“That is what this is about? Your precious captain?”
He pulled her to him so quickly, his mouth coming down hard on hers, that her protest stuck in her throat. Squirming, she planted her hands on his chest and shoved with all her fury.
“Stop it!”
She jerked back her arm to slap him, but he caught her wrist and held fast.
“Listen, you little fool.” He shoved his face into hers. “I saw you and the captain last night, in the stable yard. You should be thankful I sent him away instead of you.”
She staggered. Of all the hypocritical, double standards! “And what of you and Lady Pelham? You are not cousins! Were you going to tell me that before or after the wedding, darling?” She drew out the word like the slice of a knife.
“Ahh…” A dangerous smile slashed across his face. “It comes down to managing our indiscretions so soon, then? Very well. It will be easier not to pretend.”
Though she’d known it all along, the admission hit her hard, stealing her breath. “Why?” The question shook out of her, sounding as forlorn as a lost little girl even to her own ears. She tipped her chin and forced steel into her tone. “Why did you ask to marry me if you had no intention of loving me?”
“Love?” His laughter bounced off the walls, mocking her from every direction. “What has love to do with status and a fine home? It was a fair enough trade, my dear. Your dowry for my name. Your family certainly did not raise any objections and, in fact, were quite eager for the arrangement—as were you, if I recall.”
She stiffened, horrified. What a naive little lamb she’d been. “I had no idea,” she ground out. “I thought you cared for me, that you cherished me!”
“Oh kitten.” Pity was tied by a thread to the end of his endearment, and the lines on his face softened. He brushed away the hair that’d fallen across one of her eyes, and his fingers lingered near her ear. “You are upset. Let us put this behind us. I very well might come to love you. Stranger things have happened.”
Her jaw dropped. She stared into his hollow blue eyes, hopelessly and completely speechless. What was one to say when a dream finally heaved its last, shuddering breath?
But no. The impeccably dressed man in front of her was not her dream at all—and honestly, never had been.
She shook her head, disentangling her hair from his grasp. “I cannot go through with this. I will not. I am done with waiting for love to find me, when all along it was within my grasp.”
He grabbed her arm before she could sidestep him. “Do not do this, Abigail.” For the first time since she’d known him, panic whined in his voice. “Do not throw away what you have for what you think you want. It is never a good idea to base one’s life on the whim of passion.”
A whim? Was that the only value he put on love? Compassion rose up, tightening her throat. How awful it must be to live with such a shallow understanding of the very thing that caused a heart to beat.
“Someone once told me that life is more than good ideas. It is the risks that return greater results. I hope, sir, that one day you too will learn to risk all for love, for that is what our Lord did for us.” She pulled from his grasp.
“You are more an innocent than I credited.” His brow folded into a sneer, then as suddenly, faded. “But you are young, and you will learn. Come. You are weary. I shall walk you to your chamber and you may rest. Things will look different after a good sleep.”
“No. All the sleep in the world will not change my mind.” She lifted her chin. “I bid you goodbye, Sir Jonathan.”
His eyes narrowed. “This is no small thing you are doing, Abigail. If you walk out that door, your father will hear of this. Do not think for one second it will go well for you. We have an understanding, he and I, and you will be sent back here immediately. You will be my wife, so save yourself the trouble of an unnecessary journey.”
Without another word, she turned and strode from his threat, hopefully hiding the hitch in her step as his words hit home. He was right. Leaving behind Brakewell Hall and facing her father when he returned from the continent was no small thing.
And neither would be finding Samuel and Emma on her own.
Chapter Thirty-One
Rain showered down, unrelenting in its ability to drip off Samuel’s hat and find a crevice to crawl under, usually between his collar and shirt. Emma sat on the wet ground next to a pine tree, crying, while he scrambled to collect boughs to make some meagre refuge. Their first night on the road, and it had to rain?
He scowled. He should’ve expected as much. All of Abby’s “hope for the best” folderol was a load of manure. Life was hard, hope was for dreamers, and the dirt of the highway was the best he could expect for the next ten years.
One by one, he propped up bough after bough, crafting a lean-to—until Emma crawled over and threw herself against his leg, catching him off-balance. Flailing his arms, he managed to stay upright, but the shelter didn’t. His arm caught against one of the branches, and the whole thing imploded into a soggy heap of pine needles and sticks.
Emma pulled herself up his trousers and wailed into the storm. He didn’t blame her. He felt like howling himself.
Blowing out a disgusted sigh, he scooped up the child and held her close to his chest, wincing at the pain in his leg, his arm, his soul. She burrowed into his waistcoat, sobbing. And he couldn’t fault her, not one bit. Bedding down with an empty stomach in the wilds of the woods was not for the weak of heart—and certainly not for a child.
“Very well, little one.” He kissed the top of her wet head. “Let’s get you dry and fed.”
He trudged to the tree where he’d tethered Pilgrim and unloosened the length of rope. Hefting himself and Emma into the saddle cost him a stitch in his thigh and a grunt, but he made it, then maneuvered the horse in a tight roundabout and set off for the road.
The rain made for hard going, Emma nearly slipping from his grasp several times, all a sickening but apt picture of his life. He’d tried to hold on to hope—for funding, for a farm of his own…for Abby—but look where all those fine thoughts had gotten him. Riding a mud-slicked horse with a crying baby, penniless and injured.
Where’s that peace You promised, God? I could use a smidgeon of it now.
He tucked his head against a sideways blast of wind, no better off on his journey back to London than when he’d started out that fateful day on the heath. No, that wasn’t true. He was worse off, his heart more jaded, his faith more ragged.
God, have mercy.
Strengthening his grip on Emma, he urged Pilgrim onward, willing his broken spirit to do the same. Two sodden miles later, he neared a coaching inn and turned into the front drive—where it appeared half the population of the county congregated, or at least their carriages and horses did. The Blue Bell was apparently the place to be on this wet and wicked eve.
He slid from Pilgrim, and keeping a tight hold on Emma, he tied his faithful mount to an iron ring on a post. He’d have to see to his horse later. For now, he pushed open the studded oak door of the Blue Bell and strode into chaos.
The taproom boiled with people. Men lifted mugs, calling for refills. Women chattered, some tittered. One of them held a yipping pup with a red bow on its head. Emma twisted in his arms, craning her neck to stare at the ruckus. Her whimpering subsided as she forgot her soiled clout and empty belly—but that wouldn’t last long.
With Emma clinging tight around his neck, Samuel plowed through the merrymakers toward a man in an apron, who now and then barked orders to a red-cheeked serving girl.
“Pardon.” He tapped the man on the shoulder and loosened Emma’s grip, drawing in a much-needed breath. “Have you a mug of milk and a corner of the stable to spare?”
“Aye.” The man pivoted, long flaps of skin on each side of his chin wagging with the movement. He held out a meaty palm. “Five shillings.”
Five? For a small patch of straw? Robbery! Samuel scowled at the man’s open hand. Even if he had the coins in his pocket
, he wouldn’t share them willingly with such a greedy goblin. The fellow was nothing more than a highwayman garbed in the trappings of an innkeeper.
He slipped his gaze up to the man’s shrewd face. “A trade would be more to your benefit, I think. I am skilled with horses, and judging by the amount of patrons packed in here, I suspect you could use a hand out back.”
“You’re right. I do need some help.” Reaching behind his back, the man fumbled with the ties of his apron. “This is an unexpected mob, and I’m short a serving wench.” He yanked off the soiled fabric and held it out. “Bring the child to the kitchen and get to work.”
Samuel shook his head and recoiled a step. “I don’t think—”
The innkeeper shoved the apron closer, cocking his head like a raven before it pecked. “Take the offer or leave. I’ve not the time to cater to you.”
A growl lodged in his throat. He didn’t know the first thing about serving mugs of ale or plates of beef, nor did he want to—but once again Emma’s whimpering surged, making his decision for him.
He grabbed the apron and stalked into the kitchen, savoring the ache in his leg. Pain was better to focus on than anger, and he had a whole lot of rage simmering in his gut. A pox on Sir Jonathan Aberley, the miserly cur.
Inside the large room, a wide-hipped woman bent over a steaming pot at the hearth, stirring with a wooden paddle. Cooks were notoriously ill-tempered, and no wonder. Considering the dark stains spreading out from her armpits, she’d likely been bucking cinders and heat all day. Samuel shied away from her and instead pursued the red-cheeked miss, who breezed in through the door.
“Pardon me, but—”
“No time.” She snatched up six bowls of stew—six!—and balanced them in her arms as she whirled back toward the taproom.
He followed. “Could you just direct—?”
“I couldn’t just anything right now.”
She darted out the door and disappeared into the crowd beyond.
Well, so much for a polite approach. Shifting Emma to his other arm, Samuel stalked over to the cook. “I’m to serve,” he declared as if he were addressing a new recruit. “This child needs milk and a safe corner in which to stay.”
The woman stiffened, her shoulders flinging back like a crossbow ready to shoot. She whirled from the pot and pierced him and Emma with a narrow-eyed stare—one that could curdle cold milk.
“Are you daft, man? I’m a cook, not a nursemaid.”
He swung out his free arm, indicating the bowls of pottage lined up on the table, cooling as they waited to be served. “Yet you need the help.”
The red on her face deepened to burgundy. If she blew, it wouldn’t be pretty. He held his ground, steeling himself for what might be a blood-drawing battle.
“More sausages, Mary!” the innkeeper hollered in through the kitchen door. “And keep that stew flowing or it’ll be the devil to pay.”
“Pah!” The woman reached for another apron on a peg, then shoved it toward Samuel. “Use this to tie the child to the cabinet leg in the corner and give her a bowl of the cooled pottage. Milk will have to wait.”
She turned so quickly, the hem of her skirt puffed up a cloud of spilled flour.
Samuel snapped into action, anxious for this night of humiliation to be over. He secured Emma to the cabinet, giving her a bit of lead for movement, but not much. She stared up at him with shimmering blue eyes, accusing him in ways that cut deep.
Squatting, he lifted her face with the crook of his finger. “My pardon, Emma. You are of more value than being tethered like a horse, but chin up and bear it, hmm? Can you do that for me?”
Her lower lip quivered—a sure sign she was about to go on a full-fledged crying jag.
He shot up and snatched a dish of stew from the table behind him, then handed it to her with a wooden spoon.
Emma wobbled for a moment, then threw down the spoon and planted her face in the bowl, coming up with a smile and stew dripping down her chin. A messy triumph, but a triumph nonetheless.
Heaving a sigh, he tied the apron the innkeeper had given him around his waist and sucked in a breath. Chin up and bear it, indeed.
He stalked into the public room, armed with grim determination and two bowls of pottage. At the very least, no one should know him in this part of the country. A blessing, that. Should his fellow officer Bexley catch wind of him prancing about in an apron, there’d be no end to the jesting.
Three hours later, he wore more broth than he’d served, the pains shooting up his legs howled like angry beasts, and he’d heard a rash of inventive curses more creative than the time he’d run a night watch at the Wapping docks. But slowly, finally, the taproom emptied of patrons. Sloop-shouldered and weary beyond measure, he trudged into the kitchen, where the other serving girl hung her apron on a peg then slipped out the back door with a nod to Cook.
“Well, well…” The cook eyed him. “Still standing, are ye?”
“Barely,” he breathed out as he glanced at Emma. The girl had curled into a ball and slept with the overturned bowl as a pillow. Stew matted her hair into clumps.
He reached to unloosen the knotted apron ties at his back, when the innkeeper’s voice bellowed through the kitchen door. “One more to be served.”
Samuel clenched his jaw. Would this woeful day never end?
The cook’s gaze shot to his. “There’s but a scraping of deviled kidneys and spoonful of pork jelly for you to offer. That’s all that’s left.”
He nodded. Hopefully this far into the evening, the late rider would be more anxious to visit a soft mattress than to fill his gut.
Samuel strode into the public room, his brows raising as he approached the table nearest the door. It wasn’t a man who demanded service after all, but a straight-backed bit of skirt perched on a chair. His own empty belly cinched. A woman wouldn’t be traveling alone at this time of night, so no doubt her companion would soon join her. What kind of wrath would he have to parry when they found out the only food to be had was nothing but scraps? Thunder and turf! He’d rather face a bare-fisted bandit keening for a knockdown than a hungry, quarrelsome woman.
He neared the table and, with the last of his willpower, forced a soothing tone to his voice. “Pardon, miss, but the kitchen is—”
She turned, and the air punched from his lungs. Two brown eyes bore into his, blinking with shock.
Abby gripped the table with one hand, stunned. She hadn’t expected to catch up with Samuel so soon—and certainly not with an apron tied around his waist.
She swallowed her surprise and raised her eyebrows. “What are you doing wearing an apron?”
A shadow darkened his face, heralding a coming storm. “What are you doing here with your baronet?”
The question seethed through his bared teeth, indicting and condemning her in the same breath—and it rankled her to the core.
She’d done nothing wrong! She was the one who’d risked everything by leaving Brakewell Hall, pushing herself to travel far past sunset, stopping at every inn along the way. He had no right to stand so rigidly imperious, making her feel more of a wayward imp than ever her stepmother had. This was not the reception she’d expected. Why did he not welcome her with open arms?
“I travel alone.” She emphasized each word then jutted her chin.
Lamplight slid along the captain’s hardened jaw. “You should know better, and so should your man.”
“He is not—”
“Enough!” The captain’s face tightened into a mask of steel. “What trickery is this? Why would Sir Jonathan Aberley, baronet, allow his bride to roam the roads at night?”
The headache she’d been ignoring all evening broke loose and banged around in her skull. So be it. If a quarrel was what the captain wanted, then she was in a mood to serve. She poked him in the chest with her finger. “The baronet has nothing to do with this. You are the reason I am out here—you and Emma, and—Emma! Where is she?”
He grew dangerously still. “Even n
ow you doubt my ability to care for the girl?”
“You know that is not what I mean!” she huffed. Why was he being so obstinate? Where was the man of the previous evening, all tenderness and passion?
“Emma is asleep in the kitchen, if you must know, but why come all this way on your own? Unless…” He ducked his head like a bull about to charge. “Feeling guilty about not delivering on your promise, are you?”
She scrunched her nose, a most unladylike action, but it was not to be helped. Promise? She’d not even given him an answer last night let alone vowed anything. “What are you talking about?”
“Playing the innocent ill becomes you, Miss Gilbert. Just pay me what is owed and be on your way.”
“Owe?” That’s what this was about? Money? She frowned. “After what the baronet already paid you—”
“Oh yes. Six days of food and lodging. Quite generous, that baronet of yours.” His brown eyes turned to stone—so did his voice. “Which is why I’m standing here in an apron. So Emma can have supper and a dry place to sleep.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. He’d not been paid. Not one ha’penny. And after all his hard work, suffering, bleeding…oh my. What a horrid mess this had all become.
She rubbed her temples, the pounding in her head worsening, then gestured toward the chair next to her. “Please, sit. There are things we must discuss.”
A pot clanged in the kitchen, and he glanced toward the door. For a moment she wondered if he would stay at all or might dash off. And he had every right to, after the unjust treatment he’d been given.
Eyeing her warily, he scraped back the chair and angled it to face her. His posture remained taut as a sail in the wind, but beneath it all, she could tell he hoarded fatigue. Surely his arm must ache, and his leg, especially after standing for who knew how many hours, rushing between the now empty taproom and the kitchen…all because Sir Jonathan had sent him away penniless.
She swallowed down the lump in her throat. “Look, I do not know why the baronet did not pay you nor what he said to make you leave Brakewell Hall with such haste, but believe me, I had no part in it.”
The Noble Guardian Page 30
