“Who are you?” he asked with a frown.
She yawned delicately behind her hand. “I am Willa Trent. And you are?” She gazed up at him from her position on the ground with her sable hair spreading across the grass, and suddenly Nathaniel was reminded of waking up with a woman after a rousing night of …
“I am Nathaniel Stonewell.” Cautiously he left off his title. “Do you know why we are lying here?”
She nodded and smiled proudly. “I saved your life last night.”
Last night? Nathaniel lay back on the ground beside the girl. His skull was pounding and his body ached from head to toe. Hissing in pain, he held his brain together with both hands. After the whirling slowed and the throbbing eased, he found he could speak again.
“What happened?” It couldn’t have been Foster. Except that, of course, no security was unbreakable. Foster might very well have known someone was after him. He could have doubled back—
She made a slight humming sound beneath her breath. “Well… there was a rock.”
Nathaniel blinked. “A rock.”
“Yes.” She hesitated. “In the lane.”
“A rock in the lane.” The girl was perhaps not very bright.
“Yes. And you fell on it.”
Nathaniel took a long breath. “From my horse?”
She looked away. “One would assume.”
Nathaniel’s mind felt fuddled. Probing his skull, he found a likely knot over his left ear. Having fallen by the roadside with a sore head and no horse in sight, he would normally assume he’d been thrown from the saddle. Unlikely but not entirely impossible.
That still didn’t explain the girl.
“All right, girl. Explain.”
“I did. You fell from your horse onto the rock.”
But her eyes slid away from his and Nathaniel began to suspect there was more to it than that.
“Well, we must get you to the village.” Picking herself up from the grass, the girl began industriously brushing at herself.
Despite his headache and his mounting suspicions, Nathaniel watched with some interest as her actions created fascinating vibrations throughout her generous anatomy. Then she began brushing at him with proprietary bustle. Nathaniel took to his feet to avoid her ministrations, which jostled his broken head, only to find her brushing at his backside.
“You are terribly dusty,” she said. “It simply won’t do.”
Nathaniel caught at her hands and clasped them tightly between his. “I would prefer that you not.”
Her hands felt like captive birds in his grasp, but the rest of her went very still. Slowly, her candid blue gaze rose from their entwined hands to meet his eyes. Then she nervously licked her full lips with a tiny flick of her tongue.
A minor portion of Nathaniel’s mind noticed the damp shine of those lips and responded accordingly. The rest of his thoughts were centered on how exactly he had come to be horseless on this dusty country lane.
The girl seemed harmless, but this would not be the first time he had seen an innocent used by traitors. Nor would it be the first time he’d seen treason housed in a harmless form.
“Miss Willie!”
Nathaniel started at the deep voice that boomed down the lane. Whirling so quickly that his head throbbed anew, Nathaniel automatically dropped into a defensive crouch.
Not that it would do any good. He’d be hard put to defeat the oncoming bloke on a good day, much less when he could scarcely focus his eyes. The man was enormous, as broad as two oxen. Or maybe Nathaniel was simply seeing double. The man was also roughly dressed, and by the way he addressed the girl, Nathaniel thought he might be a servant or perhaps merely a respectful member of her community.
So she was local. A simple, country woman helping a felled stranger by the roadside.
A respectable woman? She was well-spoken and obviously educated. Her blue gaze was innocent and guileless. She was unmistakably of the gentry.
Distant alarms began to go off in Nathaniel’s thudding brain.
The man lumbered closer. “Miss Willie! We ain’t been half-worried about you. When you didn’t come home, we thought you’d been stolen from us.”
The giant swept past Nathaniel, and the wind of his passing was nearly enough to send Nathaniel to his knees.
“That’s all right. I’ll trounce you in a moment,” muttered Nathaniel, shaking his head to clear it. Staggering slightly, he turned to see the man swallow one of “Miss Willie’s” hands in his massive paw.
“You mustn’t worry us like that, miss. You know I’m a nervous sort, I am.”
The man blinked sad eyes at the girl, who patted his cheek consolingly.
“I’m quite well, as you can see, John. There is no call to fret. I am safe and sound. I spent the night with Mr. Stonewell.”
Nathaniel choked. “Well, now, ah … that is to say—”
The giant turned to blink his beagle eyes at Nathaniel. “Spent the night?”
Oh, damn. “Well, perhaps …”
“And you, sir, be you well?”
What? Nathaniel nodded cautiously. “Well enough.”
For an instant the big man looked as though he would cry. Then his face twisted in a grimace that didn’t bode well for Nathaniel.
When the man began to swing at him, Nathaniel prepared himself for pain, but all the blow cost him was his balance as the giant clapped him on the back. As Nathaniel staggered, the man turned around to bellow down the lane at the sturdy woman hurrying toward them.
“Did you hear that, Mrs. Smith? The whole blessed night. And hardly a scratch on him!”
The full import of Nathaniel’s situation came over him for the first time since he had awoken with the strange woman in his arms—a woman he’d spent the entire night with, an innocent, apparently decent young woman of the sort that was worried about when she went missing.
An ordinary man might look for a way out, a knothole through which to escape. An ordinary man might simply mount his horse and ride away from such a vast misunderstanding, leaving the woman behind to survive the scandal as best she could.
Nathaniel was not an ordinary man.
Drawing a deep breath that only made the pounding in his head worse, Nathaniel turned to Miss Willa Trent and bowed deeply. “Miss Trent, would you do me the supreme honor of giving me your hand in marriage?”
Willa blinked at the man for a long moment. Mr. Nathaniel Stonewell remained in the bow, his hand calmly held out to her, while John, her guardian, waited with his face nearly purple from lack of breath and Moira, John’s wife, hurried up with tears of joy already starting up in her eyes.
Only last evening Willa had told herself to be resigned to spinsterhood. Now a fine, handsome gentleman stood before her, begging for her hand.
He’d been kind when he woke her. And patient when he questioned her, even when she was trying very hard not to answer. Oh, he was so handsome, with the morning sun glinting in his mussed fair hair….
As if in a dream, Willa watched herself slowly put out her hand and slip it into his. “Yes,” she heard her voice say, “I will.”
Nathaniel was seated at a rough table in the Derryton coaching inn with a mighty bucket of ale foaming before him and the enormous son of the enormous innkeeper at his side.
The young man—Dick? Or was it Dan?—had been with him for the past hour as he’d been introduced to the entire village, as Mr. Stonewell, of course. At every turn he’d been met by faces wreathed in smiles and grateful handclasps. Everyone seemed in favor of the match, from the chandler, to the baker, to the grinning cooper who was even now hammering together an archway on the green where the vows were to take place.
Apparently something unfortunate had happened to the tiny village church recently—which incident had sparked a few snickers and reassuring comments in the vein of “Don’t worry, sir. She’ll outgrow it soon enough.”
Nathaniel tried very hard not to think about the structure on the green and its uncanny resemblance to a ga
llows as he gently questioned the village folk about Foster. He learned little of importance—only that “a right toff” had stayed the night at the coaching inn, had never left the inn, not even to join the search for the missing girl, but had left before dawn that morning on the road south.
Derryton was not on the way from Foster’s landing point at Crestford to London by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, Foster’s route was most curious. Nathaniel had followed him here to far Northamptonshire, north and west of Crestford and most decidedly far north of London, without a clue where the man was headed.
Perhaps Foster was choosing to remain on the back roads to avoid recognition. His face was nearly as recognizable as Nathaniel’s, for they’d appeared together in the infamous political cartoon “Fleur and Her Followers.”
Derryton itself seemed unlikely to have been Foster’s destination. The village was healthy but not bustling, an attractive example of a thousand other such hamlets adorning the roads of England.
An entirely ordinary town, this Derryton. Except for the girl. The innkeeper’s son was oddly reticent on some topics but was willing to discuss the unusual Miss Trent.
As it turned out, she was the de facto ward of the innkeeper and a former lady’s maid.
Apparently, the girl’s father and mother had died of fever several years ago. Young Willa had been left with no perceptible relatives, and the entire village had taken the girl in at the age of twelve.
All around Nathaniel, said villagers now bustled. The innkeeper’s wife tripped by with a smile on her face and her arms full of yellowed fabric. Despite the early hour, pints were raised again and again to congratulate the “happy couple.” As mundane a setting as Nathaniel had ever seen.
No, Nathaniel decided that Foster must have simply wanted a night in a soft bed and a pint of good ale on his journey. With a suppressed groan, Nathaniel rolled his head from side to side to ease the pounding. Nathaniel’s own bed had been a grassy ditch, and the pint of ale, though tempting, must be refused. He was on duty.
The Royal Four were always on duty.
To be chosen as the Cobra was a distinction beyond price, and Nathaniel was honored to be thus entrusted with the fate of the nation, whether others knew it or not. The Four had been in place since the days of William the Conqueror and, through judicious influence and watchfulness, had steered England into the empire it currently was.
The nutty scent of the ale wafted under Nathaniel’s nose. It smelled delicious. Sadly, he put it aside. He was the Cobra. He was not the man his father thought him, not the light-minded wastrel he’d made pains to be regarded as.
He was a man above greed, above politics, above self.
And unfortunately, above ale, although he had never longed more for a pint. His head pounded unmercifully, his bones ached from his fall, and his life was about to change forever.
Again.
Today was his wedding day and he was to wed a stranger.
“But he is a stranger to me! Do you genuinely expect me to wed him today—”
The rest of Willa’s protest was cut off as John Smith’s wife, Moira, drew the elderly wedding gown over her head. Apparently they did expect her to. The old silk smelled of benzene and dust. Willa sneezed twice as soon as her head popped out.
They stood in Moira and John’s room, for in Willa’s room her possessions were being packed with lightning speed.
“There now, miss,” Moira said soothingly. “He’s a fine fellow. I can tell by the cut of him. He might even be as high as a lord. John says his horse is an expensive beast, and those boots were made special for him on Bond Street, mark my words. I’ve been to London, you’ll remember. I know about these things.”
Willa didn’t bother to remind Moira that her journey had been over twenty years ago and had lasted mere weeks. Even that little excursion was more than Willa had ever traveled, at least since she had come to Derryton as an infant on that same trek.
Besides, Moira had been dining out on that story all these years, and in the woman’s mind London had become a mystical place of gold-paved streets and confectioner shops on every corner. Surely it was even more fascinating than that.
“But he could be anyone! A … a highwayman, or even a gypsy!”
“Pish-posh. He’s a fine and handsome gentleman. He knows his duty and he’s willing to do right. Honorable, that one is. That means he’s perfect for you. You’re no common village lass, don’t forget. You’re as much a lady as any in London, by my way of thinking. Your dear mum certainly was. And didn’t she look a treat in this gown?”
Moira sniffled as she tugged the dress into place, and Willa regretted bringing up sad memories. Her mother had been a lady, no doubt about it, and Moira her loyal lady’s maid until her death.
The gown fit perfectly. Willa narrowed her eyes at her own image in the wavy mirror. Her mother had a been a slender lady, elegantly petite of bust and bottom. Quite the opposite of Willa herself. “Moira, how is it that the dress fits perfectly?”
Moira busied herself with the folds of the skirts. “Oh, I let it out three years ago when I thought William Beckham might be the one.”
“Oh yes. Wills. Do you think he’s regained the hearing in his left ear?”
“I’m sure he has, pet,” Moira said soothingly. “After all, it was a trifling explosion—hardly more than a Chinese rocket going off.”
“I do hope so,” Willa said sincerely. “One should always be cautious with black powder. After all, I would never have set his gift next to the stove if I’d known it was flammable.”
Moira finished doing the many tiny buttons up the back of the gown. “There now.” She smiled over Willa’s shoulder at her in the mirror. “All ready for your groom.”
Her groom. Her husband. “But Moira, a man off the road?”
“Well, he was good enough to spend the night lying beside, wasn’t he?” Moira put a fist on each wide hip and glared at Willa. “You mind me, miss! You’re fortunate no one in this village would speak against you, or your reputation would be in ruins sure enough! Even so, it’s a fair thing you never kissed him!”
Willa didn’t answer that one, but obviously her blush spoke for her, because Moira’s scowl turned to open-mouthed shock. The woman rushed to the window and threw open the shutter.
“James Cooper, aren’t you finished with that archway yet? And where’s that vicar from Edgeton?”
There was a pause in the hammering and James Cooper’s voice drifted up from the square. “John should be back with him by noon, missus. You want I should skip the benches?”
“Mercy, yes. We’d best get this done spot-on!”
She turned back to Willa and gave a disapproving shake of her head. “You mind me, miss. The man spent the night with you and lived to tell the tale. Wed him and bed him and be quick about it. I have just the thing for that.”
Moira led Willa to where a wisp of fine lawn hung from a hook behind the door. The dainty concoction of lace and gossamer fabric was in odd contrast to the rustic room, with its homemade bed frame and chest and worn rag rug on the floor.
Moira held the scant thing up proudly, displaying it on her wide front.
Willa gaped. “Moira! Oh, gracious, you don’t mean for me to wear that.”
“And what’s wrong with it? It’s white, it’s long, and it covers you neck to toe.”
“Except that it might as well be invisible!”
“Well, no one ever said a bride had to wear a flour sack, now did they?” Moira handed it to Willa.
Since that was the undeniable truth, Willa didn’t bother to protest any further. “Where did it come from?”
“I purchased it off a gypsy peddler a while back, when it looked like that Donovan boy might survive long enough to crack the question.”
“Oh yes. Poor Sam.” Goodness, that had been two years back. “Have you seen his mother lately?”
“A few Sundays ago. She told me he’s married now and they’re all hoping he’ll still be able
to father a child.”
Willa shook her head sadly. “Such a pity. He was very sweet. But one can never be too careful around a cider press.”
Moira gave her a pointed look. “You don’t want this man to come to the same end, now do you?”
“Oh, Moira, you know the same thing never happens twice.”
“No, as far as I can see, it just keeps getting worse.”
Willa stroked the fine fabric in her hands. It was so sheer, she could see her fingernails through it. “But to bed him? I scarcely know his name, let alone love him!”
Moira sighed and her expression softened. “You’ve been reading too many romantic stories, my girl. Love comes after. I’ve told you that time and again. You pick yourself a likely fellow, you make your mind up, and you marry.”
“But you love John. I know you do.”
“That I do, but I’ve had twenty years to know him, and find out what a fine man he is. Not that he doesn’t have his bad side. I’ve not had a good night’s sleep in two decades sharing a bed with that great lout and his snores.” The fondness in her voice belied her complaint. “But, for the most part, a man is what you make of him.”
Willa was none too sure of that. “Still, perhaps he won’t mind waiting a bit for the bedding part. I certainly don’t, and I have been waiting all my life.”
Moira frowned again. “Miss Willa, you know very well that poor man’s life is in danger every minute you delay. The only way to break that jinx is to get yourself wedded and bedded. If you don’t do it now …”
Her voice trailing off warningly, Moira gave Willa a significant look and sailed out of the room.
After her guardian and best friend left, Willa sank to the bed and leaned her cheek against the bedpost. Marry a stranger or likely never marry at all, that’s what Moira had meant.
The older Willa got, the fewer the young men who gazed her way. Not because she was losing her looks but because word was getting out about the dangers of taking a fancy to the “Mishap Miss” of Derryton village.
3
A half hour later, Willa peered through her mother’s veil at the gathering of villagers before her. Yes, they were all there, from the baker’s wife to the cooper’s daughter. Every woman from the village stood facing Willa on the other side of the square. Behind them stood the men, shuffling shamefaced and uncomfortable, but there all the same.
Celeste Bradley - [Royal Four 01] Page 3
