“Now, I’ll be taking the rest of that coin you’ve got jingling in your bag there.” He indicated her reticule with the tip of a knife.
Her stomach clenched, the milk she’d taken with her breakfast curdling. What would she do without money? Mr. Thick’s brows pulled into a solid line, his scowl deepening, and she trembled. Slowly, she unlooped the small bag from her wrist and handed it over.
A grin slashed across his face as he tucked her coins inside his greatcoat. “There. That weren’t too hard, eh?”
She edged sideways, ready to make a run for it. Maybe if Captain Thatcher was still about, she could enlist his help to get her money back.
But Mr. Thick closed in on her, forcing her to retreat. Perspiration beaded on her forehead. He had his money. Why didn’t he leave?
Mustering her spare reserve of courage, she lifted her chin. “Let me pass.”
His grin grew, a macabre sort of grin, that which belonged carved into a gourd to frighten off evil spirits. “Not so fast, missy. A thank-you is in order, I think. Other men would’ve lifted far more than your coins.” His gaze shot to her skirts. “But I’ll only take a kiss.”
He advanced, shoving her back against the stable wall.
“Please.” Her voice shook, and she swallowed. “Don’t do this.”
He leaned in, running his nose along her neck up to her ear. “Mmm. You smell nice. All flowery and fresh.”
A layer below her fear, a keen rage kindled. She’d put up with torment from her stepmother for so many years, and now that she was finally free of it, she’d be given even worse? No. No! Not if she could help it.
She snapped up her hand and dug her nails into his cheek, slicing lines across his flesh. His head jerked aside, and she bolted.
Only to be yanked back by her arm. He whipped her around and crushed her body against his. “So, you like to play rough, do you? Good.” He rubbed his bloody cheek against hers. “I like that better.”
Samuel followed Bexley into the taproom but only so far as the bar. Bex passed him up and settled at a table.
From his vantage point close to the door, Samuel swept a gaze from wall to wall, hoping to spy the green skirts of Miss Gilbert. He’d not quite finished with his admonition for her to take the next coach, though why he felt such a keen need to do so rankled him. Why should he care what the woman did or didn’t do? He’d carried out his responsibility to her by seeing her safely to this inn. His obligation was finished.
Skinner scurried in from the kitchen door, caught sight of him, and darted over to his side of the bar. “Ye be needin’ something, Captain?”
“A drink for my friend over there.” He nodded toward Bexley. “And I’m wondering about the lady, Miss Gilbert, is she upstairs?”
“Nay.” The man shook his head as he retrieved a mug. “She set out not long ago.”
“Alone?”
“She hired a fellow to ride along.”
Unease crept up the back of his neck. “Who?”
“Ezra Thick.”
“And you let her?” The question roared out of him, drawing a raised brow from Bexley way across the room. Did Skinner not have a brain in his head? Ezra Thick was a known lecher!
The barkeep retreated a step, clutching the mug in front of him as a shield. “Weren’t none of my nevermind, Captain. Besides, Wicket’s driving. He won’t let no harm come to the lady.”
He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. It was either that or lunge over the slab of wood and throttle the man.
Turning back toward Bex, he grumbled under his breath, “That boy doesn’t even have chin hair yet.”
Bexley’s gaze cut from the barkeep to him. “What was that all about?”
Ignoring the chair Bexley kicked out, Samuel planted his feet. “Your offer to haul in my prisoner, does that still stand?”
“Aye. Why?”
“Something’s come up.”
Bexley pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why do I get the feeling this something will be more dangerous than if you invited Shankhart Robbins to tea? And even if you do take my suggestion and hole up at the Gable, he’s got men from here clear up there and beyond to torment you.”
He fixed the man with a pointed stare. “You worry too much.”
Bex threw up his hands. “What do I tell the magistrate? When will you be back?”
“Not long.” Hopefully. But the thought stuck in his gullet. His gut told him the lady might be more trouble than she was worth. “I’ll send word from the Gable Inn.”
Bexley’s complaints followed him out the door. Nothing new. The man never agreed with the way he handled things.
But as Bexley’s voice faded, a simmering fire kindled in Samuel’s gut, burning hotter with each step toward the backyard. He didn’t have time for this, truly. Instead of playing mother hen toward Miss Gilbert, he ought to be helping Bex haul in Shankhart’s man. Snipe! The woman was a magnet for trouble, sticking her nose into things she had no business getting involved in. She could have no idea what Thick was capable of once he got her alone.
A yellow carriage stood ready to go in front of the stables, already mud splattered. Wicket, the barkeep’s son, stood leaning with his back against it, a clay pipe sticking out of his mouth. As soon as the boy laid eyes on him, the pipe disappeared behind his back. Samuel rolled his eyes. He had bigger concerns than a lad bent on smoking.
The horses stamped at his approach. “Where is Miss Gilbert?”
“In the stable, Captain.”
His frown deepened. “Why?”
Wicket shrugged. “She and Mr. Thick are havin’ a few words afore we leave.”
His earlier unease prickled over his whole scalp. Surely Thick wouldn’t be so bold as to accost the lady here…though admittedly he’d seen stranger things.
Bypassing the boy and the carriage, Samuel strode to the stable door that gaped open near the end of the slap-hazard building. He entered the work area on silent feet and, finding it empty, paused and listened with his whole body.
Straw rustled down the confines of the horse stalls. Not unusual. But a muted cry was.
A lady’s.
He took off at a dead run, pulling out a knife as he sprinted.
Four stalls down, he slowed, then peered around the edge of the next open pen. Two figures scuffled in the scant light. Shadows outlined the wiry frame of Ezra Thick, his body pressed tightly against a skirt. A green one.
Miss Gilbert’s whimpers ignited a scorching rage in Samuel’s gut. Were there no righteous men left on all of God’s vast earth?
Without a sound, he crept into the pen. Then sprang. He grabbed Thick’s arm and wrenched it behind the man’s back, yanking upward until he felt a pop in the rogue’s shoulder.
Thick roared and spun—which gave Miss Gilbert the opportunity to dart away.
With the lady out of the line of danger, Samuel raised his knife—just as Thick lunged with his own blade. But too late. With a wild swing, Samuel cracked the hilt into Thick’s skull. Ezra’s knife dropped. So did his body.
Chest heaving, Samuel turned to Miss Gilbert. Her hat was askew—again. Several locks of dark hair hung ragged against her cheek. Blood marred the pale skin of her cheek, but judging by the transparency of the smear, it was not her own. A torn collar on her spencer and a missing button appeared to be the sum of Thick’s attack. Outwardly, at any rate. Lord knew what kind of anguish was going on behind those brown eyes. The lady stood still as a pillar, save for the slight ripple of her skirts. She stared, wide-eyed and unblinking, like a lost little girl. Did she even see him?
Slowly, he tucked away his knife, then held up his hands. “You’re safe now. See?”
A shudder ran the length of her. “Yes,” she whispered, then she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, drawing from some hidden reserve of bravery. “And I am in your debt, once again. Thank you.”
He lowered his hands, surprised at her show of strength. Most women would’ve plowed into him by now and soaked hi
s shirt through with their tears. Despite her small stature, this one was a fighter—which he admired and pitied all in the same breath.
“Come.” He swept his hand toward the open gate. “Let’s get you out of here. You have a carriage waiting.”
She advanced a few steps, then hesitated at the side of Thick’s sprawled body. What the devil? Quick as a flash of ground lightning, she bent and snatched a small bag out of the man’s pocket.
Samuel quirked a brow. Not that it was surprising Ezra had purloined the woman’s coins. No, it was Miss Gilbert’s boldness that stunned. Though it shouldn’t have, considering her determination to continue her journey alone after yesterday. What a curious lady, indeed.
He led her out of the stable and into the first true light of morning.
“You were right, Captain.” She peeked up at him. “I should have taken the coach. I tremble to think what might have happened had you not stepped in.”
So did he. Yet chastising her now would only add to the shame in her voice. He cleared his throat, unsure of how to encourage her. “You did the right thing in hiring a manservant. You just happened to choose the wrong man.”
Nearing the open door of her chaise, he turned to her. He might regret what he was about to say, but then he stockpiled regrets as avidly as some men collected fine paintings. “I know someone for hire at the Gable Inn. Someone I’d trust with my life. I will take you there.”
Chapter Eight
Samuel swung off Pilgrim and patted her on the neck. The mare’s flesh was warm, but not sweaty. She bobbed her head, then tossed him a saucy look, her front hoof stamping the ground. After this morning’s leisurely pace, she was anxious for a real leg stretcher, not a rest stop at the Gable Inn.
“I know.” He gave her a final clap. “Not much of a ride, eh girl? And thank God for that.”
An ostler approached, nodding a welcome. The young man was so lean, he was hardly more than a collection of twigs wrapped together in a shirt and trousers. Either Hawker was working his men hard or the inn didn’t include meals with their wages.
“See to your horse, sir?”
He handed the fellow Pilgrim’s lead. “Have her ready in an hour. Oh, and tell me, is James Hawker still the stable master here?”
The man blinked at him. “Aye, sir.”
He gave the fellow a nod of his own, then turned at the sound of carriage wheels crunching along the gravel. Miss Gilbert’s yellow traveling chaise, dappled with mud and listing to one side on the uneven ground, halted in front of the Gable.
Before the postilion Wicket could dismount, Samuel strode to the door and flipped down the stairs. Lord knew if the boy would even think to perform such a nicety before scampering off for a draw on his pipe.
The lady grasped his outstretched hand, her grip firm as she worked her way down. Her hair no longer hung to her shoulder, which strangely felt like an unaccountable loss. Her spencer was straightened. Her gown smoothed. And when she turned to him, the wild look in her brown eyes and heightened colour of her cheeks had all calmed. Apparently Miss Gilbert had used the placid ride to her advantage.
Late-morning sun, having burned off the earlier fog, shone brilliant against her smile. “Thank you, Captain. I suppose this is where we part ways.” She loosened the strings of her reticule and fished out some coins. “I am much indebted to you. Will this cover your service?”
He shook his head. “No payment required.”
Gold flecks of determination flashed in her brown eyes. “But I insist.”
“As do I.” He closed her fingers over her offering. While the few coins would be a boon toward buying his piece of land, it didn’t feel right taking her money. He’d long been meaning to get up here to see Hawker. Too long. Miss Gilbert’s need had been a means to that end.
He pulled away. “Use your money to purchase some refreshment while I arrange for a guard to see you to Penrith.”
“But I…” Whatever opposition she’d intended to lob at him blew away on the next gust of wind.
Her gaze met his, direct and unwavering, and the thought struck him like a slap that this might be the last time he ever saw the woman. That rankled…yet why the devil should it?
She raised her pert little chin. “I thank you, Captain Thatcher. For everything. God bless you in your service. You are a good man.”
He sucked in a breath, her praise stunning and pure—heating him in places he never knew were cold and barren.
Shoving her coins back into her small bag, she whirled and crossed to the front door of the inn, her green skirts swaying. He couldn’t help but smile as she marched off alone into the unknown. He watched until she disappeared into the Gable, and curiously, for a few moments after.
Lifting his hat with one hand, he raked his fingers through his hair, then stomped to the back of the inn. Soon, Miss Gilbert would be nothing more than a memory, and the thought stuck sideways in his craw.
Behind the Gable, a long, wood-and-stone structure lined one side of the big yard, large enough to house horses and coaches alike. Several outbuildings dotted the rest of the perimeter. Samuel glanced about for Hawker. By the inn’s back door, a few workmen bantered near a barrel. Crossing the yard, two fellows hefted a large pail between them, but neither sported a shock of red hair beneath their caps. A maid hurried past him, an armful of wildflowers cradled close to her chest.
But no Hawker.
No surprise, really. His friend was likely in the stable. Samuel swept through the big open doors, and after a thorough search and several queries, he again turned up nothing. Odd, that. Why was the man not seeing to his duties?
Back outside, Samuel followed the length of the barn to a small lean-to added onto the end, situated on the side nearest the horse pen. He rapped on the door. “Hawker?”
No answer, but the door edged open a bit. The stench of rum and bodily waste wafted out.
Samuel eased through the narrow opening. Dim light angled in along with him, cutting a triangular swath and exposing a broad-shouldered lump hunched over a bottle-strewn table. The man didn’t move. Didn’t see. Didn’t hear. His meat-hook hands cradled his head—a head topped with coppery hair.
Samuel’s throat closed. The strong stench of spirits and urine in the small room went down sideways and unearthed ugly memories. Change the man’s hair from red to dirt and Samuel was an eight-year-old boy again, sneaking away from his drunken father before another beating ensued. Thank God Hawker didn’t have a son of his own on which to take out his demons.
“Hawker!” The name flew out harsher than he intended.
“Wha—?” Like a lazy lion, the big man’s head swayed as he looked up. His eyes narrowed to slits, then widened. “Well, I’ll be a pig’s uncle. Thatcher? Can it be?”
Leastwise that’s what he might’ve said. Hard to tell with all the slurring.
Samuel frowned. “Aye. It’s me.”
“Come. Come!” Hawker reached for the bottle near his elbow. “Have a drink, for pity’s sake.”
In three strides, Samuel snatched the bottle away. “What’s gotten into you?”
“’Bout a pint o’ rum. Mebbe more.” A belch rumbled out, and Hawker dragged his sleeve across his mouth. “Not less, though.”
Setting the bottle down—well beyond the man’s reach—Samuel grabbed a chair and sat opposite his old friend. He’d known the man to imbibe on occasion, but never like this. Not during the day. And especially not when he should be working. “What’s happened?”
Hawker swiped for a different bottle, tipped it up and found it empty, then glowered and threw the thing to the floor. Glass crashed. Hawker roared an obscenity. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Samuel leaned back in his seat. “Try me.”
Hawker reached for another bottle—and Samuel blocked his hand.
The resulting scowl could’ve stopped a battalion of armed dragoons. Hawker’s red-rimmed eyes pierced him through. “You ain’t no saint.”
“Never claimed to be.
” With a sweep of his arm, Samuel knocked all the bottles to the floor, done with the man’s antics. “And I’ll have the truth of what’s put you into such a sorry state. Now.”
Hawker shot to his feet, his big hands curling into fists.
Reaching for his knife, Samuel bolted up as well. He’d hate to hurt his old friend, but the man outweighed him by at least seven or eight stone. And with the liquor skewing Hawker’s mind, there was no telling what the crazed bull might do.
Hawker growled, enlarging the red veins in his eyes. His jaw worked for quite some time, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. But eventually, the man slumped back into his chair, and a single word oozed out of him like a draining sore. “Tia.”
“Tia?” Samuel couldn’t help but repeat it. Was that drunken babble or some sort of code word he didn’t remember from their service days? Regardless, he tucked away his blade and reclaimed his chair.
“Wish to God I’d never…” Hawker’s eyes glistened, and two fat tears broke loose. Before long, the man dissolved into a blubbering mess.
Samuel stared, dumbfounded. A charging Hawker he could deal with, but this? What was he to do with this weeping, rum-soaked wreckage? His gaze drifted to the ceiling, and he lifted up a desperate prayer.
God, grant me some wisdom here.
He leaned forward, and employing the same voice he’d used to calm the women the day before, he pulled encouragement from years past. “Remember that time back in Poona? Those were the days, eh Hawk? I thought I was done for when the Peshwa’s forces captured me.”
Hawker stilled.
Good. This might work. Samuel continued, “But then you came, sporting nothing but a crack-barreled Bess and a six-inch blade…that and your own blazing boldness. Ahh, but you were a force to be reckoned with.”
With a shudder, Hawker pulled his big hands from off his face and stared into space.
Samuel rolled up his sleeve, the movement drawing his friend’s gaze, and pointed at a jagged scar on his forearm. “I made it out of that hell hole with naught but this, and all because of you. You, Hawker. So pull yourself together, man. Whatever’s happened to you, you’re better than this. You hear me?”
The Noble Guardian Page 7
