The Noble Guardian

by Michelle Griep

  That did it. One more insult and he’d take them all on—and revel in the pleasure of bloodying their arrogant noses.

  “Thank you, but no need to trouble yourself.” He pushed back his chair and tossed his napkin onto the table. “If you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long day.”

  Made even longer by this lot.

  He stalked out, leaving behind murmurs and hissed breaths, hating that his injured leg slowed him down. The sooner he made it out of Brakewell Hall, the better. If that was the company Abby wished to keep, then God help her. He’d rather share a crust of stale bread in the stable with Mencott than suffer one more minute with those finely dressed vultures.

  Taking care to favor his stitched-up thigh, he hobbled out into the middle of the stable yard and faced the sky. A three-quarter moon cast a white glow in the blackness, blotting out the nearby stars with its brilliance. Samuel closed his eyes and filled his lungs with the damp night air, then slowly blew it all out, easing some of the tension in his shoulders—until footsteps once again cinched his muscles.

  He turned. Abby’s ivory gown soaked up moonlight as she floated toward him, a being of light in the darkness. She stopped in front of him, saying nothing, bringing her sweet scent of orange blossom water and lazy summer afternoons. He watched her warily as her eyes welled and pity swam laps in their depths.

  Pity? For him?

  Disgust rolled through him all over again. Folding his arms, he steeled himself against her tears. “Go back to your dinner party, Miss

  Gilbert.”

  She shook her head. “They had no right to say such things.”

  “Why not?” He snorted. “Everything they said was true.”

  A ruffled hen couldn’t have looked more perturbed as she planted her fists on her hips and lifted to her toes. “You do not gnaw on bones with your bare hands!”

  “All right, I’ll give you that.” He threw back his shoulders. “Almost all they said was true.”

  “What they said were lies! They painted you a barbarian. An animal.”

  He advanced, going toe to toe, eye to eye, and stared her down. “Maybe I am,” he growled.

  Most women would’ve tucked tail and run, or called him out for the beast he really was. At the very least, they’d have burst into tears. But not this stubborn little sprite. Slowly, she reached up a slim hand and caressed his cheek, her touch hot against his skin.

  He stiffened.

  “No, Samuel,” she whispered, a thousand possibilities thickening her words. She lifted her face higher, her mouth a breath away from his. “You are not anything like they insinuated, and I thank God for that. You, Samuel Thatcher, are the most compassionate man I have ever met.”

  The veracity in her gaze, the huskiness of her voice, the way her fingers slid over his face, pulling him closer…it was too much. More than a mortal man could bear.

  “Abby,” he breathed out.

  Then he pulled her into his arms and fit his mouth onto hers.

  The heat of an August sun burned through him. She tasted sweet, spicy, hinting of promises and distant horizons. He’d kissed women before, and kissed them well, but this? He staggered, fully intoxicated, moulding his body against hers. This was dizzying. Heady. Dangerous. Especially when she moaned his name and grabbed great handfuls of his suit coat, burrowing into him.

  Alarms tolled in his head, but the thrumming in his veins and throbbing in his body overrode reason. His mouth traveled from her lips, to the curve of her neck, then lower, tracing a line to her collarbone, to the very flesh that would not—could not—ever belong to him. Unless…did he dare?

  “Samuel.” She arched against him, a passionate invitation—one neither of them had any right to issue or accept.

  Sobering, he pulled away, breathing hard. Her chest heaved as well, and slowly, she lifted one trembling hand to her lips. Was she remembering? Wanting more?

  Or regretting?

  The need to know cut into him like a knife. What were her feelings toward him, her real feelings, not just some physical response to a well-placed kiss? He drew in a deep breath, desperately trying to regain equilibrium, and pinned her in place with his gaze.

  The fire blazing in her eyes lit with a passion to match his own.

  “Promise me, Thatcher! When you find a woman you love, you’ll not waste one second. You’ll go after her with all your heart because one day, ahh, one day…it will be too late, and you’ll be left with nothing but regrets.”

  Hawker’s words barreled back with stark clarity. It’d been easy enough to agree with his friend then, but now? There was no more denying that he loved this woman, but how could he possibly pursue her when he hadn’t even a shilling in his pocket? No, asking her to be his wife was out of the question, for now, anyway—but that didn’t mean he had to leave her here in this nest of vipers, not if she wanted out. And if she did wish to leave, maybe someday—with a bit of hard work and the smile of God—he would have the chance to make her his.

  “I’m only going to ask you this once, Abby, so take care with your answer.”

  Her hand dropped, her eyes shimmering wide and frightened. “Very well.”

  “Do you want me to take you away from here?” He measured the words out like a lifeline. “Emma and I will be leaving soon. Do you want to leave as well?”

  Her mouth opened, then closed. Moonlight brushed over her face, draining the colour from her skin.

  “I…” Her throat bobbed. “I—”

  A sob broke off her words, and gathering up her skirts, she spun and sprinted back toward the manor.

  “Abby!”

  He sucked in a breath. Was that ragged voice bouncing off the cobbles truly his, or some wounded animal heaving a death groan?

  The door slammed. Abby vanished. He stood speechless, breathless, hopeless.

  Crushed.

  Movement at an upstairs window snagged his attention, and his gaze climbed the stone wall of Brakewell Hall. In a candlelit window, the back of a green dress coat stepped away from the glass.

  Samuel stiffened, what was left of his heart nothing but ashes now. Had all Abby’s talk of a loving family and home life been but a means to urge him to deliver her safely here?

  He gritted his teeth. If the baronet, that pompous coxcomb, was the man that Miss Gilbert truly wanted, she could have him.

  Chapter Thirty

  The morning breeze wafted through the open stable doors, unreasonable in its carefree tussling of Samuel’s hair. Scowling, he tossed back his head, shaking the annoying swath away from his face. He should’ve thought to grab his hat.

  With a nod to Mencott, who perched on a stool near the workbench, Samuel grabbed a currycomb with one hand and snatched up Pilgrim’s lead in the other. As he guided the horse out into the sun, pain stretched a tight line across his thigh, but not the sort that broke a bead of sweat on his brow. Not anymore. Thank God he was on the mend, and none too soon. After last night, even the thought of seeing Abby again was an exquisite agony.

  Just outside the door, he looped Pilgrim’s lead to an iron ring, then patted her on the neck. “You are a constant, my friend. A true and faithful companion.”

  Pilgrim shoved her horsey nose against his shoulder, then perked up her head, ears twitching.

  Samuel wheeled about.

  Sir Jonathan Aberley clipped across the cobbles, the buckles on his black leather shoes catching the light and bouncing it back. “Good morning, Captain.”

  Out of respect for the man’s station—and nothing more—Samuel dipped his head. “Sir Jonathan.”

  The man stopped several paces from him, a pair of kidskin gloves held loosely in one hand. With the other, he shielded his eyes and glanced up at the sky. “Yes, indeed, it is quite a fine morning today, is it not?”

  Samuel cocked his head. Never once had the baronet sought him out like this. Something was up—and more than likely it had to do with what the man had seen out the window last evening…a topic he’d rather not discuss. Eve
r. He turned back to Pilgrim with a grunt and started brushing.

  Behind him, footsteps thudded, and the baronet circled into Samuel’s line of sight. “This is a beauty of a bay you have here.”

  Shoving back a sigh, Samuel dropped his hand idle at his side. “I think we both know you’re not here to appreciate my horse or supply me with a commentary on the weather.”

  The baronet’s gaze hardened, his mask of pretense falling to the dirt. “You are correct. I have come on Abigail’s behalf.”

  Samuel gripped the currycomb tighter. Why would she send Sir Jonathan to do her bidding? She wasn’t one to avoid confrontation. Unless, for some reason, she wasn’t able to venture out here.

  A ripple of unease spread like unsettled waters in his chest, making it hard to breathe. Merciful heavens, had she taken ill? Had she somehow been injured?

  “Is she all right?” he asked.

  The baronet’s brow pinched. “She is no longer your concern. You appear sufficiently able to ride, so I suggest you collect the child and leave at once. In short, Captain, Abigail wishes you gone, as do I.”

  She wishes you gone. She wishes you gone. She wishes…

  The words buzzed like angry hornets, stinging mercilessly. A bayonet to the belly would’ve been a kinder act than this abrupt dismissal. After all they’d been through, the danger, the passion, she hadn’t the decency to part from him herself? The currycomb in his hand shook beneath his death grip.

  “Very well,” he ground out, surprised the words could even form the way his jaw locked. “But first I’ll thank you to pay me what is owed.”

  Pursing his lips, the baronet slowly pulled his gloves onto his hands, working each finger hole snug against his flesh. “I should think your room and board are sufficient payment.”

  The muscles on Samuel’s neck hardened to steel. He needed that money, now more than ever after having given the boy in Manchester the last of his coins. “Miss Gilbert and I agreed that I would be paid—”

  “And so you have been, Captain.” The man’s gaze jerked to his. “You have been compensated in the medical services rendered by my stable master, in the roof over your head these past six days, and in the food filling your belly. Not to mention the care and feeding of your squalling brat. I will not give you a penny more, nor will I allow you to continue to suckle at my breast. I want you off my property within the hour. Is that quite clear?”

  Astounding. Absolutely astounding. The man was more tight-fistedly bold than most cutthroats roaming the roads.

  “Quite.” Samuel shot the word like a bullet, wickedly wishing it were a deadly ball of lead.

  “Good.” The baronet flexed his hands in his skin-tight gloves, a sneer slashing across his face.

  Without another word, he skirted both Samuel and the horse and strode into the stable.

  Closing his eyes, Samuel clenched his jaw, sickened that it had come to this. He’d done hard things before, performed distasteful duties and inglorious tasks. But traveling halfway across the country, his body held together by catgut and willpower, with nothing but a baby he must keep fed and dry, well…that would surely be a challenge, even for him.

  But not nearly as demanding as trying to forget the betrayal dealt him by a brown-eyed snip of a woman and the arrogant rogue she’d chosen over him.

  Hope for the best? Expect the best? No. He never would again.

  Abby ran her finger aimlessly over a bolt of muslin. Early-afternoon light slanted through the linen draper’s large window, highlighting the fine green-and-gold stripes on the fabric. Any woman would be proud to own a length of such fine material, but she didn’t reach to loosen the strings on her reticule. It was a fruitless pursuit, this shopping. She’d not made one purchase for her upcoming marriage the entire morning she’d been in Penrith. How deep would the baronet’s scowl be if she returned empty handed to Brakewell Hall? He’d been so insistent she take Lady Pelham’s carriage to finish purchasing her needs for the wedding, practically shoving her out the door right after breakfast…alone…though earlier he’d said he’d accompany her. Not that she minded, but why the sudden change of heart?

  A sigh deflated her. This should be a happy outing, an exciting one. Not all brides were as fortunate as her to be marrying a baronet, shopping with his blessing.

  So why the dead weight hanging heavy on her chest, smothering the life from her?

  Pulling back her hand, she fought the urge to once again lift her fingers to her lips and remember all over again—though she needn’t, really. The taste of the captain’s kiss lingered like a lover in her mind. She’d never forget the feel of his arms moulding her against him, the heat of his body, or his exotic spicy flavor. A delicious twinge rippled through her belly. She’d found a home in his embrace, a sense of belonging, and something more. Something eternal. Samuel’s kiss had been an unspoken promise that he would cherish her more than his own life, even beyond the grave.

  Which was nothing at all like what she’d felt in Sir Jonathan’s arms.

  The shop clerk closed the ledger she’d been tallying in and wove past a table of lace. An inquiring smile lifted the older lady’s mouth. “Have you made a decision, miss?”

  The question hit her broadside, and she gasped. Indeed, she had made a decision—a forbidden and altogether irresistible decision—one she should’ve told Samuel and the baronet long ago.

  Her own grin spread wide and free on her face. “I have, thank you.”

  Then she turned and bolted out to the carriage.

  “Brakewell Hall, with all haste,” she told the driver as she gripped his hand. “Deliver me to the stable yard, please.”

  “Aye, miss.” The man nodded as he helped her up, a curious tilt to his head. Likely Lady Pelham had never instructed him so, or returned from a shopping excursion without excessive packages or parcels.

  But no matter. Abby was going home. Home! To a dark-eyed, sometimes grim-jawed captain who, more often than not, was a sort of gruffly man—but the only man she wanted. Though the road leading out of Penrith was worn smooth and the wheels turned easily, she couldn’t help but bounce on the seat, imagining the flash of a smile on Samuel’s handsome face as she flung her arms about his neck. She could practically hear his laugh rumbling deep in his chest when she told him she loved him and to please take her away with him and Emma.

  Turning her face, she gazed out the window at the passing greenery, anticipation fluttering her heart, not unlike the eagerness she’d felt when leaving behind her home in Southampton. Of course her stepmother and father would be horrified at her wayward behaviour, running off with a captain of the horse patrol, but so be it. They’d made their choices, lived their lives as they’d seen fit. It was time, for once, that she did so as well, for had not God Himself extended His love to her by offering the deepest desire of her heart—a loving home with Samuel?

  When the carriage barely slowed, she leapt from her seat, practically crawling out of her skin for the door to open and release her to her future. The second her feet touched ground, she hiked her skirts and ran up the stone steps to the stable master’s quarters.

  “Samuel?” She gave the door a cursory rap then, without waiting for an answer, shoved it open.

  A wedge of sunlight cut in through the opening, highlighting a swath of dust motes in the air. She rushed over the threshold, then stopped. Blankets fit snug on the cot where the captain had lain. The crutch he’d used leaned forgotten against the wall. No leather pack of belongings troubled the floor by his bed. She frowned. Why did it look so empty? So forlorn? So…final. A shiver spidered down her spine.

  Abby straightened her shoulders, casting off the ridiculous foreboding. Silly girl! He was likely in the garden, stretching his legs, or perhaps testing his strength by taking Pilgrim for a ride. In the meantime, she’d see to Emma and prepare the child to leave.

  Shutting the door firmly behind her, she retraced her steps down to the stable yard, then stopped short as Mr. Mencott swung around the co
rner and blocked her path.

  “Miss Gilbert.” He nodded. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “I was looking for the captain. Have you seen him?”

  Yanking out a handkerchief, the old man ran the soiled cloth across his brow, then tucked the thing away. “You haven’t heard, then, eh? The captain is gone.”

  “Gone?” The word stuck sideways in her throat. “What do you mean?”

  “Sir Jonathan and him had words this morn. The captain and the child left shortly thereafter and—miss? Miss!”

  The older man’s voice faded as she tore across the cobbles to the manor’s back door. She flung it open and dashed down the corridor, loosening her hat and her hairpins in the mad race. By the time she neared the sitting room door, where the baronet’s deep voice and Lady Pelham’s laughter rang out, her hair broke loose and fell to her shoulders, her bonnet hung down her back by the ribbon at her neck. Regardless of her crazed appearance, she bolted into the room.

  Green eyes batted up at her. Lady Pelham sat like a princess on the settee, carefully balancing a teacup. Sir Jonathan stood behind with one hand draped across her shoulder, bending so that his lips nearly touched her neck.

  He straightened, a quirk to his brow. “Well, it looks as though your shopping trip nearly did you in, my sweet.”

  Swallowing a red-hot rage, Abby stormed to the middle of the room and skewered the lady with a glower. “Excuse me, Lady Pelham, but I would have a word with Sir Jonathan. Alone.”

  “Hmm…perhaps the kitten does have claws.” The lady set down her teacup and rose, then cast Sir Jonathan a look over her shoulder. “Until later.”

  “Mmm,” he murmured, his gaze following Lady Pelham as she sashayed past Abby. Once she exited, he sidestepped the sofa and crossed the rug to stand in front of Abby. The lady’s lavender scent clung to him like a second skin.

  His gaze bore into hers, iciness flashing in those blue depths. “I have been very patient with you, darling, but it is bad form for you to dismiss one of my guests so casually.”

  “Yet you dismissed my dearest friend!” Her voice shook, and she breathed in deeply to steady herself. “What did you say to the captain to make him leave so abruptly?”