The Noble Guardian

by Michelle Griep

  Shoving the wet pile aside with her foot, Abby reached for the fresh shift. “I am Abigail Gilbert, but please, call me Abby.”

  “Well then, Abby, pleased I am to—”

  A desperate wail squealed out of Emma, cutting the woman off. Despite Wenna’s murmurs and shushings, the child would have none of it as she wrangled Emma into what was likely one of her husband’s shirts. Strange, that. Usually Emma was such a placid little girl.

  Wenna swung the child up into her arms and faced her, bouncing Emma as she spoke. “As soon as you’re dressed, let’s get you, your fine man, and your youngling fed and put up for the night. We’ll tuck ol’ Darby Cleaver out in the byre and the rest o’ ye can sleep upstairs in my boy’s loft.” She jerked her head toward the rafters. “’T’ain’t much, but ’tis snug and kept at the ready for my Georgie to return.”

  Heat crawled up Abby’s neck, though she was hard-pressed to decide if it was from the woman’s misunderstanding that Captain Thatcher was “her fine man” or from the niggling wish that she might want him to be. She ducked inside the billowing fabric and pulled the ample cloth over her body, mulling over what to say.

  “I appreciate your offer, truly.” As soon as her head popped out of the gown, she smiled. “But there is no need to put yourself out. We are more than grateful for the shelter you are providing while the storm rages, but as soon as it breaks, we shall be on our way.”

  “Ach! None of it.” The woman wagged her head and juggled the fretting Emma to her other shoulder. “That storm’s like to bluster and blow till the wee hours. Ye’ll be staying the night, no doubt, and I’ll not hear another word on it.”

  Abby bit her lip as the woman bustled past her, humming a folk tune to quiet Emma. It had been bad enough back in Stratford when the surgeon had assumed her union with the captain, but they hadn’t had to share a roof with him. How was she to tell the headstrong Wenna they weren’t married?

  She followed the woman’s swishing skirts, scrambling for the right way to broach the subject, and settled on simply being direct. “We are not married.”

  Wenna stopped and turned so quickly, Emma’s head bobbed from the ride. “What’s that you say?”

  “The captain and I…well…” Abby withered beneath the woman’s narrowed eyes. Perhaps the direct approach hadn’t been the best idea, but she couldn’t rescind it now. So, she lifted her chin. “We are not married, but I can explain—”

  The woman’s hand shot up, cutting her off. “Faith and honor! Then ye can’t be staying here after all!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Samuel stopped on the threshold of the croft’s front door. Outside, sheets of rain swallowed Farmer Bigby and the postilion, Darby Cleaver, as they dashed toward the stable, horses in tow, Pilgrim last in line. His horse needed his attention, especially that wound on her foreleg, yet Samuel turned back and shut the door behind him. Pilgrim would have to wait, for a bigger squall was about to break in here. The remnants of the older woman’s harsh tone yet resounded from wall to wall. What the devil had Miss Gilbert done to offend her so?

  The lady in question clutched her hands in front of her, dressed in a gown two sizes too large. Miss Gilbert’s dark hair curled past her shoulders, wet and loose as a wayward girl’s. Patches of colour pinked her cheeks, and her big eyes blinked wide. A smile twitched Samuel’s lips. Even garbed in homespun, the woman was a beauty.

  “Please, Wenna, hear me out.” She dared a step closer to the farmer’s wife—Wenna, apparently—and Emma nearly launched out of the woman’s arms to get to her. But Miss Gilbert kept her gaze fixed on Wenna and measured out her words, slow and even. “I assure you that we bring no shame to this house. Captain Thatcher is my hired guardian, nothing more. Believe me when I say that there is not a nobler man on the face of this earth.”

  Samuel planted his feet to keep from staggering. He’d taken blows to the chest before, even fell out a first-story window once, landing flat on his back in a pile of crates, but none of those incidents stole his breath quite like Miss Gilbert’s passionate defense.

  The older woman humphed. “That may be, but this child is yours.” She handed over the weeping Emma, who immediately buried her face into Miss Gilbert’s neck and quit crying.

  Before Miss Gilbert could respond, Wenna folded her arms, clearly not done with the battle. “I’ll not be condoning no unwed mothers, no matter how fancy yer clothes be. You can stay the night, but off with the likes of ye come morning, and may God have mercy on yer soul.”

  Miss Gilbert’s face flamed. So did the anger in Samuel’s gut. While he couldn’t fault the farmer’s wife for jumping to such a torrid conclusion, neither could he allow it to stand unchallenged.

  He stalked over to the women, his boots hitting the planks harder than necessary, and pulled up next to Miss Gilbert. Drawing from years of experience, he faced down Wenna with a stern set to his jaw. “The lady is innocent of your charge, madam. The child belongs to a friend of mine, who wishes us to deliver her to his sister. Your censure is not only unmerited but ill-mannered, for Miss Gilbert’s character is above reproach. An apology is required.”

  Rain beat against the windows, and the glass rattled in the frames. On the hearth, an occasional ember popped out from the fire. Other than that, silence reigned, for Wenna stood mute. Her shoulders deflated in increments as his words sank in, until finally, her hands flew to her cheeks and her washed-out eyes sought Miss Gilbert’s. “Mercy and grace! And me, going on so, grizzling like a badger. I beg your pardon, miss. It weren’t kind o’ me to think such a thing, let alone say it aloud.”

  Her gaze drifted to him, the droop of her floppy cap as repentant as the woman. “Nor ought I have thought poorly of you, Captain. I’ll catch a scolding from my husband when he hears of it, for sure and for certain.”

  The sheepish tuck of Wenna’s chin radiated her shame and subsequent angst over her husband’s expected upbraiding. Amusement flickered through Samuel that for such a headstrong woman, the farmer’s wife cared deeply about her man’s opinion of her.

  A small smile lifted his lips. “Then we shan’t tell him.”

  “Well said!” Miss Gilbert laughed. “And I agree. All is forgiven, Wenna. It was naught but a silly misunderstanding. How about I settle Emma on the floor then help you with the broth, hmm?”

  “Aye, and I’ll be glad for the help.” A relieved grin curved the woman’s mouth. “When those men come in, no doubt they’ll be hungry as the horses they’ve settled, eh?”

  Wenna winked up at him, then scurried over to the hearth, apron strings riding the current of air behind her.

  Miss Gilbert turned to him, and once again his breath hitched as their gazes locked. Admiration ran deep in those brown eyes. Deep and pure. Ahh, but he could get used to that look, to the resultant twinge that charged through him from heart to gut, arousing a hunger for more. It was heady, this new craving, this reckless yearning to pull her into his arms and hold her close.

  And altogether far too dangerous.

  He scowled and stalked away, leaving the queer feelings shut tight inside the cottage as he strode into the storm. The drenching rain slapped him hard in the face, and he relished the sting of it. Better to lose himself in a torrent than hand over his heart to a woman.

  Inside the small byre, Cleaver and Bigby yet worked to remove the coach horses’ tack. Pilgrim stood to the side, casting him a poisonous eye as he pulled off his hat and shook the water from it. He patted his old friend on the neck, and Pilgrim tossed her head, making a point. “Now, now…you didn’t think I’d leave you for long, did you?”

  Crouching, he ran his fingers gingerly along the animal’s foreleg, inspecting the muscles and examining the wound. Despite the harried ride through the storm, the rain had washed the gash clean, and as he peered closer, he thanked God silently that pink skin formed at the edges. A day or two more of salve and slow going, and Pilgrim would be set to rights.

  Rising, he unbuckled the girth strap and ca
lled over his shoulder to the other men. “How safe is that road where we left the carriage?”

  Bigby turned his head, the shorn hairs on his scalp giving the stout fellow the appearance of a great, bristly scrub brush. His large ears added to the picture, looking like handles. If you tipped the man over, he could be used to scour the floor with the top of his head. “Why do ye think I answered the door with the tip o’ me musket? Been a great load o’ thievin’ hereabouts lately. But ne’er fear. Ye and yer lady are safe as can be now.”

  Thieves? He sighed. If only it were that simple. Hefting the saddle off Pilgrim, he faced the farmer. “Maybe so, but the lady’s chest, all her belongings, are ripe for the picking.”

  Cleaver spewed out a curse as he eased off the coach horse’s bridle. “It’d be a half-witted fool to plunder on a night like this.”

  True, but all the same, a glower weighted Samuel’s brow. He’d seen one too many half-witted fools in his time, and the worst were those bent on wrongdoing. He set the saddle on the stone floor near the door, then doubled back. “All the same, soon as this storm lets up, I’d appreciate the use of your wagon outside to collect Miss Gilbert’s chest.”

  “I’ll not be refusin’ ye, but neither will I venture out on this wicked night.” Bigby cocked his head at him as if he were the half-wit. “Have at it on yer own, if ye like.”

  He nodded and returned to Pilgrim. Hauling the lady’s chest on his own would be an arduous task, but a necessary one. Not only would it save the lady from a possible theft, but it would also erase any ties to them and their location.

  Ties that Shankhart or his toadies might come across.

  Abby pulled off the borrowed gown and folded it while Emma watched from the bed, flat on her back and chewing on her toes. It’d been a long day for the girl, and as a yawn stretched Abby’s own jaw, she had to admit it’d been long for her as well.

  Farmer Bigby had entertained them well into the evening with stories around the hearth, a pleasing way to pass the time while the tempest continued to rage outside. The captain, however, had seemed distant after his defense of her virtue. He’d been polite and answered when spoken to, yet Abby got the distinct impression he’d listened more to the storm than to what was going on inside the cottage walls, and the lack of his attention was a great, gaping loss.

  What sort of a frivolous female was she turning into?

  Casting the strange thoughts and feelings aside, she laid Wenna’s gown over the back of a chair, taking care not to bump into the small table next to it and disturb the contents. The blue porcelain washbowl already sported a chip in the rim, and Wenna had made it clear that her son’s belongings were not to be moved. Abby glanced at the shaving kit next to the bowl, candlelight cutting a steel-grey line along the edge of the razor. All of the man’s accoutrements stood at the ready, but how long had it been since he’d used them? On a peg nearby, a white shirt hung against the wall like a ghost in the night shadows, just waiting to drape over its owner’s shoulders. Though the room was sparsely furnished, the spirit of the Bigbys’ son permeated everything, so pristinely did Wenna preserve it in anticipation of his return.

  Cupping her hand, Abby blew out the candle, a splash of wax burning her skin from the force. All the love and hope embodied in that hung shirt and dish of soap standing at the ready sliced into her heart. No doubt her stepmother had charged the servants at home with scrubbing down her former bedroom, washing away any possible traces that Abby had ever inhabited the space. Would the woman go so far as to order the housekeeper to remove her small portrait from atop her father’s desk? Would her father even miss it if she did? She frowned as she stared at the spectre of a shirt in the darkness. What would it feel like to be as loved and missed as the Bigbys’ son?

  She padded over to the bed, huffing out a long breath and expelling the ache in her soul lest any bitterness take root. Grousing over past ill treatment was a waste of time. Was she not on her way to a man who would cherish her? One who was even now likely fretting like a wild man over her delayed arrival?

  Emma reached for her with both arms, and Abby pulled the child close, kissing the crown of her head. Snuggling them both beneath the counterpane, she traced a finger along the downy skin of Emma’s cheek. However many days she had left with this sweet girl, Emma would know love and know it well.

  “Sleep sweet, precious one,” she whispered.

  Emma’s long lashes fanned against her cheeks, and Abby couldn’t help but close her own eyes and dream of a dark-eyed man who, more often than not, hid beneath the brim of his hat.

  What seemed like only minutes later, raised voices growled downstairs, rudely pulling her from the depths of slumber. Abby blinked her eyes open, surprised to see morning light streaming in from the loft’s single window.

  Rising, she shrugged into Wenna’s gown once again, straining her ears to decipher the heated words bandied about below her. The captain’s low tones only occasionally added to the mix. What could he possibly be quarreling about so early in the day?

  Emma rolled over on the bed and made a crawling dash toward the edge. Abby snatched her up, noticing her bottom end sagged heavier than normal. “My, my, little one! You are as wet as the green grass outside.”

  Emma gurgled a reply and smacked her lips—signaling she cared more about a warm drink of milk than her soiled clout.

  Carefully, Abby picked their way down the ladder leading to ground level. As soon as her feet hit the wooden planks, Wenna turned from the hearth.

  “Ach! I knew they’d wake ye.” She aimed her finger at the bickering men near the door. “Take yer squabbling outside. Ye’ve gone and waked the ladies!”

  Wenna’s husband flicked his hand in the air, batting away his wife’s words as if they were no more than a swarm of gnats. But even so, he yanked open the door. “Come along, Captain. We’ll check on that horse o’ yers afore church. Cleaver, ye can do as ye like, and may God have mercy on yer soul.”

  “Bah!” The postilion jammed on his hat and stalked past all of them, muttering under his breath.

  The captain shot her a look before he followed Farmer Bigby out the door, his brown eyes a mix of humour and irritation.

  Abby lifted a brow at Wenna. “What was that all about?”

  Wenna chuckled as she hefted a pot of porridge to the scarred wooden table. “The Cleavers ne’er were the kind to grace a pew with their backsides. ‘T’aint setting right with ol’ Darby that my man and yer captain see fit to worship as is fitting fer a Sunday morn. He were all fired up to get to work on that broken carriage of yours. But don’t ye fret none about it.” She wiped her hands on her ever-present apron and reached for Emma. “Let’s get you and the little one fed, then off we’ll be to church.”

  Emma let out a wail, and Wenna shifted the babe to her shoulder. “I’ll get this one into some dry wraps, and you can don yer fine gown again. It’s waiting for ye on that stool near the fire. Unless you prefer a fresh one?” She tipped her chin, indicating something behind Abby.

  Abby turned, and her jaw dropped. Her mud-spattered hulk of a chest sat safely against the wall. “How did that get here?”

  “Yer captain slogged through the mud late last night soon as the rain let up, and like as not had a devil of a time o’ cleaning his boots when ‘twas all said and done.”

  Warmth shot through her, and she was glad Wenna turned away with the crying Emma so she’d not witness the red flushing her cheeks. How thoughtful of the stoic captain!

  By the time they were both changed and fed, Emma’s tears ceased, and Abby carried her outside to a world washed fresh and smelling of meadowsweet. Wenna hooked her arm through her husband’s, coaxing him away from the captain with a warning that if they didn’t quit jawing, they’d all be late and have to suffer the vicar’s evil eye. Abby followed behind the pair, not wishing to earn such a reprimand from Wenna, and the captain fell into step at her side.

  “Hand over Emma. She’s too much for you to bear on a hike through
the woods.” He reached for Emma, and the girl fairly leapt into his arms.

  Abby smiled at the twitch of the captain’s jaw, a valiant attempt to hide his own grin, no doubt. Whether he admitted it aloud or not, clearly the man was smitten with the child. Beneath that gruff exterior, a heart of compassion beat pure and strong.

  Keeping to the gravelly part of the path, she lifted her hem as they skirted a puddle. Good thing she had the option to change into a fresh gown when they returned. The trek to and from church might very well leave the bottom of this one soaked and muddy. She peered up at the captain. “Thank you for retrieving my chest. It must have been a frightful task in the dark and wet.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve seen worse.”

  Her gaze fixed on the crescent scar near his temple. Indeed. What kind of troubles had this man seen?

  Emma made a grab for his hat, and he gently pulled her grasping fingers away from the brim, then turned her around and cradled her in the crook of one arm. She bounced, clearly enjoying the ride, and Abby smiled at the scene. The captain managed little Emma with such tenderness, it was hard to reconcile with his frequent dour moods and steely looks. Surely he must owe Emma’s father some kind of enormous debt.

  Abby’s gaze drifted from the bouncing Emma back to the man. “I am curious, Captain…had not Emma’s father been one of your particular friends, would you have taken the girl into your care anyway?”

  He cocked his head as they walked, a single brow lifting beneath his worn hat. “Tell me, Miss Gilbert, if you had the opportunity to do good for someone, would you not do so without a second thought?”

  She hid a smile. She would—and had—time and again. Fixing her sister’s embroidery when it turned knotty. Playing shuttlecock with her brother when no one else could be bothered. Bearing her stepmother’s tirades with naught but a kind word in return.

  “Yes,” she answered. “I suppose I would.”