“I must admit I’m surprised, sir,” Andrew said.
“And why is that, pray?”
“Well, you being who you are.” He glanced around, his eyes wide, and then whispered, “A colonel.”
“What? You think soldiers don’t appreciate a bit of Gothic excitement while we are on campaign?”
Eva made another of those snorting sounds, like something from a miniature bull.
“I’ll admit it had not occurred to me,” Andrew answered, taking his question seriously.
“Well, you two might care to sit about, reading drivel, but I want to play cards. Go fetch them from Godric’s room, Andrew.”
Andrew’s eyeballs bulged and Godric stood before they could commence brangling. “Actually, I forgot something up in the room, Eva. I’ll fetch them.”
“See?” she demanded, gesturing with a hand at Godric while staring at Andrew. “Now the man who saved us today is going up, all because you are a lazy, good-for-nothing, poor—”
Godric shut the door on their bickering. They’d behaved for hours; it was time they had a good go at one another. He’d not really wanted to go to the room, but he had wanted a word in private with Norton. He hadn’t wished to pursue the subjects of Flynn and the magistrate in front of his young companions.
He passed the taproom and saw a lone customer at the bar. His back was to Godric, but his mode of dress proclaimed him to be a rustic, as he was not dressed in the dyed uniforms that Flynn’s men had worn.
“Can I help you?”
“Good God!” His voice came out three registers higher than usual, and he spun around to find Mrs. Crosby leaning against the door that probably led to the kitchen.
“I’m sorry I startled you,” she said, not sounding it. “Were you looking for something?”
At least Godric now knew his heart was working well. “I wanted to have a word with Mr. Norton.”
“He’s not here. Perhaps I could help?” Her tone was a mixture of sin and velvet.
A bolt of lightning struck close enough to the inn to illuminate the dim taproom; the ensuing crack and roll of thunder was almost immediate.
Godric turned from the window to find Mrs. Crosby wearing another expression entirely. But it was gone so quickly he wondered if it was just a residual effect of the lightning.
“I hope he’s not out in the elements,” he said, becoming more curious about this woman—who was once again giving him come-hither looks—by the moment.
“So do I.”
They stood in silence, their eyes locked. Godric felt a frisson of something, but it wasn’t sexual excitement.
She reached out just as another bolt of lightning flickered, her fingers warm and rough on his temple. “Does it hurt?” Her touch was caressing. Utterly inappropriate.
Godric reached up and circled her wrist with one hand, gently but firmly removing her fingers from his skin. He was about to release her arm when her other hand slid around his waist.
Godric laughed softly but didn’t release her. “What is it that you want, Mrs. Crosby?”
She shrugged, her hand kneading the bruised muscles of his waist hard enough that he hissed in a breath, his hand tightening on her wrist until she made an echoing sound, her chest rising and falling more quickly now, her eyes hooded as her hand continued to hurt him.
Her full lips curved into a carnivorous smile. “What do I want? What do you—”
Godric saw the light from a door opening behind him and knew it could only be the coffee room.
Mrs. Crosby’s smile shifted from aroused to amused and she dropped her hand. “Let me know if you want to take me up on that offer. Of help, I mean.”
Godric knew who was behind him before he released the woman’s wrist, and then watched as the cook disappeared into the kitchen before turning to face some familiar music.
* * *
Eva felt as if all she did these days was either sit in a carriage or pace a threadbare carpet in yet another cramped, filthy inn.
Although that wasn’t really a fair assessment of the room she was in now; yes, it was small, but it was scrupulously clean and plenty large for a couple. Well, a man and wife who were currently speaking to one another.
Eva groaned, her mind’s eye insistently playing the same image over and over again. Godric’s broad back, female fingers gripping his narrow waist hard enough that the tendons stood out on the back of her hand, and Godric holding her other arm.
And then there was his face when he turned, sardonic and amused. “Sorry, darling, I stopped to talk to Mrs. Crosby. Were you concerned for my welfare? Or have you done away with poor Andrew and need help disposing of the body?”
“How droll,” she’d snapped, infuriated by the way her voice shook. “But I’m actually headed up to go to bed. I seem to have developed a headache.”
His smile said he knew that for the lie it was. He gestured toward the stairs. “After you.”
“I hardly need an escort up the stairs.”
He came close enough to lay his large, splayed hand over her lower back and leaned low to whisper, “I still need to fetch the cards, sweetheart.” He kissed her temple.
He came up with her, fetched the cards, and then wished her goodnight before heading back downstairs.
And that, as they say, had been that.
Eva had heard Andrew moving about in his room some time ago, so Godric had been by himself—all alone—downstairs for at least an hour.
Or not.
“I don’t care!” She forced the words through clenched jaws, her head filled with visions of him doing to Mrs. Crosby what he’d done to her.
Oh yes, you do.
She flung herself down on the bed, still fully clothed in the stupid borrowed dress and overlarge cloth slippers.
There was a tentative knock on the connecting door.
“What?” she called out, not getting up even when she heard the door open.
“What’s going on in here?” Andrew’s rather reedy voice sounded even higher than usual.
“Nothing.”
“It sounded as if you were throwing furniture around—and marching in place.”
Eva shoved herself up onto her elbows. “What did you do down there?”
Andrew blinked, which was when she noticed he’d taken off his laughable spectacles. “Where?”
“God, you ninny! In the coffee room. Where else were you?” His immediate frown told her calling him names probably wasn’t the best way to get what she wanted. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean that. Did you play cards?”
Andrew’s mild features were seized in an expression of indecision—likely about whether to slam the door in her face or not—but thankfully he was sunny natured and relaxed against the doorframe.
“We played for a while.”
Probably until Godric was on the verge of ripping his hair out at Andrew’s horrid bidding and pitiful trades. An hour playing cards with Andrew had likely left Godric curled in a fetal position on the hearth. She smirked at the image.
“And then we talked a bit,” Andrew said, shattering that appealing vision.
“You talked? About what?”
He shrugged his shoulders with deliberate casualness and said, “Men’s stuff. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Men’s stuff.”
His eyes narrowed into a nearsighted glare. “You needn’t raise your voice at me.”
Eva ground her teeth. Oh, but she did need. She desperately wanted to tell him he should be grateful she’d not leapt on top of him and wasn’t currently thrashing the information out of him. Before she could lose all sense and do exactly that, he resumed his desultory story.
“Godric ordered a bottle of brandy and we just spoke generally. He’s a fellow Etonian, you know.” He paused, smiling proudly across at her.
She glared at his puffed-up countenance, her eyeballs hot.
Andrew, utterly unaware of the danger that faced him, continued, “Mainly we just talked about what I wan
t to do—what sort of work. He said he’d help me find a secretary position.”
Eva grunted. “Oh. What was he doing when you left?” Her face was as hot as a poker by the time the last word left her mouth. Luckily, Andrew seemed to find nothing amiss about a woman asking about her husband.
“He was reading.”
“Reading?”
Andrew grinned. “He really does enjoy those Gothic novels, doesn’t he?”
Eva didn’t want to tell Andrew that he knew just as much—if not more—about her husband as she did.
“There is something odd going on here,” she said, giving voice to a thought she really would have rather discussed with Godric if she didn’t hate him so much at the moment. For all she knew, he would be glad that Mrs. Horrid Crosby had possession of their weapons.
“You mean with the Gothic novels?”
Eva rolled her eyes.
“What?” he demanded. “Why do you have to look at me like that?”
“You make me look at you like that.” God, how she missed James. “Did you get the guns back from Mr. Norton?”
“No, I didn’t. What’s the hurry, anyhow?”
Eva wanted to hit him over the head with his bloody blunderbuss. “I told you to get them back half an hour after they took them. Why are you dragging your heels on this?”
“I don’t understand why I have to get them. Why don’t you tell Godric to ask for them?”
“Are you really asking me that? He just got beaten half to death.” And is in danger of being beaten the rest of the way tonight. “Can’t we do one thing without him? Besides, I’m not sure he’s in his right mind with all the buffeting his head took.”
Andrew’s expression was one of genuine alarm. “Do you really believe his head is damaged that badly? Mrs. Crosby said—”
Eva leveled her index finger at him. “If you quote her one more time—or even mention her name—I’m going to make you very, very sorry.”
He blinked, his lips parted, but no words came out.
“Now,” she said when she was sure she had his attention. “Listen to me.”
“I am listening. But what you want isn’t listening—you want my agreement. You do realize we don’t have any money to pay for all this, don’t you? They don’t know us from Adam and yet they’ve taken us in—three strangers without a bag or tuppence among us. They’ve given us shelter, clothing, and food. My guess is they took the guns to hold in payment.”
Eva blinked at the thought.
“Yes,” he said in an uncharacteristically snide voice. “I can see you don’t think of everything.”
For a moment he almost had her convinced.
“Don’t you find their generosity a bit odd?”
He sputtered, “Are you demented? They are being kind. You do know that word? Kindness.”
“Kindness would be offering aid without taking our guns.”
“So, what are you saying? That this kind innkeeper and cook have taken our guns for nefarious purposes? That they are part of Flynn’s vast underground criminal conspiracy?” He smirked at his weak jest, completely unaware of how much danger he was currently putting his blunderbuss in.
Eva could not believe he was so stupid. “What? You don’t think everyone in the area is aware there is a notorious band of robbers and killers living on their doorstep?”
“We don’t know they are killers.”
“Look, I don’t think either of them is part of Flynn’s gang, but I daresay Mr. Norton gives Flynn whatever he wants, when and if he asks for something—just like everyone else who lives in such proximity to the gang.”
Eva could tell by the way Andrew was chewing his lip that she was making headway into his thick, phlegmatic brain. For a university student, he was certainly torpid and credulous.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like him—even though he appeared to have no skills other than possessing a tediously expansive knowledge of outdated weaponry—but she was worried about his ability to assess a situation accurately. After all, he was the man who’d ended up penniless in a dress on the side of a remote cart road.
His finger moved to push up his spectacles before he recalled he wasn’t wearing them. He frowned. “Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that you are right—not that the two of them have taken our guns for any nefarious purposes, but that they might be concerned about Flynn.”
It wasn’t what she wanted, but it was a start. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t say you were right; I said—”
“I heard what you said.”
“Fine. So, that being the case, what is it you think is going to happen?”
Eva hated to admit it, but, “I don’t know.” He snorted and she couldn’t blame him. “But I do know I want to have a gun handy when I find out.”
“I still have my arquebus,” he pointed out in all seriousness.
“I wonder if that is because everyone in the world knows the stupid thing would take half an hour to light and fire, even if it did have any bullets in it.”
“It doesn’t take bullets. How many times do I have to—” He stopped, swallowing his words at her undoubtedly murderous expression. “It just so happens I can use basic supplies to fashion what I need to make the arquebus useable.”
“Oh, how comforting.”
He ignored her taunt. “Besides, as I keep saying, they didn’t take the guns, they just, er, didn’t put them in our rooms after helping us carry Mr. Fleming into the inn.”
Eva stared.
He threw up his hands. “Fine, they took them. Maybe Mr. Norton is oiling them?”
Eva could tell that even Andrew didn’t buy that supposition.
He heaved a sigh. “I shall ask for them back.”
“What if they don’t give them to you? Then what will you do?”
He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“After you’ve asked for them and they say no, it will put them in a difficult position. But if you don’t ask, then . . .”
His expression was one of dawning amazement. “You want me to steal them, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.
“I want you to liberate them. If you want to be accurate, they stole them from us.”
“Er, not really, because we stole them from Flynn—at least two of them.”
She shook her head, utterly stupefied. “Are we really having this conversation?”
He raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Fine. Our guns.”
“Good. So, what’s your plan?”
“Plan? Plan?” He goggled at her. “This is your idea. What’s your plan?”
With Godric indisposed, Eva was going to have to do everything. She could see that.
Yes, and we all know how well you handled the last matter of any importance.
All right, she could accept that kidnapping Godric might not have been the best way to resolve the problem he’d posed.
A loud crack of thunder made them both jump.
“Here’s the plan: you go down there in the morning, when both of them are busy, and search their rooms.”
“What?”
It took another fifteen minutes to convince him, and Eva’s head was pounding by the time he stomped off and slammed the connecting door, but he’d given his word that he’d fetch the guns.
Of course now that all that was handled, she could go back to brooding and stewing about the idiot downstairs, and wondering what the devil he was doing, and whom he was doing it with.
* * *
Godric knew he’d not sleep a wink tonight. That was how it was with his blasted insomnia: sometimes even five or six hours were enough to get him up to fettle. And so he’d decided to leave Eva to cool her heels a bit. And then he’d proceeded to while away the longest hour and a half in recent memory playing piquet with Andrew. For a smart young man, he really seemed incapable of grasping even the rudiments of the game.
When Godric could suppress his screams of frustration no longer, he’d suggested they share a gl
ass of brandy and have a comfortable coze.
After reassuring Andrew he’d assist in the delicate task of finding him a new position despite the fact that he possessed no letters of recommendation, the boy had yawned and then blushingly apologized. Godric had expressed his—dishonest—intention to read for a while and waved him off to bed.
Once the boy went up, Godric rang the bell, relieved that it was Norton—who appeared strangely nervous—rather than Mrs. Crosby who answered.
“Yes, my—er, Mr. Fleming?”
So, that answered the question as to whether the innkeeper had rumbled Godric’s real identity. Oh well, it was past worrying about now.
“I wonder if you have a road book or map of the area?”
“Er, yes?”
Godric frowned. Why the hell was the man so nervous? Just because he knew Godric’s identity and felt anxious about housing a duke’s heir? He supposed that might be possible. After all, the Greedy Vicar was not the kind of inn set up to cater to the carriage trade. The stables were small and Andrew said there’d been a buckboard, an older cart horse, and stalls for a half dozen others.
“I should like to borrow it,” Godric said when the big man—easily two inches taller than Godric’s six feet, and at least four stone heavier—continued to stare.
“I’ll fetch it, sir.” Norton began to turn.
“Oh, and Mr. Norton?”
The innkeeper turned slowly back around.
“About the magistrate?”
“Ah, yes, Sir Bevil.”
“My wife mentioned you’d planned to send your son?”
Norton nodded rapidly. “Yes, sir, first thing tomorrow, provided the weather clears some.” As if managed by a theatrical crew, a crack of thunder shook the sturdy little building and Norton grimaced. “The thing is, sir, there’s no telling if Anthony will even be able to get through. I went out myself earlier and saw the Nidd was lappin’ at the Cutley Bridge. That were a good six hours ago. I reckon it’ll be washed out by now.”
Godric had vague recollections of coming over said bridge in the farmer’s wagon. It had been not long after they’d left the dense section of woods.
He glanced up at the other man, whose expression was one of sheer terror. Just what the bloody hell was bothering Norton and Crosby?
“That wood to the south—Guisecliff?”
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