“Sounds like a production on Drury Lane.” He glanced at her sideways. “What kind of man cares more about the wedding than the marriage?”
“I am sure it is not like that at all. Of course the baronet cares about the marriage, about me, not just the ceremony.”
A breeze kicked up a puff of dirt from the road, and the captain angled to block her from it, his head shaking as if he didn’t believe a word she said.
She frowned, determined to change his obvious sour opinion of the man she was to marry. “Sir Jonathan Aberley is the highest-ranking landowner in the area. A man of his station must maintain the decorum people expect.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you marrying for a title, then, Miss Gilbert?”
“No!” How dare he even voice such a question? Was he teasing her again? She cleared her throat and forced a pleasant tone, unwilling to take his bait. “It is a love match.”
“Love?” He scoffed. “You’ve only met the man once. You hardly know him, nor he, you. Not a very solid beginning to a marriage. Such a union can only be ill-fated.”
She stopped and popped her fists onto her hips. Many the time had she sparred with her stepmother, but never did anger burn so fervid within her chest. This was beyond teasing. “Must you always expect the worst, Captain?”
His dark gaze challenged her in ways she couldn’t begin to comprehend. “Must you always expect the best?”
She stared right back, refusing to be the first to look away. His assumption was wrong—completely wrong—for at this moment, she was having a hard time expecting the best of him!
Samuel’s mouth twitched, a smile threatening to once again break loose. This was new. Entirely new. He couldn’t remember the last time a lady inspired so much amusement—if ever. Then again, Abigail Gilbert was no ordinary miss, the way she held her ground, neither shrinking nor wavering. How tenderly she cared for little Emma, concerning herself for the child’s well-being. The easy manner with which she’d laughed off his teasing. Was this how it had been for Moore or Brentwood when they’d first met their respective brides-to-be?
Gah! What was he thinking?
Miss Gilbert was right. If she could blame fatigue for her skewed thoughts, surely he could as well. He turned on his heel, calling over his shoulder as he resumed stalking down the High Street. “Come along, Miss Gilbert. I daresay neither of us will change the mind of the other.”
Rows of dark-timbered storefronts rose up on each side of the road, standing shoulder to shoulder, like comrades bellying up to a bar. Halfway down the block, a crowd began to gather, forming a ring around a scuffle. He glanced into the road to cross, but coming up from behind them, a lacquered carriage pulled by four high-steppers clattered down the lane. He’d have to wait until it passed before leading Miss Gilbert to the other side.
But apparently the woman hadn’t noticed his hesitation, for she continued on.
“Miss Gilbert, wait.”
He darted after her, nearly crashing into her back when she stopped at the edge of the onlookers.
At the center of the ring of spectators, two men circled each other, knees bent, fists up. The smaller of the two struck first, uppercutting with a strong right hook to the jaw. The bigger man staggered—a bit too theatrically—then whumped to the pavement, eyes closed.
Samuel shook his head, disgusted. If the Stratford constable didn’t put a stop to this kind of crowd gathering, the whole village would soon fall to cutpurses and pickpockets galore.
Miss Gilbert’s big brown eyes lifted to his. “You are a man of the law. Can you not do something?”
Her fresh-faced innocence was beguiling. Sweet mercy! How he hated to be the one to introduce her to the ways of this conniving world. But so be it. He lifted a finger and gently pushed her chin for her to witness what would happen next.
The victor raised his fists into the air, strutting rooster-like around the inside of the circle. Behind him, the fallen man sprang to his feet. The crowd gasped, likely expecting the smaller bully to take a good cuff to the back of the head.
Miss Gilbert clutched his arm. “Captain Thatcher! You must stop this before one of them gets seriously hurt.”
Her confidence in his ability to break up such a brawl did strange things to his gut, but he set his jaw. “Keep watching,” he ordered.
With one meaty hand, the big man swiped blood from his split lip. With the other, he pulled out a cloth banner from his waistband. Snapping it open, he held it up for all to read a painted advertisement for Jack Henry’s Boxing Club. “Don’t take a beating like I did, mates. Learn to fight back. A new bout of lessons starts today, on Quigley and Main. Affordable and necessary, aye Billy?”
The short man grinned back at him. “Aye!”
Miss Gilbert, pretty little lips parted, stared up at Samuel. Ahh, but he could get used to that look of reverent amazement.
“How did you know?” she whispered.
“Part of the job,” he murmured, then swept out his arm. “After you.”
She paused a moment more, other questions surfacing in the lines on her brow, much like a curious tot marveling over the discovery of a world beyond her chamber door. Then she turned and began weaving her way through the dispersing bystanders.
He followed, until a small child scampered between them. Samuel stopped to avoid kicking the lad with his boot.
The child stopped as well, blinking up at him like a fawn to a hunter. Slowly, the boy’s face squinched into a wicked grin, then he bolted, laughing as he tore between pedestrians. What the deuce? Why would a boy—?
Gut sinking, Samuel jerked his gaze to Miss Gilbert. Sure enough, a tattered old woman held on to her sleeve, swaying on her feet. The woman’s words screeched a layer above the din of the remaining people.
“My pardon, a thousand times o’er! Why, I ne’er meant to bump into so fine a lady as you, miss. Don’t be cross, miss. Don’t be cruel.”
“Of course I shall not. It was only an accident. Go in peace.” Miss Gilbert’s innocent voice stabbed him in the heart. She had no idea.
Samuel shouldered his way past the few dress coats between them.
“God bless ye, mum.” The old woman turned.
But Samuel flung out his hand and grabbed her arm, yanking her back. “Not so fast.”
Miss Gilbert frowned up at him. Him! Not at the old woman who deserved her scorn. After years of such looks, he’d built up a rawhide skin to misunderstanding scowls, but this time, from this woman, it stung like a slap to the face.
“Captain Thatcher! How can you be so harsh? Release that woman at once.”
Ignoring Miss Gilbert, he shoved his hand out toward the old thief. “Give it back.”
The woman, surprisingly agile, wrenched one way then another, wriggling to break free. Satan himself couldn’t have spewed such vile obscenities.
Samuel dug his fingers deeper into the fleshy part of her arm. “Mind your tongue, woman. There’s a lady present.”
“Pah! Lady or no, I’ll say what e’re I flip-flappity want to say, ye gleeking gudgeon. I ain’t done nothing. I’ll call the law on you, that’s what. Now let me go, ye hedge-born clotpole!”
Her grey eyes widened as he shoved his greatcoat open with his elbow, exposing the brass end of his tipstaff.
“Now,” he growled. “Hand it over.”
One more curse flew out, but so did the old woman’s hand. Miss Gilbert’s golden watch brooch sat atop the thief’s gnarly palm.
Miss Gilbert sucked in an audible breath as she snatched it away. This time when she gazed up at him, sheepish repentance shimmered in her eyes, and something more. He sucked in his own breath when he realized what it was.
Admiration.
“How did you know?” Miss Gilbert clutched the pin to her chest. “And do not tell me it is part of the job.”
“Sometimes, Miss Gilbert, it does serve to expect the worst.”
Still gripping the old woman, he fished around in his pocket and retrieved a farthi
ng, then held it out to her. “See that you hold on to this coin instead of busying your fingers with other people’s property, or next time I won’t be so lenient.”
He let go. The old woman narrowed her eyes for a moment, then seized the coin and darted off.
Frowning, he turned to Miss Gilbert. “Tuck your brooch away. Such a valuable keepsake ought to be kept out of sight.”
Her eyes widened, glistening with unspent tears. “How do you know it is a keepsake?”
“One doesn’t weep for the loss of a simple brooch. Where did you get it?”
“It was my mother’s. And you are right. There is nothing simple about it. This is my last connection to her.” She clutched the pin in a death grip. Clearly there was more attached to that bauble than grief.
Sighing, he softened his tone. “You know, Miss Gilbert, someone once told me that past hurts often lose their sting when shared with others. You rarely speak of your family. Why is that, I wonder?”
“There is not much to say. My mother died when I was five. Father gave me her watch shortly before he remarried. And a good thing too, for my stepmother would have cast it out of the home as she did with all of my mother’s belongings.” Miss Gilbert ducked her head, the dimple on her chin curving into a frown. “But enough about me. I…I owe you an apology, sir. I had no right to question your abrupt handling of the old woman, for you are far wiser than I.”
A twinge of compassion squeezed his chest. Miss Gilbert couldn’t possibly look more like a forlorn little girl if she tried.
“You owe me nothing, Miss Gilbert, save for my payment when we reach your baronet’s manor. I pray your future husband is more educated in the ways of the world than you are, for your own safety.”
Scarlet brushed her cheeks, almost feverish in intensity. While he’d meant no disrespect, had she taken his words the wrong way? Then again, such heightened colour could be the remnants of excitement from the near-robbery. A distinct possibility. Or…
His throat tightened. It could be Miss Gilbert was starting to exhibit the first signs of illness.
He blew out a long breath and offered his arm. Despite saying otherwise to the lady, he was tired of expecting the worst.
Chapter Twelve
Pins. Needles. Abby sat up in bed, her heart sinking as she swallowed again, and this time shards of glass scraped the inside of her throat. Heart sinking, she eased back against the pillow, her pulse beating loud in her ears. She’d been trying to ignore the increasing ache all night. But now, with morning light seeping between the cracks in the drapery, there was no more denying the truth.
Whatever illness little Emma suffered, she now had it.
Dragging her body from the bed, she went through the motions of dressing, all the while vainly trying to hold worry at bay. It could be nothing, as the surgeon had said of the babe yesterday. A trifling malaise of some sort, or naught more than a seasonal discomfort.
Or it could be putrid throat, the killer. The murderer.
Abby’s fingers faltered as she cinched the front of her bodice. Even were she stronger than her mother and survived such a dreaded disease, the illness and resulting recuperation would add weeks, if not months, to her journey. Must everything impede her from reaching the man who would love her forever? She’d already tallied several extra days to her journey. Was Sir Jonathan even now so concerned that he’d send out a search party?
She sat on the small stool in front of the dressing table and pinned up her hair, peering at her face in the mirror as she worked. Scarlet didn’t flame across her cheeks, nor did her skin pale to a deathly hue. Heat didn’t burn through her, and she didn’t shiver with chills. Those had to be good signs. Didn’t they? But what if they weren’t? What if those symptoms crashed down upon her all at once, any minute now?
This was ridiculous. She pushed the last hairpin into place then bowed her head. She’d learned long ago while enduring the hurts of her stepmother that only through prayer would she find peace.
Lord, I confess I am anxious and fretting and altogether not trusting in Your great providence. It is not You who are in my debt, but I in Yours…for everything You give. If this be putrid throat, then I will trust You for the best outcome, whatever that may be, for I can do no more. But even so, Lord, I pray You would grant healing for little Emma and for me.
She lifted her face, then on second thought, once more dropped her chin to her chest.
And keep Captain Thatcher hale and hearty as well. Amen.
Trying not to swallow, she rose and collected her watch brooch from off the bedside table. This time—and forevermore—she’d pin it on her gown and wear her spencer over it. Reading the time would be a bit more inconvenient, but the placement would also serve to confound thieves.
She fastened the golden keepsake to the fabric, then absently rubbed her finger over the tiny glass face. The captain had brushed off her gratitude and praise yesterday, saying he was only doing his job as her guardian, but he could have no idea how truly thankful she’d been to keep this treasure. If it hadn’t been for his fast action, all her tangible ties to her mother would be gone.
She pulled her spencer from off a peg on the wall and shoved in her arms, then tied on her bonnet, taking care to keep the ribbon from digging into her neck. Though she hated to admit to the captain that her throat ached, there’d be no hiding it if Mr. Harvey’s worst suspicions proved true.
Leaving her chamber, she padded down the corridor to the captain’s door, prepared to suffer his censure for not telling him sooner. But after three raps, he still didn’t answer.
“Captain Thatcher?” She knocked again.
No response. Strange. He always answered her call barely before the words left her mouth.
Leaning her ear to the wood, she listened for any sign of movement. But there were no footsteps thudding. No rustle of clothing. No anything. Just the low chatter of morning patrons climbing up the stairs from the taproom below. Where could the captain be at this early hour? Unless he’d gone down to breakfast?
Of course. She should’ve thought of that sooner. She descended the stairs and paused on the last one, gaining a wide view of the public room. Her gaze drifted from table to table, but no strong-jawed, dark-haired man looked up at her—as Captain Thatcher always seemed to do whenever she entered a room. Well, then. She clutched her reticule with both hands and stepped off the last stair.
She’d simply go see Mr. Harvey alone.
Sun and wind. Air and light. Samuel bent and gave Pilgrim free rein. The horse surged into a gallop. Here in the English countryside, the world blurring into a green line, God spoke in the roar rushing past his ears.
“Peace. Be at peace, My son.”
The words goaded him, and he dug in his heels, ramping Pilgrim into a frenzy. For a few breathless moments, Samuel gave in to the solid muscles beneath him, carrying him far and fast. Trying to forget. Straining for that peace.
And failing miserably.
As he neared the Stratford outskirts, he slowed the horse, but the same burdens weighted his shoulders. The latent anger simmering in his gut—so much a part of him he didn’t know how to live without it—flared hotter. How was he to grab hold of peace when so much responsibility bound him tightly?
Swinging off Pilgrim, he seized the horse’s lead and walked the rest of the way to the inn’s stable, cooling down his mount and himself. He rebuffed the stable boy with a scowl, preferring to see to Pilgrim’s care on his own. After watering, untacking, and a good brushing, his old friend nudged him in the shoulder with a playful nose jab.
Samuel patted the bay on the neck. “Yes, my friend. It was a much-needed ride, though I don’t think it did any good for me.”
He strolled from the stable to the inn, purposely restraining his stride to a slow gait—despite the urgency to discover if Miss Gilbert was up and about yet. The desire to see the woman’s smile etched a frown on his face. Why care a whit about a woman betrothed to another man? He wouldn’t. He didn’t. But
all the same, he stomped up the stairs to his room, completely distracted by glancing down the corridor to her chamber. She’d not been in the public room. Was she even now lingering over a cup of tea in her bedchamber, her dark hair undone, in naught but her dressing gown?
Bah! He’d spent far too much time in Moore’s and Brentwood’s company, their soft tendencies toward their wives influencing him overmuch. He stopped in front of his own door, shoved the key into the lock and turned it. The movement rotated without friction. The tumbler didn’t click. Clearly the thing was already unlocked—and he always secured his room.
Tensing, he reached for his gun.
But not quick enough.
The door flew open, and Noddy Carper’s hulking shape barreled out. His beefy forearm slammed into Samuel’s windpipe, cutting off air and driving him back. Before Samuel could react, the back of his head smacked against the corridor wall. Pain seared into his wrist, splaying his fingers. His gun fell with a sickening thud.
The world blackened at the edges. Samuel jammed his knee up, hoping to connect with soft tissue. But once again he was too late. Carper wrenched aside, sticking out his leg and ramming Samuel in the shoulder, toppling him off-balance to the floor.
Samuel gulped in air, coughing—until a sharp crack hit his skull.
This time the world did turn black.
Seconds later, his best guess, the fuzzy outline of his bedchamber furniture sharpened into view. A rough grip yanked the back of his collar, hauling him to his knees. Pain bounced around in his head like a steel ball gone wild. Sucking in a breath, he pushed upward.
Then stopped breathing altogether.
An arm’s length in front of him, a ruddy-skinned monster sat on his bed. A slow smile opened his big maw, revealing yellowed teeth clinging to mottled gums. Dark hair stubbled over the beast’s shorn head, misshapen from years of hard living and too many blows. And in the brute’s lap, a knife lay gripped in one hand, the blade cradled in the other. Sunlight glinted off the freshly honed metal, impossibly sharp.
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