Those sapphire eyes, so dark they were nearly black, homed in on her, freezing her retreat. Her mouth went dry.
“I believe apologies are in order,” he said in a low, smooth baritone that contained an edge of heat and ice all at the same time, contradictory, and yet, perfectly suited to the dark stranger before her.
Her heart resumed a slightly normal cadence. So he sought to play the role of peacemaker and end the scene that she’d caused. Well, he could go to hell with the rest of them.
Martha tipped her chin up at a defiant angle. “I’ll not apologize,” she said when she trusted herself to speak. “To him, her, you.” She turned a harsh stare on the other patrons watching in riveted silence. “Or any of you,” she spat. When she again faced the towering stranger, she saw that the faintest smile ghosted his lips.
“You misunderstood, ma’am. Our”—he peeled his lip back in a sneer—“fine proprietors are who I’ll have an apology from.”
Shock chased off her earlier fear, outrage, and befuddlement.
For me.
“Indeed, for you,” he drawled, and her cheeks went hot at the realization she’d spoken aloud. That brief façade of warmth lifted as the stranger leveled a flinty look at Mr. Lowery.
With this stranger in command, for the first time since her scandal had shaken the village of High Town, Martha was not the figure on display… but rather, another person, this man, was. And as she watched Mr. Lowery and his mother swallow loudly and sputter, questions swirled in Martha’s mind, and she could settle on only one with any real clarity.
Who was he?
Chapter 4
It took the unexpected, yet fortuitous, arrival of Miss Martha Donaldson for Graham to determine two very significant details about his first assignment with the Brethren: One, the young woman whom he was to report on was no insipid, downtrodden widow. And two, the crimson-haired siren, with her flashing eyes and undaunted spirit, possessed a beauty to tempt both sinner and saint.
And Graham had only ever fit firmly in the former column.
The earlier intrigue that had swept through him the moment she’d stepped inside the White Stag, however, receded under the biting sting of fury at the small innkeeper who’d dared put his hand upon Martha Donaldson. While he was guilty of any number of sins, harming a woman was not among the black marks on Graham’s soul. Nor would he tolerate any such treatment by another.
When no apology was forthcoming, Graham wrenched the innkeeper’s arm back.
The small man squealed. “Please,” he implored.
“The apology.”
The proprietor proved himself either more foolish or brave than Graham had credited. “She doesn’t need an apology.”
“Oh,” Graham countered, stretching out that syllable, “I disagree. Perhaps we should let the young woman decide, though I doubt if any words from your lips would be worth her even hearing out.”
Miss Donaldson glanced around, as if there was another “young woman” in question who’d be the ultimate arbiter of the innkeeper’s apology. When she glanced back, her eyes formed round saucers.
“Well, what will it be Mrs.…?” Graham stared expectantly at her.
From somewhere within the tavern, a patron piped in. “She ain’t no—”
Graham turned a hard glare on the crowd that effectively silenced the remainder of that utterance, along with what any of the other pathetic men might say. There’d be time enough later to consider the not-so-small scene he’d caused, a direct violation of Lord Edward’s commands. Graham looked once more to the young woman who’d set the whole tavern upside down with her presence alone.
Martha Donaldson darted the tip of her tongue out, dampening a plump mouth he really had no place noticing, either in that moment or, with the orders laid forth by his superior, ever. Nonetheless, he was a rogue. And he would remain a rogue until he took his last devilish breath, at last freeing the world of his wickedness.
“Miss Donaldson,” she finally said, uttering her first words to Graham in tones that were slightly husky, sultry, without the shrill edge that had marred her exchange with the villagers of High Town. “My name is Miss Donaldson.” It was, however, not the temptress pull of her voice that gave him pause.
Miss Donaldson.
Not… Mrs.
At his hesitation, the young woman’s red brows drew together, bringing Graham back to the task at hand. “The apology,” Graham ordered tightly.
Mr. Lowery’s fleshy lips moved. His throat bobbed. “I’m—”
The old shrew with her wet rag came racing over. “My son is not apologizing to that woman.”
Graham turned his gaze on the harpy, leveling her with a stare that his emotionally deadened father himself couldn’t have managed.
The woman recoiled. “Be done with it, Jameson,” she commanded.
“I’m… sorry,” Mr. Lowery squeezed out.
“I’m sorry, Miss…?” Graham gave the spindly arm another squeeze and took perverse pleasure in the cry he rang from the proprietor. Good. The craven bastard had thought nothing of handling Miss Martha Donaldson in the same way.
“Miss Donaldson,” he whined. “I’m sorry, Miss Donaldson.”
Graham retained his hold. “Will that suffice, Miss Donaldson?”
Wordlessly, she nodded, and her long crimson plait flopped over her shoulder.
“What do you want now?” Mr. Lowery pleaded when Graham maintained his grip.
“The young woman has some letters she’d like posted.”
Silence met his pronouncement, and then with a growl of fury, Mrs. Lowery stalked over and ripped the notes from Martha Donaldson’s gloved fingers.
Graham touched a fingertip to the corner of his right eye. “See that nothing happens to it, or I’ll return.”
With that, the entire room picked up motion once more. Tankards clanged, dilapidated wood chairs scraped the hardwood floor as the show was… forgotten.
Dismissing the miserable lot of High Town villagers, Graham looked toward the young woman whom he’d been tasked with watching after… and caught the flash of her brown wool cloak just as it disappeared through the door. The noise of the room drowned out the click of the panel.
Disbelief swept through him.
Why… why… she’d simply… left. That was hardly what he’d expected. Not that he’d intervened because he’d sought anything from her. He had, however, anticipated his intervention would have been beneficial to his securing an audience with the woman.
Muttering under his breath, Graham hurried over to the table he’d abandoned at the back of the tavern. He gathered up his worn leather satchel and set out after the spirited minx. As soon as he let himself outside, Graham did a quick survey of the grounds to find her.
The young woman moved quickly. Her long-legged steps sent her cloak whipping about her ankles. She’d already built a sizable lead between them. As he closed the door behind him, Miss Donaldson cast a glance over her shoulder… and continued walking.
Swinging his bag onto his arm, Graham hurried after her. “Miss Donaldson?”
The spitfire didn’t spare him another look. “I am uninterested.”
“I did not offer you anything,” he countered, lengthening his stride, and this time, the minx broke into a near run.
“You were going to,” she tossed back, quickening her steps to outdistance him.
He’d dallied with any number of women, of all stations and backgrounds, and this humbling moment was the first time his mere presence had set a woman running off.
Of course, given the manner of miserable bastards she shared a village with, it was hardly a wonder, and had she been any other woman, and had the circumstances been unrelated to his business on behalf of the Crown, he’d have stalked off in the opposite direction and left her to her solitude.
But she was his business.
“I want to speak with you.”
This time, she did stop. She spun back in a beautiful display of spirit. The quickened
pace she’d set, together with the winter wind, had left her cheeks red. “Oh, do you?” she countered in crisp tones. In the cold, her breath stirred little puffs of white. “Never tell me.” She folded her arms. “You expect some form of thanks for your rescue.”
He bristled. “Actually, I do not.” He’d been a selfish bastard plenty of times in his life, but when he’d intervened a short while ago, he’d done so without the expectation of anything in return. “Though, one might argue it certainly is called for.”
The young woman eyed him for a long moment. Never had he known a single woman more jaded and world-weary than this spirited beauty before him. And in that instant, she, who’d previously existed only as an unwanted assignment, became something more—a person. It was a dangerous allowance to make, one that presented an agent’s assignment as… human. That added layers and emotions that muddied the proverbial waters and could only complicate one’s mission.
Finally, she cleared her throat. “Forgive me for seeming ungrateful. I’m not. I’m simply accustomed to—” She abruptly stopped.
“Crass, cruel villagers?” he supplied, jamming the old John Bull hat on his head.
Her lips turned at the corners in a smile, dimpling her left cheek, and for the briefest of moments, she was utterly transformed from the jaded creature who’d taken on the lot of High Town into the bright-eyed innocent she’d surely been at one time. Her grin faded. “You are correct on that score.” She held his gaze with a directness most men of his acquaintance couldn’t manage, when the ladies he kept company with, as a rule, averted their eyes in masterful acts of coquetry. “Again, I thank you for your earlier assistance.” Strangely, he found himself preferring Martha Donaldson’s directness. “There is nothing you want in return?”
With that, she gave him an avenue of entrance, and he took it. “I’m looking for employment. I—”
Her expression grew shuttered. “I cannot help you.”
He’d made a misstep—he’d moved too quickly. “I understand you are searching for a stable master.”
“How do you know that?” she asked sharply.
Bloody hell. Mayhap the Brethren had been wise to ease him into damned missions. Graham curled his lips into the half grin that had charmed Lady Jersey and her disapproving fellow-leading hostesses. “You do not deny you are in need of a stable master,” he cajoled.
For the first time in the whole of his rogue’s existence, he’d come up empty in his ability to charm. “You heard wrong,” she said flatly. “I wish you the best.” With finality, she hurried on.
Graham rocked on his heels. “That is it?”
“There is nothing else to say,” she called out, not deigning to glance back.
Graham stared after her retreating frame and the back-and-forth sway of her generously curved hips as she marched off with all the regal bearing of a military commander. Any other time, he’d have given the proper rogue’s attention to those hips, molded by the threadbare wool cloak dancing wildly about her ankles as she moved.
Why… why… she hadn’t given him the time of day.
His assignment was to have been simple: Seek out a young widow in need of a servant, offer his services, and gain access to her, her family, and household. Get in. Get out. And wait for a real assignment. The simplicity of that task had also, ironically, been the reason he’d chafed at his role.
As her figure grew smaller and smaller upon the horizon, Graham confronted the mess he’d made of his first meeting with not only Martha Donaldson but the whole of the High Town village.
He’d put on a spectacular display defending the woman—of which he’d do nothing differently—when his role here demanded he be invisible.
And by the speed with which she’d dashed off, and the guardedness in her gaze, there could be no doubting one truth about the woman he’d been charged with looking after: She didn’t trust him.
Now, he was left trying to sort out just how he was to remain close to the spitfire, so he could get on with his assignment and then be done with this place.
*
Martha hadn’t trusted him at sight—Mr. Mystery Stranger, who flawlessly spoke the King’s English.
In fact, warning bells had gone off at the back of her mind the moment she’d spied the nameless stranger at the White Stag. Strangers didn’t have a place here. There was nothing to attract anyone to this remote corner of Luton. Nor had it mattered that the darkly handsome man had come to her rescue, like some kind of avenging angel. Experience had taught her that men weren’t angels. Ultimately, they were all devils of some degree who’d not be content until they had what they wished from a person.
Martha paused at the edge of the Birch Path, and slipping behind one of the thicker trunks, she peeked out. Even with the distance she’d placed between them, the mystery stranger stood out. At six inches past five feet, she’d never been considered short, and yet, with his impressive height, one such as the nameless man across the way would only have earned notice.
Mr. Lowery’s son, a slip of a child who’d once been friends with Frederick, approached the man, carrying the reins of a dark mount. She squinted in a bid to bring more clarity to the exchange unfolding. Whatever the stranger said earned a laugh from the boy, and he caught a coin tossed to him by the patron.
A coin…
Martha puzzled her brow.
The stranger’s coarse garments and ancient hat stood in direct contradiction to everything else about him: the quality of his horseflesh, his speech, seeking work but handing out coin.
She chewed at her lower lip. No, not everything was as it seemed with that avenging angel, and though she’d been besieged by guilt at her failure to properly thank him for his role at the White Stag, she had reason enough to add him firmly to the “not to be trusted” column.
Of course, she didn’t trust any men, and with deserved reasons. Life had given Martha countless causes to be suspicious of all men.
There had been: the husband who’d married her under the greatest pretense, and then beat her and bedded her as was his pleasure. The father who, in a twisted bid at obtaining justice for Martha, had seen that bounder murdered. And then, of course, there was Lord Exeter, the man who’d carted her father off but vowed to leave the Donaldson “fortunes” intact. For a brief time, Lord Exeter had restored her faith in men: he’d helped settled her affairs, he’d arranged for Martha’s daughters to attend a respectable finishing school.
Until the earl had ceased to visit and another gentleman had come months later to relieve Martha of her funds. That was the last she’d heard or seen the Earl of Exeter.
No, there were no honorable men. They thought only of themselves. After all, how many of the men in High Town had offered her their assistance, all the while wanting more? Expecting more from the High Town Whore, as she’d come to be called.
Even coarsely attired as he was, a man with crisp tones to rival the king’s speech was hardly the one to be traipsing through the forgotten corner of High Town. Her mouth hardened. The last such man who’d journeyed to her residence, seemingly friendly—his tones, however, giving away his more lofty station—had come to clear her cottage of all the valuables there, at the Crown’s doing, of course.
And only after he’d sought to strike a barter system: her body for those baubles.
Well, now nothing remained.
Not even the silver and porcelain; cherished baubles that had belonged to a mother Martha no longer remembered.
There was nothing.
Martha had been stripped bare of everything, and nearly everyone, so that all that remained was her son.
Martha curled her fingers into the tree trunk, and closing her eyes, she allowed the agony and sorrow and desperation, all of it, to wash over her. She let all the sentiments swirl together and batter her with those she’d lost. Creda. Iris.
She took each lash of the heartache those beloved names now earned, welcoming them upon her soul.
The daughters who should be with her
, but who were better off away from her. At a place where they could flourish. Where they were not constantly reminded of their origins and declared whores at the tender age of eleven, or their fates sealed by men and women who’d never be worthy to kiss the tattered soles of the girls’ shoes.
Martha pressed her forehead into the jagged trunk, inviting that pain, too.
Something hard struck her back and brought her eyes flying open. She wheeled around, and another stone found its mark at the center of her chest before falling onto the tip of her boot. Martha glanced down, just as her unknown assailant launched another projectile, this one sailing just past her ear. Her heart climbed into her throat, and she cursed the weakness, hated the fear that always followed her, when her life before had only ever been safe. And because of that previous innocence, she’d been left to try to navigate her way through a world she’d never before known.
She dropped to all fours and crawled. The cold of the frozen ground penetrated her gloves, and she ignored it. The distant rumble of laughter came from five or so paces ahead.
Bastards. All of them. And that included her father for consigning them all to their current fate.
To hell with them all. She’d be damned if they had her crawling about like a kicked pup. Scrambling to her feet, she darted off, weaving between the birch trees. Her pulse pounded loudly in her ears in time to the frantic beat of her footfalls.
Several stones bounced off the nearby trunks, and Martha panted from the pace she’d set for herself, damning her skirts for slowing her flight.
Chase us, Mama. Be the monster… Be the monster…
Her vision blurred as her daughters’ pleas and then peals of laughter pinged around memories of happier times.
I will get you… I will—
Martha’s hem tangled on a low branch. The fabric caught and then gave with a rending tear. With a cry, she pitched forward and shot her hands out—too late. She came down hard on her stomach. All the air went flying from her lungs, sucking the breath from her, stealing even her scream. The force of her fall sent little flecks of light dancing behind her eyes.
The Rogue Who Rescued Her Page 5
