Guarding the Countess

by Lily Reynard

"Take off your petticoat, miss, and bind his ribs to stanch the flow."

  "Is he going to die?" Mall's face was nearly as gray as Jemmy's. She wriggled awkwardly, trying to reach under her gown without exposing her leg or dislodging the boy from her lap.

  Kit shook his head and swiftly lowered his head to place an ear against Jemmy's chest. "No. The bleeding isn't too bad, and I'll wager that the bullet missed his lung. But he will need a chirurgeon." Kit glanced up at the countess, who nodded.

  He gave the boy what he hoped was a reassuring grin. "Jemmy, is it? That was a brave thing you did."

  Mall finally lifted Jemmy's head off her lap by tucking it in the crook of her arm, and by the dint of extreme contortion, managed to remove her petticoat while preserving her modesty.

  Jemmy lay back on Mall's lap with a sigh. "The chirurgeon—will he—?"

  Kit grimaced sympathetically at the unspoken question as the girl wrapped the length of blue cloth around Jemmy's torso. "I've had a ball or two dug out while on campaign, lad, and I'll be honest with you. Hurts like hell but it won't kill you."

  It was the inflammation, afterwards, that frequently killed men, but Kit decided to omit that detail.

  "You were a soldier? Who shot you? The Dutch?" Jemmy asked with real interest.

  "The first time," Kit said, settling back on his heels and trading a wry look with Mall. "Last year, though, it was the Turks. That was but a scratch, though—my real injury came when I tried to catch a horse by its bridle, and something tore in my shoulder. I couldn't move my arm at all for several months, and even now it pains me." He rubbed his shoulder and gave Jemmy a wry smile. "And it left not even a dashing scar!"

  "Mr. Fitzgeorge—" Jemmy said.

  "Call me Kit, young Jemmy, for we are both men-at-arms."

  "Kit," Jemmy said, his eyes shining. "I've never seen anyone fight the way you do. It was so fast! Not at all like the exhibitions that the fencing masters hold at the fairs!"

  "Well, no," Kit agreed. "They're after earning some coin by making a good show and perhaps even picking up a student or two. They don't want to kill each other. But a soldier learns that the quicker the fight, the better. Never give your enemy too many chances, or let him tire you out."

  "Will you teach me to fight?" Jemmy seemed to have momentarily forgotten his injury.

  "Now, Jemmy," Mall warned. "I'll not have you—"

  "I would," Kit answered. "But you must first heal, and I do not think that my business will allow me to linger. Find someone else to teach you, lad. You've the courage for it."

  * * *

  "Samuel, unhitch one of the horses and ride back to Royton Chapell for a chirurgeon," Antonia ordered. "We will wait here until you return."

  She saw that Mall's petticoat was already red-stained over Jemmy's wound, and felt a surge of anger.

  Samuel crinkled his brow doubtfully. "Are you certain, my lady? What if those ruffians return?"

  "I have a pistol," she said, more briskly than she felt. A lot of good the gun will do if I freeze again! "But you make a good point. We shall all go to Royton Chapell. "

  Kit rose to his feet, a bit stiffly, and helped Mall carry her injured brother to the coach.

  The interior was upholstered in the finest Spanish leather, Kit noticed as he lifted Jemmy into the vehicle and helped Mall position his head on her lap.

  And the air was filled with the countess's orange blossom perfume. He took a deep breath, the fragrance as intoxicating as strong wine.

  Mall caught at his hand as he began to back out of the coach. "Mr. Fitzgeorge—thank you!"

  "Yes, thank you," echoed Lady Cranbourne.

  "My lady. Miss Mall." Now safely outside the coach, Kit sketched a bow in farewell, and watched with a sinking heart as Samuel untangled the long reins and climbed up on the coachman's bench.

  Up until now, kidnapping the countess had seemed the least part of his plans—it was getting her back to Thornsby that had concerned him.

  How had his simple plan turned into such a tangle? Men successfully kidnapped heiresses every day—and Kit was a professional soldier.

  I must have lost my edge in the year spent recovering from this damned shoulder injury, he thought glumly.

  As Kit prepared to recapture and remount his own horse, which had wandered into the woods and was currently browsing a patch of tender green plants, he wondered how to salvage this situation.

  Lady Cranbourne came to his rescue.

  "Oh, Mr. Fitzgeorge! Wait!" she called out.

  Filled with sudden hope, he turned to her.

  "Will you follow us? I would be honored if you would join me for dinner." She gave him a brief smile. "The Silver Stag has an excellent kitchen, and it's small enough thanks for what you have done for us today."

  Reprieved!

  Kit grinned, and swept the countess a bow. "I'm your ladyship's most humble servant."

  Chapter Six

  We would frequently be ashamed of our good deeds if people saw all of the motives that produced them.

  —La Rochefoucauld, Maxims

  As one of the countess's outriders pounded on his door, the innkeeper emerged from his large plaster-and-timber establishment, bowing and gesturing with smiling welcome.

  Kit, his stomach rumbling, inhaled the savory scents issuing from inside.

  The proprietor of the Silver Stag was a short, round man who reminded Kit of a hedgehog with his bristly close-cropped hair and bright dark eyes. A sharp, pointed nose only heightened the resemblance.

  As Lady Cranbourne began to tell the innkeeper what had happened, Kit dismounted slowly from his horse.

  His bruises were already stiffening from the fight, and an ominous tightness in his back warned him there would be hell to pay come morning.

  He caught the swirl of black skirts from the corner of his eye, and turned just in time to catch a glimpse of Lady Cranbourne as she emerged from her coach, her hair falling in soft ringlets all around her mask. Kit wondered whether she would unmask once inside.

  After a few outraged remarks about the state of His Majesty's roads in general and the highwaymen that infested them in particular, the innkeeper dispatched his servants to fetch both the magistrate and the chirurgeon.

  Then he directed the countess's two outriders to carry young Jemmy upstairs.

  When traveling, Kit hoped only for the good fortune to find a clean bed and a hot meal in a crowded inn.

  Now, as he stood in the innyard a little apart from the rest of the countess's party, holding his horse's reins and trying to work the stiffness out of his legs and back, he marveled at how the innkeeper threw himself into ensuring that the countess's every wish would be fulfilled.

  Kit observed, a little wryly, that no one asked her to show coin in advance.

  The chirurgeon arrived shortly, and disappeared inside the inn to tend to Jemmy, followed closely by Mall.

  A few minutes later, the servant who had been sent for the magistrate returned, bearing Sir Edward's compliments and a promise to attend Lady Cranbourne after her meal.

  Kit contemplated the prospect of the magistrate's arrival with trepidation.

  After all, he had just killed one man, possibly two, if the highwayman whose legs he had slashed bled to death.

  Perhaps I should leave quietly while the countess is still occupied with the aftermath of the morning's events, and try my luck again a little later.

  Regretting that she would shortly consider him her enemy, he moved to remount his horse. His back twinged resentfully as he raised his foot to the stirrup.

  "Mr. Fitzgeorge, wait!" Lady Cranbourne called. "Did you not agree to sup with me?"

  "I don't wish to intrude, my lady," Kit stammered, feeling oddly guilty. "With the magistrate coming and young Jemmy wound—"

  "Nonsense," she interrupted, her brisk words belied by her smile. "For I have not yet had the opportunity to express sufficient thanks for your gallantry and courage."

  Kit heard the promise of gold gu
ineas in her voice, almost as sweet as her misplaced gratitude.

  She added. "And I will of course tell the magistrate that you killed those highwaymen in my defense."

  "Thank you, my lady." Kit's face grew hot at her acuity. "I was fortunate that none of them appeared to know one end of a sword from the other."

  "Hm." Her tone was skeptical. "Well, then, Mr. Fitzgeorge, I look forward to your company at dinner very shortly. Mr. Browntrees will direct you where to stable your horse."

  The innkeeper summoned his stable hand, and Kit followed the man to a vacant stall in a rickety-looking wooden shed.

  The coach horses had already been unharnessed and were being rubbed down.

  Kit noted, approvingly, that the stalls were clean and strewn with fresh straw despite the tumbledown appearance of the building, and the manger was heaped generously with clover hay.

  Kit visited the malodorous privy at the rear of the inn, then took advantage of a basin proffered by a maidservant, washing his hands and face in the steaming water and sponging the worst of the mud from his jacket and breeches.

  Having done his best to make himself presentable, he went to the inn's parlor, where the countess awaited him.

  The noon sun pushed weakly through thick greenish panes, making the room look as though it were leagues beneath the surface of the sea. And there was a mermaid, too, even if she wore mourning.

  Lady Cranbourne had removed her mask at last, and he saw that her face was badly pockmarked. She must have suffered the illness within the last year, for the scars still looked somewhat inflamed.

  But even with the loss of her complexion, she was still a handsome woman, with large gray eyes, a soft mouth, and a generous bosom.

  Kit wondered what it would be like to kiss her, and quickly tried to quell the unwelcome speculation.

  The countess glanced up as he entered the dark-paneled room, then immediately looked away, as if she were ashamed.

  Kit, who had seen far worse in his career as a mercenary, simply smiled and bowed, hoping she would not insist on the etiquette of rank, and make him stand throughout the entire meal.

  A gray-and-white parrot perched on a stand behind her like a tiny liveried retainer.

  "Hello," it greeted him in a soft, sweet voice.

  "Hello, bird!" Kit replied, surprised. "And...my lady Cranbourne."

  "Please sit, Mr. Fitzgeorge," she said, to his relief.

  She had yet to meet his eyes, and he felt a little sorry for her. She must have been a notable beauty before the smallpox.

  Kit seated himself across from her. No stained wooden planks for the countess—her table was set with a spotless linen cloth and pewter dishes polished to a high silver gloss.

  "My daughter Margaret would be transported with joy at the sight of your parrot, my lady," he said to fill the awkward silence. "She has a wooden one that she dotes upon, but to see a living one..."

  This conversational sally won him a shy smile.

  Lady Cranbourne was quite attractive despite the pockmarks, Kit thought with a spark of interest, and certainly not the sour-faced killjoy he expected of a Puritan woman.

  "Sweetheart was a wedding gift from my late husband, God rest him. He does not usually speak to strangers—"

  "Wanna biscuit!" interrupted Sweetheart.

  The countess laughed. "…except when he wishes to make a liar of me," she finished.

  The parrot ruffled himself up under Kit’s gaze, and shook out a scarlet tail.

  "May I?" Kit asked, amused.

  "Take care, Mr. Fitzgeorge," replied the countess, still smiling. "Sweetheart frequently bites the hand that feeds him."

  Kit dug in his pouch for the remnants of his breakfast loaf, and approached the parrot, warily holding out a bit of stale bread.

  That beak looked capable of removing his finger, but the bird took the crust with delicate care.

  "Can he say anything else?" Kit asked, as Sweetheart rapidly reduced the bread to a rain of crumbs.

  The parrot cocked a clear gray eye at him.

  "Sweetheart," it announced in a girl's voice. "Sir John is an old fool!" It giggled. "Bad bird! You shouldn’t repeat such things!"

  This resulted in an appalled silence. A flush rose up Lady Cranbourne's throat.

  "Bad bird! Bad, bad bird," screeched the parrot, bobbing his head up and down in an odd little dance. "Bad Sweetheart! Wanna biscuit! Wanna apple!"

  At this moment, a serving girl began bringing out the meal, and Sweetheart abruptly stilled, hunching down on his perch and regarding the girl suspiciously.

  In short order, the table held a steaming beef-and-ale pie topped by flaky, golden-brown pastry, a roast capon sprinkled with herbs, a salad of spring greens, a plate of fried onion-and-cheese pasties, a platter of fresh salmon topped with creamy dill sauce, and a plate of assorted cheeses, dried apples, cherries, and apricots.

  Kit, his mouth watering, managed to restrain himself until both of them had been served and grace spoken.

  Then he fell on the food like a starving man. His hasty breakfast of dry bread was hours behind him.

  All thoughts of making pleasant conversation vanished with the first mouthful of the meltingly tender beef in the pie, and he even forgot the countess's presence for a short while.

  * * *

  Astonishing how much better I feel after a good meal and a bit of sweet wine, thought Antonia as she sipped from her goblet.

  The shakiness had finally subsided, and the morning's events had begun to seem a bit unreal.

  If only I had reached for my pistol earlier...If only Jemmy hadn't tried to be foolishly brave...

  Across from her, Christopher Fitzgeorge was methodically spearing dried fruit on the end of his knife.

  From the way he had wolfed down his dinner, he hadn't seen a proper meal in a while.

  While he carved himself a generous slice of cheese, she fed Sweetheart a dried cherry and distracted herself from her useless speculations by studying her rescuer with the trained eye of a cloth merchant's daughter.

  She noticed how he hitched his shoulder and tried to rotate it unobtrusively, wincing a little. Had he been injured in that brief, brutal fight?

  His indigo-dyed coat and breeches were of the best-quality wool, well-cut but a little large. His collar and cuffs were of fine linen, trimmed with Brussels lace. A gentleman's clothing, to be sure.

  But his boots had seen hard wear, despite being recently repaired and polished. Likewise, his baldric and scabbard were well-worn, the embossed red leather scratched and faded.

  His face was tanned, and faint lines bracketing his mouth and radiating from the corners of his vivid blue eyes suggested he was a man to whom laughter was a friend. His speech, while cultivated, had a foreign rhythm to it, the intonation of his sentences just subtly wrong.

  He might be Dutch, she thought.

  He was certainly intriguing.

  "Where does your business take you, Mr. Fitzgeorge?" she asked, when he finally sat back from the table with a contented sigh.

  "To London to fulfill a commission for Lord Thornsby, my lady. Once I have done so..." Fitzgeorge shrugged.

  He reached for a leathery slice of dried apple and began to shred it into strips.

  "I am a soldier by trade, but I have a young daughter. It would be for the best, I think, if I found a living that was somewhat more...settled."

  Down on his luck, then, and off to London to seek his fortune, she thought.

  "I met the current Lord Thornsby once, years ago, at a ball." Something about Fitzgeorge's face tugged at her memory. "Are you a relation of his?"

  Fitzgeorge shot her a startled, wary glance, confirming her guess. His lips twisted as if the fruit in his mouth had suddenly grown bitter. "Aye—a poor relation."

  A soldier from a good family, seeking work... She had never seen anyone die violently before, but Fitzgeorge had been so quick, so sure in his movements that she was certain he must have killed many men.

  At
the memory of his sword thrusting into the highwayman's side, she felt a little sick.

  But that thought led to another—if this man were guarding her, she wouldn't have to fear men breaking into her bedroom to rape her. Or holding up her coach.

  One of her servants had already been gravely injured. Perhaps, the next time, someone loyal to her would die...

  She felt a cold shiver at the thought, and decided to act on her sudden inspiration.

  "Mr. Fitzgeorge, have you any references?"

  His fair brows rose in surprise, then the wary expression returned.

  "The Earl of Thornsby, I suppose. He has given me a letter of commission so that I might not be arrested as a vagrant on my way to London. Why do you ask, my lady?"

  A little flustered, she reached up and allowed Sweetheart to step up from his traveling perch to her wrist.

  Stroking the parrot's soft feathers, she said, "I have a proposition."

  "Yes?" Fitzgeorge's tone was reserved, but he leaned forward and braced his elbows on the tablecloth. Curiosity supplanted wariness in his expression.

  "I am now short a bodyguard, and grateful for your courage and your skill with your sword this morning. Would you consider taking service with me?"

  The astonishment on his face was almost comical. "I—well—my lady!" he stammered.

  She noticed, however, that he had not said "no."

  She extended her hand to him. "Mr. Fitzgeorge, I offer room and board for you and your daughter, with two suits of clothing and twenty pounds a year. Should you be injured in my service and unable to work henceforth, I promise you a pension for as long as you shall live. Do you accept?"

  His smile took her breath away.

  "I do." He rose, took her hand in his callused fingers, and bowed over it.

  His warm mouth brushed her knuckles, sending a jolt of sensation up her arm and straight down to the pit of her belly, where sudden warmth blossomed.

  "I will guard you well, my lady."

  Antonia felt her cheeks heat, and tried to keep her tone calm and unflustered. "I'm pleased, Mr. Fitzgeorge."

  "Call me Kit, as I'm now your ladyship's humble servant in truth," he said, reseating himself, his mouth curved in an ironic smile.

  "Kit, then." She could still feel his lips against her skin, a sensation as unsettling as it was pleasant.