“Stay put,” he growled at the villain on the horse next to his. Likely the command was unnecessary, for the ride had drained the fellow. He merely sat there, stoop-shouldered and ashen-faced, his trouser leg soaked with blood.
Samuel swung down into a thick patch of mud, and a scowl etched deep into his brow. A pox on Skinner for being such a cinch-purse of a proprietor. Two coins out of the innkeeper’s profits would dump a load of wood shavings on this mess. And by doing so, perhaps more savory patrons would frequent the place instead of the usual riffraff that congregated beneath the inn’s crack-shingled roof.
He rounded the side of the carriage, opened the door, and yanked out the stairs. Without a word, he lifted his arm and offered his hand. Silence proved best in dealing with frightened women, for they often read too many sinister meanings into the most innocent of remarks. And no doubt these women were frightened. They’d seen enough today to make a grown man’s bowels turn to water. He coaxed his mouth into a semblance of a smile, especially when the wildcat peered down at him.
Her small fingers pressed against his as she descended. She’d tucked up her loosened dark hair, blown wild by the winds of the heath, but several curls refused capture and dangled free. Her gown was wrinkled, the hem caked with mud. Her crushed bonnet dangled from its ribbons like a dead cat down her back. She’d fit right in with the clientele of the Dog.
But despite her ruffled appearance, she smelled of lavender and something more. Something sweet. He inhaled as she swept past him. Citrus, perhaps? Orange blossom water, if he wasn’t mistaken.
He lent his hand to the other woman, and then the wildcat turned to him. “Where are we?”
“North side of the heath, the Laughing Dog Inn.”
“What is to become of us now?”
Oh no. He’d not fall for that one. Fluttering eyelashes were sure to follow. Then coy blushes and flattery. He’d seen it before. Women always got far too attached to whoever helped them in a time of need.
“That’s up to you, miss.”
He stalked toward the inn, his boots sinking into the mud. Lighter footsteps squashed and sucked behind him, the noise kindling a fire in his gut. These ladies should not be here, stamping through the filthy mire. Who in their right mind had sent them out on their own? Allowed them to travel without a manservant? Without any kind of protection whatsoever?
He shoved open the door with more force than necessary, and a belch of smoke from an ill-drafted hearth greeted him. Thin blue haze hovered below the rafters in the small room, stinging his eyes as he entered. Opposite a bar scarred from one too many knife fights, three tables graced the tiny public area. A single window shed light through sooty film. Even on a brilliant afternoon such as this, the Dog lived and breathed in perpetual twilight.
Samuel stalked past a man nursing a mug at the bar—or rather the mug nursed him. The tankard propped up his shaggy head as he snored with an open mouth.
“Skinner?” Samuel called.
A mousey man scurried out of the kitchen door. Skinner’s shorn head and clipped beard resembled a pelt of grey fur. His clothes had been washed so many times they were now a perpetual shade of dingy. He twitched when he walked, and his voice squeaked in an off-key pitch. “Aye, Cap’n! Why, I ain’t seen ye in awhiles. Got ye some pretties, have ye?”
He didn’t have to look behind to know the women stood close at his back. Despite the smoky air, he breathed in a faint whiff of orange blossoms. “These ladies need a place to refresh. Give them your best. I’ll need a bed and a surgeon for one man. A gravedigger for the other two.”
Skinner cocked his head. “Hit a patch o’ trouble, did ye?”
“You could say that.”
The little innkeeper darted a look about the taproom, then jerked a step closer. “Were it Robbins?”
“One of them.”
The man’s eyes widened, black and beady. “Which one?”
“Pounce.”
“Pounce!” Skinner jumped back. “Don’t tell me I’ll be housin’ that devil.”
“You won’t.” Thank God. The world would be a better place without that scoundrel. Samuel rolled his shoulders, working out a knot. “Pounce’s thieving days are done.”
Behind him, the ladies conferred in whispers—hard to make out with Skinner’s low whistle filling the small room.
“There’ll be a price on yer head, Cap’n. Shankhart will hunt ye down, and that’s God’s truth.” Skinner’s nose wrinkled. Were he truly a mouse, no doubt his whiskers would be trembling. “Ye know that, don’t ye?”
Of course he knew it—and had since he’d first stared into Pounce’s glassy eyes. “Won’t be the first time.”
“Always were one to live on the edge, eh?” The little man chuckled. “You be riding back today, Cap’n, or staying the night?”
“Depends upon what the surgeon says, how soon that villain out there can ride.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “Have someone haul him in, hmm? Oh, and send a lad to see to the ladies’ belongings and to my horse.”
Skinner’s head bobbed. “Aye. I’ll have Blotto heave in the ol’ carp and the baggage, and I’ll send my lad Wicket to tend yer mount. Set yerself down. I’ll bring ye a whistle wetter while ye wait.”
Samuel took the table in the corner, shoving the chair so his back would be against the wall. Pulling off his hat, he scrubbed a hand over his face, wiping off some of the grime, then winced as his fingers hit the sore spot on his jaw from the woman’s kick. Lord, but his bones ached. His muscles. His soul. He was getting too old for this.
Heated whispers floated on the air, somewhere in the cloud just above the heads of the two women. Colour rose on each of their cheeks. Were they sisters? Cousins? Rivals or friends?
The wildcat shook her head then spun toward him. Her steps clipped on the wooden planks, little clods of mud breaking loose from her hem and littering the floor. She stopped at his table, her brown eyes a fierce sort of velvet, far too bold. And worse, far too comely. He shuddered inwardly at what Pounce would’ve done to such a beauty had he not come upon the scene.
She bobbed a small curtsey. “I wanted to thank you, sir, for your aid. I realize now that you are a noble man of integrity.”
He studied her for a moment. What was she angling for with such flattery? Slowly, he shook his head. “No thanks needed, lady. It is my job.”
“Even so, you have my gratitude. I am Abigail Gilbert, and this”—she lifted her hand, indicating the woman standing at her shoulder—“is my maid, Fanny Clark. Might I ask your name, sir?”
He stored the information in a mental file. Not that he intended to ever use it, but one never knew when a name might need to be retrieved. Leaning back in the chair, he eyed her, debating if he ought to part with his own name or ignore her. Normally, he didn’t engage on such a personal level with those he aided—or anyone else, for that matter.
But then normally women tended to shrink from his scrutiny. Not this one. Miss Gilbert didn’t flinch beneath the weight of his gaze, and in fact, tilted her head and stared right back as if she’d spent years facing dragons.
Unbidden, words flowed past his lips. “The name’s Thatcher. Captain Thatcher.”
“Pleased to meet you, Captain.” Her lips curved into a pleasant smile. “I am wondering if, once you are refreshed, you would consider employment as our escort for the rest of our journey.”
“The rest of your journey?” Sweet heavens! The little wildcat had narrowly missed death only hours ago, and now she was ready to continue on as if the experience had been nothing more than an afternoon ride through Hyde Park?
He set his jaw to keep from gaping. “Lady, you shouldn’t be journeying anywhere. Go home, wherever that is. And this time, take a public coach. They are guarded.”
The woman at Miss Gilbert’s back nudged her, and though she spoke in a whisper, her words sprayed down on the wildcat’s head like a curse. “I told you!”
Miss Gilbert brushed at the wrinkles in
her gown, ignoring her maid’s impertinence. Strange. Why would she do that? Most gentlewomen wouldn’t suffer such cheek without censure. Samuel folded his arms, pondering the odd pair.
“Yet if you would consent to hire on as our escort, Captain Thatcher,” Miss Gilbert continued, “then we would be guarded every bit as much as a public coach. Would we not?”
He stretched his neck sideways until it cracked, relieving a wicked kink—but it did nothing for the unease that the woman’s determination stirred up. Could that same determination be the reason she’d been out on the heath undefended? He pinned her down with a direct stare. “Why are you out here alone, traveling without a manservant or any sort of protection?”
“As you can see, I am not alone.” She swept her hand toward her maid. “And not that it signifies, but I am on my way to be married.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Her eyes flashed as if he’d probed too deep. A small satisfaction, that, for truth often welled from the deepest of cisterns.
“If you must know, Captain, at the last minute my family’s manservant was needed at home, and there were no more servants to spare.”
He shoved down a grunt. Some family. Likely a brood of selfish rich toffs bent on meeting their own needs and forsaking those of others. But if they were wealthy…
He studied her all the more. “Why didn’t your family hire a guardian, then?”
“Oh, well…” She fluttered her fingers—no doubt trying to distract him from the spreading flush on her face. “They have likely even now left for the continent. There was no time to acquire one before I departed. So you see, Captain, that I am in need of your services.”
He smirked. She was an unwavering little firebrand, he’d give her that. Spunky too. Still, he shook his head. “No.”
“But you have not yet heard my terms.”
“’Ere we are, Cap’n.” Skinner leaned around the women and thwunked a mug onto the table in front of Samuel, foam sloshing over the rim. “Be right with ye, ladies. Just scrapin’ a bit o’ muck out of a back room for ye. Got a pot o’ tea on for ye as well, and being as yer friends o’ the captain, I’ll see if I can scare up a dainty or two to go along with it.”
The innkeeper darted off before the ladies could reply.
Samuel collected his mug and slugged back a drink, secretly hoping the women would retire to a table of their own and reconsider taking a coach from here on out.
But Miss Gilbert didn’t move. Not a whit. She stood there waiting, as if by merit of her presence alone he might change his mind.
He eyed her over the rim of his mug. “Go home, lady. It is foolish to travel alone.”
She tilted her chin. “You will be paid handsomely, Captain. I can give you twenty-five pounds up front, and when you deliver me safely to my intended at Brakewell Hall in Penrith, he shall reimburse you another hundred pounds. Or more. What do you say to that?”
He choked, but not from the smoky air. One hundred twenty-five pounds? He didn’t earn that in an entire year of hauling in cutpurses and killers. The sum was enough to not only buy the patch of land he desired but put up some outbuildings and purchase more seed than he’d need for two years. At a good pace, he could get them to Penrith in a little over a fortnight—which would also put a bit of distance between him and the heath…where Shankhart would be gunning for him.
The front door slapped open, drawing his gaze. Blotto, Skinner’s man, wrapped a beefy arm around the highwayman’s shoulders, shoring up the injured criminal as he stumbled across the floor. Reminded of his duty, a great glower pressed deep into Samuel’s brow. As much as he needed Miss Gilbert’s money, obligation to the crown came first—and that meant seeing the highwayman hauled into goal until a trial could be held.
He tossed back his mug, swallowing the last dregs. The aftertaste was bitter, both from the rotgut and from knowing how he must answer the lady. He reached for his hat, then stood and gazed down at her. “My answer is no, Miss Gilbert. Stay the night here, then take the coach first thing in the morning.”
Her chin lifted ever higher. “Very well, Captain. You have been most helpful.”
But the sparking gold flecks in her brown eyes and the taut line of her shoulders belied her words. If he didn’t miss his mark, the woman had no intention of heeding his counsel…and he rarely missed his mark.
Sidestepping the ladies, he stalked off, more rankled than when he’d first entered the Dog.
The woman—Miss Gilbert—was entirely too much like himself.
Abby eased the hem of her gown off the taproom floor, tucking the extra fabric between her legs and the chair. Only God knew the origins of the oily brown residue near her feet. While she and Fanny had frequented a fair number of inns on their journey, the Laughing Dog was by far the foulest. Why had Captain Thatcher brought them here? Her eyes watered and her lungs were beginning to burn, both from the smoke and from not wanting to breathe. The whole place smelled of cabbage gone bad. Very bad.
Seated across from her, Fanny folded her hands in her lap, the beginnings of a fierce frown brewing. For hours now, ever since the failed conversation with Captain Thatcher, her maid had made clear her stance on wanting to take the public coach back home. But each time Fanny brought it up, Abby refused to yield. Not that her opposition had stopped the woman, though. And now, as the maid leaned forward and parted her lips for yet another shot, Abby steeled herself to take the next round.
Thankfully, the proprietor skittered up to them, bearing two steaming bowls. “Here ye be, ladies.”
Mr. Skinner set their meals on the crusty tabletop. Abby frowned at the washcloth tucked into the man’s waistband. Did he not know how to use it? Or did he not own a chisel? For that’s what it would take to chip away the dried remains fossilizing atop the table.
His face squinched into a broad smile, somehow making his pointed nose seem even longer. “Made this meself, I did. Thought you ladies might appreciate something other than a shank bone.”
Abby smiled at the man’s thoughtfulness. “Thank you, Mr. Skinner.”
With a nod, he darted off, disappearing behind the bar where the broad backs of four men hunkered on stools.
Fanny took a bite, screwed up her face, then set down her spoon and shoved away her bowl. “You should have withheld your gratitude.”
Abby couldn’t help but sigh. The maid had been nothing less than tetchy since they’d arrived. “Oh Fanny, I know this has been a trying day, but are we not in God’s debt for even a mean bowl of pottage? And should we not share that thankfulness with the hands that made it? After all, Mr. Skinner did go to the effort of preparing this especially for us.”
“Go on, then.” Fanny fluttered her fingers toward the bowl. “Take your own bite and see if your sentiment changes.”
As Abby lifted her spoon, the rotted cabbage odour intensified, and suddenly she understood the source of the stench. Even so, she determined to give the stew a fair shot. But as the stringy broth landed in her mouth, it took all her willpower to swallow the swill and not spew it out.
Fanny cocked her head, arching an I-told-you-so brow. “Perhaps we should retire. The first coach leaves at dawn, so we’ll have an early morning.”
Abby set down her spoon. “We are not taking the coach.”
“Didn’t you listen to what the captain said earlier?”
“We have been over this before.” Several times, actually. And with her shoulder yet sore from the crack against the side of the chaise, the repeated dialogue had made for a long afternoon. “Sticking to coaching routes will add over a week to our journey.”
“I understand,” Fanny clipped out. “But you’ll have a whole lifetime with your baronet. Why the hurry?”
“Sir Jonathan is expecting me, and I cannot keep him waiting. Besides, if you were the one on your way to the man of your dreams, would you not also make haste?”
“Not if it cost me my life.”
She couldn’t stop the roll of her eyes
. “Save your drama, Fanny. We have already crossed the most dangerous leg of our journey.”
The maid threw up her hands. “And been accosted while doing so!”
“Yes, yet lightning does not strike twice in the same spot.”
Three pairs of eyeballs turned their way from the nearest table, and Abby lowered her voice. “Listen, if it makes you feel any better, I will find someone to ride along with us. Surely Captain Thatcher is not the only available guardian for hire.”
“That idea is even more dangerous than riding alone. Do you see the men in here?”
Her gaze slid around the ragtag collection of patrons gracing the taproom. Several stared back, interest gleaming in their eyes—the cold and calculating kind. A beast of a man in the corner looked as if, among other things, he wanted to kill her just for the pleasure of it. The rest were so busy wooing their cups, the walls could’ve collapsed around them and they’d never notice.
She pursed her lips to keep from sighing again—and to keep from admitting aloud that Fanny was right. Not one of these men would be suitable to hire. She and Fanny would be safer on their own.
Turning back to her maid, she curved her lips into a confident smile. “We shall simply travel on to the next inn and employ a manservant there. It will only be another fifteen miles or so on our own. After all, we have made it this far without a hired gun.”
Slowly, Fanny shook her head. “While it pains me to do so, miss, if you refuse to take the public coach, I feel I must resign as your maid.”
She stiffened. Surely she hadn’t heard correctly. “What are you saying?”
“Unless you relent”—the maid pressed her hands onto the table and bent forward—“I will be forced to take the morning run back to Southampton and search for other employment.”
Abby drew a sharp breath. “You would leave me to journey on alone?”
“Beg your pardon, miss, but I must. Your determination will not be my downfall.” Pushing up, Fanny stood. Without a backward glance, the maid hastened across the small room and vanished up the stairwell.
The Noble Guardian Page 5
