt all over him if he'd only let her.

  'Abby!' he groaned. He muttered under his breath, then pushed her upright. The chair rocked back on its wonky legs. The sheet had fallen around her waist. Her nipples jutted against the thin muslin gown.

  Gifford groaned again. The woman apparently had no sense of self-preservation where he was concerned. First she'd knelt on the bed, watching him rouse from sleep when she was barely dressed. It had taken all his self-control not to strip her out of that poor apology of a gown, and make hot, sweet love to her. Then she'd provoked him with her naive, ridiculous question. Disinterested gallantry, for God's sake! The woman

  had behaved as if she thought he was some kind of damned eunuch! He'd kissed her entirely against his better judgement. Now that she'd filled him with throbbing, savage desire for her—and while he was belatedly trying to act like a gentleman—she displayed herself to him like a sacrificial virgin.

  Which was exactly what she was.

  Gifford's sudden insight brought him up short, as if he'd just been doused with a bucket of icy well water.

  Abigail had no defences against him because, until yesterday, she'd never needed to protect herself from a man. Even after everything that had happened to her, she could still be innocently pleased that men had bid for her, because she couldn't fully imagine what might have happened to her once she was sold.

  He had to take her to London and give her the opportunity to meet other men. Decent, caring men who could give her the compliments and consideration she'd never before received. It was a crime that she'd received so little of the admiration most young women took for granted—that she therefore had so little power to discriminate between good and bad attention from a man.

  Yes, he decided, he would take her to London. That was the right thing to do. But his hasty decision immediately began to weigh in his gut like a round shot. He didn't want other men to flirt with her or flatter her. He didn't want any other man to see her like this, her cheeks and breasts flushed with arousal. Her eyes dilated with excitement, her lips swollen from kisses. Her nipples...

  He stood, grinding out a curse, and stalked to the other side of the room.

  'Cover yourself!' he ordered.

  Abigail wrapped the sheet around her with shaking hands. Her soft green eyes were huge as she followed his progress around the bedchamber. She looked so uncertain—so unsure of herself. He suppressed another oath. This was true torture.

  'Perhaps you should go away if you're just going to prowl about!' Abigail said, hur
t as well as indignation in her voice. 'When Ned arrives with my clothes I'll go back to Bath. You won't have to bother with me any more.'

  'When Ned arrives, we're going to London!' Gifford said categorically.

  'You said I could decide where I go!' Abigail protested.

  'I changed my mind. You don't have any idea what's best for you!' Gifford wrenched open the door and slammed it behind him.

  Denied the chance to reply, Abigail stared after him in astonishment, which quickly turned to furious indignation. She let the sheet fall unheeded the floor as she sprang to her feet. Who the devil did Gifford Raven think he was?

  She was halfway to the door when she remembered she really wasn't dressed for a public confrontation with him. She turned aside, seething with impatience and irritation. It was intolerable that she was a virtual prisoner in this room while Gifford was free to roam where he chose.

  >]< ^

  There was a small orchard behind the inn. Anthony had refused to spend any more time in bed. It was hot and stuffy in his bedchamber, and in any case he wasn't sick. So he sat in the shade of an apple tree and talked to a distracted and bad-tempered Gifford.

  'Johnson will never turn up to collect payment from me,' Gifford announced. 'Not if he has any wits at all. We'll have to hunt him down.'

  'Of course.' Anthony leant his head back against his chair and watched Gifford pace up and down under the trees.

  Gifford was once more bare-chested as he waited for Ned to arrive from Bath with his clothes. The landlord's tea-stained shirt had been too small for him. He'd put up with the discomfort for a little while, then ripped it off with an exasperated curse.

  Every now and then as Gifford paced through the trees he had to duck to avoid a low branch. The minor impediment didn't slow his progress. Gifford had spent most of his adult life at sea living in uncomfortably cramped conditions. When he'd first boarded the Unicorn Anthony had repeatedly banged his head until he'd learned the knack of ducking or holding it to one side when he moved about below decks. Gifford adapted relatively easily to changes in his physical surroundings—but his powerful emotions sometimes prompted him to behave like a caged tiger when he wasn't able to take immediate action.