The Noble Guardian

by Michelle Griep

  Thunder and earth, but the woman was perceptive. He sidestepped her and stalked toward Pilgrim, who pulled with her teeth at the clover nearby.

  Miss Gilbert’s voice followed at his back. “This child may not be yours, but I suspect you have lost one very dear to you, have you not?”

  He wheeled about, his hands curling into fists as he studied her. How could she possibly know that?

  Her brow creased, her brown gaze glinting with compassion. “I do not mean to offend. I merely wish to help, and I am well practiced with a listening ear. Past hurts often lose their sting when shared with others.”

  He smirked. “There you go again.”

  “What?”

  “Being a starry-eyed dreamer. And you’re wrong.” His tone lowered to a bitter growl, completely unstoppable. “Some hurts never go away.” Well did he know that truth. Some were so deeply engrained, not even a well-meaning woman could uproot them. Once again he turned from her, and in three more strides, he bent and snatched up Pilgrim’s lead.

  Footsteps patted the dirt behind him. “Who was the child, Captain? The one your heart yet mourns?”

  He stiffened. How the deuce could she see into him like that? In all his years on the force, not one of his fellow officers nor his brothers-in-arms back in India had ever guessed as much.

  Why her, God? Why now?

  “You do not have to tell me, but it might help if you told someone.” Miss Gilbert’s voice was a sweet addition to the June birdsong. Lord, but she was persistent.

  She stepped closer, the scent of orange blossom water wafting over his shoulder from her nearness. “I hate to see you so tortured every time you take Emma into your arms, and we still have a long way to go with her. Should you not make peace with whatever demon it is from the past that yet haunts you?”

  He clenched the leather lead in his hand. Should he tell her to mind her own business, or just walk away?

  But instead, unbidden words launched from his tongue. “I had a sister.”

  Stunned, he clamped his lips tight. Not even Moore or Brentwood knew that bit of information. By all the stars in the heavens, what had made him reveal such a personal thing?

  “Ahh, I see…. Emma reminds you of her. Is that what pains you?”

  He gritted his teeth. The woman was more persistent than a sailor bent on a rum run. He stalked over to the carriage, Pilgrim in tow, and called over his shoulder. “It’s time we leave, Miss Gilbert.”

  And it was. Stratford-’on-Avon wasn’t far off, and sitting too long in one place was asking for trouble…so was answering too many questions.

  Abby whispered one more ragged prayer for Emma to go to sleep before pushing herself upright on the bed. But the child continued to cry. It wasn’t working. Nothing was working. Emma fussed just as much—if not more—than when she’d laid the child down in the little box bed nearly a half hour ago. Abby relit the lamp at her bedside, allowing a sigh to deflate her lungs. Apparently neither of them would rest this long night, and after a hard day of travel, every muscle tight from the jostling carriage, her own sob rose in her throat.

  Lord, give me strength.

  “All right, my love.” She forced her tone to a lilting coo as she padded over to where Emma should be sleeping. Of all the ways she’d imagined how this faery-tale journey to her new husband’s waiting arms might be, bouncing a fussy babe into the wee hours of the night had never entered her mind.

  “Shall we take a turn about the room and—”

  Abby dropped to her knees. “Emma?”

  A swath of lamplight stretched out a long finger, pointing at a blue rim spreading in a circle around the little one’s lips. Gooseflesh prickled Abby’s arms. This was no ordinary illness.

  She shot to her feet and grabbed her dressing gown. Pausing only long enough to shove her arms into the sleeves and tie the sash, she whispered one more prayer.

  “Lord, grant mercy.”

  Throwing aside propriety, she dashed down the corridor. She stopped at a chamber just past hers and rapped on the door. “Captain Thatcher?”

  A breath later, the door flung open. The captain stood, feet planted wide and muscles straining against the thin white fabric of his shirt. Dark hair peeked out on his chest, just below his collarbone, matching the dark stubble on his clenched jaw. A muscle jumped on the side of his neck. The fierce look in his eyes made her want to run and hide, but she forced herself to remain steady for Emma’s sake.

  “I fear Emma is ill.”

  He dipped his head, his voice low. “Take me to her.”

  Whimpers leached into the corridor and grew louder as Abby re-entered the room. The captain brushed past her and bent over the box bed. Then he knelt and pressed the back of his hand to the little one’s forehead.

  It was strange to witness the big man so gentle with his touch—and even stranger to see him in naught but his shirtsleeves, half-untucked and spilling over one side of his trousers. His feet were bare. Abby leaned back against the wall, heat rushing to her cheeks. It felt indecent, hosting a half-dressed man in her bedchamber.

  But the next whimper pealing out from little Emma banished such embarrassment, as did the flash of concern in the captain’s gaze as he stood and faced her. “She needs a surgeon. Keep her cool until I return.”

  And then he was gone like a ghost into the night, the only evidence of his presence the riffling of her hem from where he’d passed by her in a rush.

  The next several hours stretched into an unending routine of dipping a cloth into a basin, wringing it out, then pressing the damp cloth against Emma’s skin.

  Dip.

  Wring.

  Press.

  Again and again, yet it did nothing to stop the burning, the whimpers, the thrashing. Where was Captain Thatcher? Lost? Hurt? Tired of her and the crying child? Abby smoothed a loose hank of hair flopping in her eyes and stood, arching her back. Her sanity was leaching from her, bit by bit. Perhaps some tepid tea for her and a spot of milk for Emma. It would be good for the girl to drink something…wouldn’t it?

  Her shoulders slumped. What did she know of sick babies? She trudged back to the basin and retrieved the pitcher next to it. If nothing else, some fresh water was in need. Having already traded her nightgown for her traveling dress, she snatched up a shawl and wrapped it about her shoulders, then ventured out into the corridor and down the stairs into the public room.

  At this time of night, no patrons remained. A few vigil lanterns burned from hooks on the wall, casting long shadows from the tables and chairs. Abby glanced around the room. Several doors might lead to a kitchen, but which one?

  She bit her lip, debating which to try, when the front door opened and two dark shapes entered—one carrying a bag, the other a scowl.

  The captain reached her in two long-legged strides, bringing with him the scent of horse and leather and man. The brim of his hat shaded his eyes, but she didn’t need to see them to discern the worry clenching his jaw. “Is the child—?”

  “She is much the same.”

  He brushed past her and disappeared up the stairs on silent feet, leaving her and the surgeon blinking.

  “Your husband is a determined man, a noble trait in this instance, for I was out on a call and he hunted me down. I am Mr. Harvey, surgeon”—the man tipped his hat without pausing, the spare light glinting off the glass of his spectacles—“and I am guessing your daughter is up those stairs, so if you wouldn’t mind leading the way?”

  Husband? Daughter?

  “I—I…er…” All the words she wanted to say bunched in her throat. There’d be no setting the man straight without a lengthy explanation. She turned and fled up the stairway before he could see the flush on her cheeks.

  Inside the room, Captain Thatcher had lit all the lamps, flooding the room with light. Abby gravitated toward where he stood, near the bed yet back far enough to give Mr. Harvey clear access to Emma.

  While the surgeon knelt at the child’s side, Abby looked up at the captain.
His dark hair, damp and clinging to the skin near his temples, tossed wild to his shoulders. His riding cloak draped over his shoulders, unbuttoned, half of his collar blown back. Mud dappled the top of his boots. It must’ve been some ride.

  “What were you doing in the taproom?” the captain rumbled low.

  “I went downstairs, looking for fresh water,” she whispered.

  He glanced down at her, his face unreadable as his gaze drifted over her face. “You’re weary. Go get some rest in my room. I’ll stay with the child until morning.”

  Her brows shot to the rafters. He would tend to the sick girl on his own? “And if Emma should need changing?”

  “I imagine I’ve seen worse on the battlefield.”

  Her gaze drifted to the crescent scar high on his cheekbone. So, he was more than a man of law, though truly it didn’t surprise her that his background included military service. Not with the way he commanded attention simply by merit of standing in a room.

  Emma wailed as the surgeon lifted her and laid her on the bigger bed. The little one’s mewling cries crawled into Abby’s heart and squeezed. While she appreciated the captain’s offer to escape to his room, there was no way she could accept it. She cared too much about Emma to leave her.

  Clutching her hands in front of her, she lifted one more silent prayer for the surgeon’s wisdom before she answered the captain. “Thank you, but I will not sleep until I know how Emma fares.”

  “Mr. Harvey will soon have her to rights.”

  Was he speaking to her or to himself? Both, likely, for the pinch on his brow did not go away.

  He tipped his head toward her and lowered his voice. “Go. Sleep.”

  The urgency in his voice, the very thought of stretching out on a counterpane, was tempting. Merely the idea loosened some of the tightness knotting her shoulders. It had been a long day. A never-ending one.

  But then Mr. Harvey turned from the bedside and faced them. “It is too soon to tell what is at the root of this distemper. At best, it may only be the beginnings of croup.”

  Captain Thatcher jutted his chin. “And worst?”

  Mr. Harvey’s blue eyes darted to Abby, then back to the captain. He beckoned for Captain Thatcher to follow him, then strode to the side of the room.

  A flash of anger burned from Abby’s belly to her chest as the men left her behind. After caring for the child for hours on end, cleaning and cooling and cooing, did they really think her so weak of heart? She crossed to them with clipped steps. “I am not a frail flower, Mr. Harvey. Whatever you need to say can be spoken in my presence.”

  Something flashed in the captain’s eyes. Censure or admiration? Hard to tell, but he nodded his consent toward the surgeon.

  “Very well.” Mr. Harvey rolled his shoulders. “Then I shall give it to you straight. The child exhibits the first symptoms of putrid throat.”

  Abby’s heart stopped. So did her breaths. The awful diagnosis stealing both for it was the foulest of thieves—the very one that had taken her mother’s life all those years ago.

  She swayed, but the captain’s strong grip on her arm shored her up.

  The surgeon held up a hand. “It may not be, and I pray that it is not, but even so, for the benefit of the public, I shall take her with me at once.”

  “Take her?” Abby squeaked out, leaning hard on the captain’s strength. “What do you mean?”

  “Your child, madam, needs to be quarantined until further notice.” Mr. Harvey studied them both over the rim of his spectacles. “And at the first sign of any pain in your own throats, you will need to be confined as well.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Horehound and vinegar. Blood and despair. Abby wrinkled her nose, though that did nothing to lessen the strong odour. While she’d expected the surgeon’s office to have a stringent scent, it didn’t make the smell more bearable.

  She shifted on the small bench in the waiting room, fighting a yawn. After snatching a few hours of sleep, she’d persuaded Captain Thatcher to escort her to Mr. Harvey’s office. It hadn’t taken much coaxing, though. The lines on the captain’s brow had confirmed he was as worried about the baby girl as she.

  Fixing her gaze on the door between the anteroom and surgeon’s office, Abby willed the thing to open. But it did no good. The oak slab remained shut. She glanced down at her watch brooch, then frowned. The captain had been in there at least fifteen minutes. He’d insisted she wait for him instead of meeting with Mr. Harvey herself, and she hadn’t argued. But as the minutes ticked on, she wished she’d put up more of a resistance. She shifted once more, knowing all along that fussing likely wouldn’t have done any good anyway. Though she’d known the captain for only five days, she’d learned one thing. When the brown of his eyes deepened to a flinty black, the man would not be moved.

  For at least the tenth time in as many minutes, she lifted her fingertips to her throat and swallowed, probing to detect any pain or ache. Just thinking about the possibility of falling ill made little twinges tighten the muscles beneath her touch. But that was all. No tenderness. Just a scratchy feeling on the inside from forcing herself to swallow so many times.

  Just then, Captain Thatcher stepped out.

  She shot to her feet before he closed the door behind him. “How is Emma?”

  “Much the same.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  He shrugged and donned his hat. “We should know more tomorrow.”

  The captain strode past her and held open the door, but Abby hesitated to follow. How could it possibly have taken a quarter of an hour simply to find out Emma fared no differently than when they’d last seen her? Was there something he wasn’t telling her?

  Narrowing her eyes, she studied the man, looking for clues, but he just stood there. Waiting. The sunlight streaming in from outside painted him in golden light, a chiseled, marbled statue—albeit a bit worn about the edges.

  With a last glance at the surgeon’s closed door, she exited onto the High Street of Stratford-’on-Avon. The captain fell into step beside her, putting himself between her and the road. Despite the shadow of worry about Emma, Abby lifted her face to the sun and allowed the golden warmth to soak in for one blessed moment. It was a glorious June day. Quite the contrast to the rattling walls of the carriage or the darkened timbers of the inn’s public room.

  She glanced up at the captain. “Would you like to take a turn about the town? This is, after all, the birthplace of the great playwright William Shakespeare. Perhaps we might take in a bit of history. At the very least, the fresh air would do us both some good.”

  “It’s safer to remain at the inn,” he rumbled, his tone as dull as the wheels on a passing dray.

  She quirked a brow at him. “Do not worry, sir. I shall protect you.”

  While she appreciated that he took his role of guardian to heart, could the man not permit himself to enjoy a few brief moments?

  His dark gaze snapped to hers. No smile curved his lips, but all the same, amusement sparked in his eyes. Though unspoken, she got the distinct impression her retort had pleased him—which unaccountably heated her face more than the sun.

  She looked away, and her step faltered. Then she stopped altogether. After the fear-filled night she’d spent caring for Emma, her mind consumed with worry and flashes of despair, she’d almost forgotten the reason for her journey. There, inches behind the window of a seamstress shop, a beautiful gown made of cream-coloured silk draped over a dress form. Hundreds of embroidered roses in golden thread swirled up from the hem, climbing a vine of small seed pearls. The bodice fit tightly, with no ruffles or braids. Near the shoulders, the sleeves puffed a bit, then followed the arm in a sleek line. This time Abby’s throat did ache—with longing. This gown was a dream. Her dream. Completely unlike the flouncy gauze and taffeta creation her stepmother had insisted upon and persuaded her father to purchase for Abby’s wedding day.

  “Oh my,” she breathed out. “The woman who wears a gown such as that will be a
picture of elegance.”

  “Waste of money,” the captain grumbled beside her.

  “How can you say that?” She flung out her arm as if to uphold the gown and her opinion in the palm of her hand. “Anyone wearing a gown like that would surely be the most beautiful bride in all of England. Would you not wish your future wife to be so adorned on your wedding day?”

  “What makes you think I’m not married?”

  “But you said you had no family!” Her brows knit into a knot as she tried to decipher the captain’s question. Had he lied to her before? To what end? Yet all she’d experienced from this man for the past five days had been nothing but honor. Why would he—

  She gasped as a sickening truth sank to her belly. “Oh! How careless of me. You were married, were you not?”

  His eyes actually twinkled. “No.” Half his mouth curved into a faint smile. “Never have been. You are entirely too easy to tease, Miss Gilbert.”

  The rogue! Her fingers curled into fists to keep from swatting the amusement off his face. Captain Thatcher was as incorrigible as her younger stepbrother. In fact, the softened lines near his eyes and jaw made him look almost boyish—and entirely too handsome.

  She pinched her lips into a mock scowl. “Why do you torment me so?”

  He leaned closer, angling his head. “Why do you fall for it?”

  Her scowl slipped, giving way to a small chuckle. “Fatigue, I suppose. And it is unfair of you to take such advantage.”

  She turned back to the gown for a last look, powerless to stop a sigh from barreling out. “Simply lovely,” she whispered.

  “You don’t need a gown to make you beautiful.”

  She jerked her gaze back to him, only to see his long legs already striding down the pavement. Had that been a compliment? From the dour captain?

  Lifting her hem, she dashed to catch up. “Thank you, Captain, but I hope you do not think I was fishing for praise. There are simply certain expectations of how the bride of a baronet should present herself. Sir Jonathan Aberley will wish me to play the part, and I intend to meet his expectations.”