The Bastard's Iberian Bride (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 1)

by Alina K. Field

  But he would certainly enjoy the compromising. The thought brought forth an image he quickly pushed down.

  Miss Heardwyn’s cheeks still glowed, as though she’d poked around in his brain. She was not completely uninterested, he’d wager—another speculation that sent heat sizzling in him.

  Stand down, Gibson. All the talk of a marriage was working on the both of them. Well, on him anyway. He hadn’t had a woman in, he didn’t know how long. The squalor of London and the misbegotten children Lady Hackwell tended had turned him off the professionals. And though he’d had plenty of come-hither looks, he’d avoided entanglements with local widows. It seemed best, as the lord of the manor’s steward, to be prudent, or else for the price of a tumble he’d find himself leg-shackled.

  And it was best to be prudent dealing with this sort of woman also. He loaded up his plate with cold meats and vegetables and a thick slice of bread. “What did you wish to discuss?”

  “Where are you taking us?”

  “For tonight, I’ve arranged rooms here.”

  Miss Heardwyn squinted and pressed her lips together.

  A tap at the door brought the innkeeper’s smiling, buxom maid with a flagon of ale and a pint tankard. Bink thanked her for the drink, and silently, for the interruption, and started speaking before the door shut on the wench, before the lady across from him could stop glaring at her and untie her tongue.

  “I know we haven’t gone far, Miss Heardwyn, but it is, if you will remember, the Sabbath, and in spite of it, we’ve all had a hard day’s labor. The servants are entitled to a rest. Kincaid and the men will watch over your wagon. Nothing will go missing.”

  She studied her teacup and worried at her lush lower lip with those perfect white teeth. She was a beauty, was Miss Heardwyn, much more to his taste than the flaxen-haired serving wench, and in other circumstances…

  “As to the cost.” She cleared her throat.

  “You are not to worry, miss. I’ve said you will have any monies Shaldon has left me, and I mean it. I will bear the cost tonight, and tomorrow we’ll make the arrangements with Bakeley for the rest.”

  Her gaze shot up, eyes flashing. She did not want to be in his debt.

  Or… she did not want to return to Cransdall.

  She stood and walked to the fireplace. The room had gone warm, and he debated opening one of the casement windows a tad wider.

  “Mabel, wait outside please,” the lady said, her back to the both of them.

  Bink eased out of his chair. “Leave the door open, Mabel. You may stand outside and eavesdrop but don’t allow anyone else to listen.”

  The maid’s lips quivered as she curtsied and hurried out.

  He turned back to the lady. “Is this where you tell me you will not return to Cransdall?”

  Paulette’s breath caught. Mr. Gibson had moved up next to her with a great deal of stealth, close enough to lay hands on her if he wished.

  His big body radiated warmth and suffused her with his scent. Even after a hard day of riding, the man-scent was subtle, no stronger than her farmer’s had been on a Sunday morning, dressed in his best. But the yeoman farmer had repelled her. There was nothing repellant about Mr. Gibson.

  She reached for some calm, trying to still her heart. She was shorter than most women, true, but even if she’d been tall for a woman, he would still tower over her. He spread one enormous hand against the mantel and leaned into it, sending her heart fluttering into her throat.

  She coughed to clear it. She must not let him think her weak. “Returning to Cransdall is out of the question for me. If you take me there, I will never be able to leave.”

  Quiet followed, the long silence making her wonder if he’d actually heard.

  “Where do you want to go?” he asked.

  This inn was on the main road, the groom had said. She might have enough money to get to London, and then a bit more for her keep once she arrived. For a few days, anyway. Once she located the solicitor and one of her trustees, she would be provided for, surely.

  She would not tell him those plans.

  “What of your belongings we rescued today?” he asked, before she could speak.

  Grrr. He was tricky, this one. She had not thought that far ahead. “They will be safe at Cransdall, surely. Kincaid and the grooms can take them back. You can return to your home.”

  “And you—”

  “You are not my keeper, Mr. Gibson.”

  He studied her for a too-long moment, sending warmth up her cheeks. She would not look away. She would not give him the satisfaction.

  “I’ll ask you to sleep on it, and we’ll talk again at breakfast.” He reached one long finger up and swept a lock of hair behind her ear.

  His touch jolted her, too delicate for the man. She could feel her breath rising and falling like a bellows-blown fire, all deliciously lit up within her, with a promise of something she couldn’t fathom.

  She’d scoffed at Mrs. Everly’s warnings about men. After all, her farmer had actually kissed her and she’d never felt this. And it was…wonderful.

  Humor glinted in his eyes, bringing her back to earth. “Until breakfast then,” he said, and was gone.

  Mabel popped back in. “Our room is ready.” She rustled about, gathering their things, and appeared at her side. “What is it, Polly? You’ve gone all pink and sweaty.” She inhaled sharply. “Did he kiss you?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, too bad, that. I’d warrant the man knows how to properly kiss.”

  “And how would you know a proper kiss, Mabel?” She put on a stern face. “And what about Johnny?”

  Mabel’s guilty look completely undid her. She laughed. “I’m still not going to marry him.”

  She’d shared Shaldon’s plan with her maid, swearing her to secrecy.

  “You would have a home. Little Norwick, Johnny said it is. It sounds lovely.”

  Paulette caught her breath. “You told him. You promised not to gossip.” Now all the servants knew Shaldon’s plan for them to marry.

  “No.” Mabel shook her head. “He just knew. And no one was gossiping. He just mentioned it when we talked.”

  “Really? Well, yes, Mabel. And I could live at this Little Norwick croft, in a thatched, dirt-floor cottage with a man who was forced into marriage—he does not want it either, you know. And what a life that would be.”

  Mabel bit her lip. “He’d not bequeath you a mere cottage, Polly.”

  “And how do we know that? I can’t trust Shaldon, not after he sold my home out from under me.”

  “So we’re back to Cransdall. And then what?”

  The innkeeper’s girl who had flirted with Mr. Gibson appeared, wanting to clear the table.

  She wouldn’t risk having whatever they said reported back to him.

  “If our room is ready, let us go up.”

  Paulette slept in fits and dozes, the hustle and bustle of the inn, so unlike her quiet bed in the country, jostling her awake most of the night. Well before dawn she lit a candle, nudged Mabel, and quietly dressed.

  There would be room on the coach going south, the innkeeper had promised Mabel the night before.

  Paulette sat in the small public parlor, a cup of tea going cold, a blank piece of notepaper mocking her.

  At this hour, the local ale-drinkers were all home and rising to care for their animals. The room was quiet, the morning fair. Mr. Gibson had been unwilling to travel at night. He would still be abed.

  She set her pencil to the paper.

  Dear Mr. Gibson,

  She propped her chin in her free hand. Perhaps Dear was too strong. Perhaps she should have omitted it and just begun with his name.

  It was too late now. If she rubbed it out it would leave a dark mark.

  I thank you for your kind offer to escort me to Cransdall.

  She looked up at the naked antlers racked above the fireplace, someone’s dead trophy. And how had the innkeeper obtained that? Some rich man had made a gift of it probably,
not out of kindness, but because he’d grown tired of the prize.

  Mr. Gibson wasn’t escorting her out of kindness, either. He wanted to dump her on Bakeley.

  And—had he actually said he was going to Cransdall? Or was he merely sending her in Kincaid’s care?

  You are absolved of all concerns for my care, nor do I wish to receive any financial considerations which might necessarily create an appearance of indebtedness to you.

  She lifted her pencil. That sounded a bit insulting. He’d been a bastard for all of his life and forced to work for a living. None of that was his fault. She had no wish to offend him.

  Not because it is you, but because I have lived in obligation and obedience for all of my life and am quite tired of it.

  Quite so bloody tired. While tossing and turning during the night, she’d had a chance to speculate on the amount of her trust and her inheritance. Once she’d disposed of her business with the solicitor, surely she and Mabel could live quite simply in the country. Not in her own village, where Mr. Cummings ruled, but elsewhere.

  She would give up the idea of a Season in London, which had always been a fairy dream, much like her thoughts about taking up her mother and father’s trade. She could teach drawing, and music, and French to the children of tradesmen and the local gentry. She and Mabel would have a garden and chickens. They would not starve, and in the quiet moments, she would try to get back what was hers from Agruen and figure out her father’s mystery.

  She jabbed her pencil at the gnarled table. She was settling, damn it. Damn it, she would find a way to find the life that should be hers, once she worked out what that was.

  A raised voice came from the kitchen and she tilted her head. From here, she might not hear the mail coach horn. She must hurry and finish this.

  I am going to London to seek out my trustee, and my parents’ solicitor. I have received an accounting from the innkeeper and will pay you back as soon as I have arranged all my affairs, which shall be very soon, I believe since the amount is not so great as I had anticipated.

  She took a sip of her tea and frowned. It had gone lukewarm.

  And she did not know how to end this.

  A distant horn sounded, and her heart beat faster. She hurriedly set her pencil to the paper.

  Sincerely,

  Paulette Silva Heardwyn

  Mabel rushed in with Paulette’s spencer, and she folded the note, wrote Mr. Gibson’s name on it, and handed it to the man on duty.

  A servant picked up their bags and led them out through the heavy oak door.

  The air, fresh with the morning dew, carried the scent of horses and leather. Lantern lights bounced off the bright yellow coach, painted quite like the dog cart, quite like a bumblebee ready to flit away. Her heart lifted.

  Ostlers jostled a new team into place, readying the coach to leave within minutes, and in the shadows near them a man lingered, watching them work.

  She extracted her ticket from her reticule and approached.

  The man turned and her heart fell. It was Mr. Gibson.

  Chapter 7

  She looked lovely in the shimmering light, hair loosely knotted and ready to fall at the slightest touch, lips pressed together just daring a man to attempt to breach them.

  Bink took her bags from the footman.

  “You’re ready to go then?”

  She balked like a surly burro. He let her have room, but he blocked her access to the mail coach.

  “I’ll have these stowed on your wagon. We’ll have time for breakfast before it’s readied.”

  “I’m leaving on this coach.” Her voice trembled, and she cleared her throat. “Kindly give them back to the servant.”

  Bink moved nearer. “No, Paulette,” he said softly. He was close enough to see fire building in her eyes. He’d seen a few grand Spanish tantrums before. This one wouldn’t stop him.

  Still, he didn’t want to embarrass the girl.

  “I’ve purchased the tickets. I will go,” she hissed.

  “The agent will give back your money. I’ll see to it.”

  “I am not going to Cransdall. I am going to London.”

  London. All the folk thought London held the key to everything. He, however, had seen the real London in the weeks he’d spent helping Hackwell search for his missing nephew. “Why London?”

  “That is my affair.” She pressed her lips together and inhaled loudly. “One of my trustees is there.”

  “One of them is on the Continent, I’m told.”

  Her head snapped up and her eyes widened momentarily before compressing into a scowl.

  “Nor is the other likely to be in town this time of year.”

  “Curse you, and curse Bakeley.” She stamped her foot. “I will not go to Cransdall. You have no authority over me. You must give me my bags and move. The horses are harnessed. The coachman is taking his seat. Please.” She put out a hand and tried to push him away.

  The group of men had turned to watch, and some laughed.

  “You lot mind your business,” Bink said.

  He shifted the bags to one hand and reached for her arm. She was trembling.

  He would not see her humiliated. Nor would she travel to London in a public coach with only her maid.

  “Stay now, lass. Don’t fret. If you must go to London, I will take you there.”

  That evening, Bink knew he was in for it when his mount trotted into the stable yard at Greencastle. Hackwell’s stalwart horse, Chester, was here, and her ladyship’s new traveling carriage also. And from the number of strange cattle, they’d brought guests.

  Devil take it, he’d only meant to stop the night here on the way to London—or longer if he could persuade the lady to stay, but Hackwell had come home early from the house party in Hertfordshire where he’d been politicking to get a new Poor Law in place. The man had taken to his Parliamentary duties like he’d taken to soldiering, every bill a battle campaign requiring a good deal of hobnobbing, usually with Lady Hackwell at his side. That sort of campaigning could never include Bink.

  However, when Hackwell visited the rookeries, Bink went along. Even before their marriage, Lady Hackwell had been a strong voice for the denizens of those London neighborhoods.

  Helping the poorest of the bastards was a worthy cause, and Bink would have liked to do more than just serve as a guard to the two or three of whichever lords Hackwell coaxed into going, trying to force some compassion into their coddled hearts.

  As he dismounted, the head groom of Greencastle hobbled up to take the reins, exchanging greetings.

  “When did his lordship return?” Bink asked the elderly man, keeping his tone matter-of-fact.

  “Came back late on Saturday. Mary sent for ‘em as Master Rob took a fever, and the babe was a’sniffling.”

  Hackwell’s four-year-old nephew and their baby girl had been hardy enough the day Bink had left.

  “How are they now?”

  The groom chuckled. “Fit and full of it, he and the babe both, Mary says.” He frowned. “His lordship was asking questions.”

  Bink patted his horse and waited, giving the old man his best stone face.

  “Ach,” the old man said, surrendering. “Which horse did Mr. Gibson take? What did Mr. Gibson say about his travel? Might’ve wanted to know where you went, but he didn’t ask it outright.”

  He unstrapped his bag. “There’ll be a post chaise and a wagon along any minute. See to them. I’ll have Mrs. Bradley sort out the new guests.”

  Below stairs, the servants were immersed in preparations for dinner. Bink found the housekeeper and issued instructions, then went to the set of rooms not far from the servants’ hall, the lodging and office of the steward. His exalted domain.

  He steeled himself and pushed open the door.

  Hackwell lounged in the sitting room chair, dressed impeccably for dinner, yet still managing to look disheveled, and with the same wicked gleam that had fired in him before a battle.

  “Gibson.” He stretch
ed his long legs within tripping distance. “So good of you to return.”

  Bink growled a greeting and tossed his bag on the only other chair. “Ye came back early, milord.”

  “This is my home.” His eyes narrowed. “And where have you been?”

  He gritted his teeth. A steward was a grand bloody servant, but still a servant after all. “A personal matter, milord.”

  A dinner gong sounded distantly. Hackwell ignored it.

  He’d best get a drink into both of them before Hackwell uncoiled his bloody questions. Bink went to a cabinet and poured out two brandies. He debated reminding his lordship of his dinner hour, and decided against it. It was not for the likes of him to tell the Earl of Hackwell to get himself up to the eating room—well, not tonight, anyway.

  “I had a letter this morning, Gibson. From the new Earl of Shaldon. It seems the old earl died and you attended the funeral.”

  He sloshed a little more drink into his own glass and handed the other over to Hackwell.

  Hackwell’s hand closed on the glass, and his gaze locked on Bink’s. “You devil, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Tell you what, milord? That I’m an earl’s bastard? I wasn’t raised in that great house. I dunna think it signifies.”

  Hackwell rose, clinked glasses and downed his drink. “As to that, I always knew you were not what you made yourself out to be. And you may dispense with the Paddy accent.” Hackwell poured himself another finger of brandy. “I see I do not have to condole with you on your father’s death, though I also see you are feeling something. Right now I can’t tell what it is besides irritation with me. Irritation that I’ve found you out. Here’s to you, Edward Bink Everly.” Hackwell drained his glass and set it down. “And hell, man, I’m not talking about you keeping the secret of your parentage. I’m raising my father’s and my brother’s by-blows—you know I don’t give a damn about that.” A wicked grin spread over his face. “What I’m talking about is your impending nuptials.”