Now the ribbons whipped his face like a punishment as the tears streamed from his eyes. He wasn’t crying, of course. Never that. It was the speed that was doing it.
Balthazar didn’t seem to have any speeds other than trudging walk and battle charge. When he was doing one, there was no persuading him to do the other until he bloody well felt like it. He’d trudged most of the day, despite Bailiwick’s diffident urgings. Then, just when Bailiwick had decided to give it up and look for an inn for the night, suddenly the giant destrier had lifted his nose, trumpeted a noise that sounded a lot more like a battle cry than a whinny, and the monstrous dinner-plate hooves had begun to tear up the road.
Literally. Clods of dirt and gravel flew up and over Bailiwick, occasionally striking him in the face.
Up hills and through dales. Past farms and stone-walled fields filled with sheep. There was one horrifying bit where they’d crossed a footbridge so narrow that Bailiwick hadn’t even been able to see it beneath the wide body of the horse, but that had been as brief as it had been terrifying.
He supposed, when he could think at all, that he was lucky Balthazar had decided to run in the direction Bailiwick had wished to go. The mad thing could just as easily have turned about and run back to London.
They’d be there by now if he had. The full gallop had been going on for some time—hours it felt like, but that couldn’t be, could it?—and Bailiwick was becoming dismally sure that they had already passed the crossroads that would have taken them to Basingstoke and the Ardmore estate. Basingstoke was the only clue he had, from the manager at the theater Sir Colin had gone to. Lucky thing, Mr. Wilberforce knowing about that actress and all. Then again, Mr. Wilberforce knew everything, didn’t he?
Except, quite possibly, that Bailiwick had been exaggerating a bit when he’d said he could ride. What he should have told the head of staff was that he had ridden. Twice, to be exact. Of course, that was long ago, before he’d grown so big that most horses would lie down and give up rather than carry him more than two steps. He’d simply assumed that no such horse could be found and that eventually Mr. Wilberforce would put him on a coach instead.
He had plenty of time to regret that fib as the miles flew by and Balthazar showed no sign of tiring. A few villages flashed past but the horse managed to dodge everything but the mud puddles. Most of which landed on Bailiwick, of course. If he hadn’t been afraid for his life, the ride would have been almost boring.
Until, that is, they topped a hill and began to race down the other side.
Even Balthazar couldn’t have meant to hit the group of mounted men standing in the road. His big bony head flew up, nearly colliding with Bailiwick’s nose. The great haunches dropped nearly to the ground as he attempted to brake but size and momentum were against them. The enormous gelding went through the other horses like a bowling ball through pins. There was chaos and shouting and horsey sounds of alarm. Then Balthazar finally came to a halt amid a cloud of dust.
Bailiwick choked and flapped a paw before his face but it was a long moment before he could make anything out.
When he did, his jaw dropped. The horsemen were gone as if by magic and in their place stood three of the most beautiful women Bailiwick had ever seen.
And they were smiling at him as if he were a storybook hero come to life!
“You saved us!”
“Those bandits ran from you like leaves before the wind!”
The prettiest one, a dark-haired, dark-eyed creature with hints of faraway places in her gaze—perhaps even as far away as Wales!—approached him in silence, swaying seductively as she came even with his booted leg. She shot a warning glare at the other two girls, then slid her hand up Bailiwick’s thigh. “May I have a ride, good knight?”
Balthazar was either tired—impossible!—or just as impressed as Bailiwick by the exotic beauty, for when Bailiwick obediently pulled the girl up behind him, Balthazar obediently set out at a prancing walk that a military parade mount would have been proud of.
Slim arms wrapped themselves around Bailiwick’s waist. Fascinating soft bits pressed up against his back. “My name is Fiona. You must sup with our troupe tonight, kind sir.” Her voice was like warm honey in his ear. “Do you fancy the theater?”
She could have asked if he fancied being boiled in oil and he would have nodded eagerly, so swept away was he by the way she felt against him. The other two girls watched them ride away with open envy.
No one had ever envied Bailiwick. And definitely, no one had ever envied any person who was with Bailiwick.
Balthazar was the best horse in the world, he was!
CHAPTER 19
The country lane led Colin and his companions onto a more established road, just as Lord Bertram had promised. Though Melody’s bladder grew no more tolerant, still they managed to make good time.
As they traveled on, they began to see more traffic on the road. Colin began to look for a place to stop, rest Hector, and ask questions of fellow travelers, though he hardly knew what to ask.
Have you seen a beautiful actress eloping with a handsome but obnoxious lord? They’re off to Gretna Green and I must stop them because I have the lady’s illegitimate child and must convince her to marry me instead.
No, he must continue to keep Melody’s origins as private as possible. So far the gossips had not learned of her existence or her questionable birth. He didn’t believe the secret could be repressed forever but Society would be much more inclined to ignore a “natural” birth if the wedding took place later. Even three years later, if the couple in question had wealth and standing enough. Minor gossip only, swiftly forgotten.
When at last they pulled into an inn, Colin was twitching with urgency. Turning Hector over to a sullen stableman, he helped Miss Filby get the children from the carriage.
“We’ll stop for a bit and let Hector rest, shall we?”
Evan ran off after the horse boy, eager to begin his “punishment.” Miss Filby stretched discreetly, then swept Melody into her arms. “I’m for a glass of cold milk. Would you like to join me, Miss Melody?”
Colin was about to turn her loose with a pile of coin in hand, but then he took a closer look at the inn. It wasn’t a true coaching inn, like the ones on the popular coach lines radiating from London. Those were large, clean establishments where ladies were looked after and children could run free.
This place was elderly and in poor repair. There was some sign of effort to keep up appearances, like flowers in the window boxes and clean sheets hanging on the lines, but the only other vehicles in the yard were farm carts and freight wagons. This was not a place frequented by the gentry.
Hoping that the public room would be clean and the food would be fresh, Colin accompanied Miss Filby.
It wasn’t so bad inside, though there must have been something wrong with the flue because the public room was smoky and dim. Colin could make out the shapes of several men—no women and certainly no ladies—seated on the benches before the fire.
There was one table with chairs and there sat a large man whose face was buried in a tankard. Colin squinted against the smoke. The man’s clothing was different than that of the rough farmers. He wore a good blue surcoat of superfine wool, a properly tied ascot, and a silk weskit chased in gold. The buttons alone could purchase the entire inn.
Miss Filby sidled up against him. “Who is that?”
The man drained his tankard with a last gulp, then waved it in the air before banging it demandingly on the table. “Alewife!”
The rough farmers and teamsters glared at the noise but no one said a word as the landlord’s plump wife hurried to the table with a pitcher of ale. The well-dressed man grabbed it from her hands and began to guzzle directly from the pitcher, allowing ale to dribble down his costly clothing.
Colin’s lip curled. “That,” he said, “is Lord Ardmore, Purty Bertie’s elder brother.”
Miss Filby peered through the smoky dimness. “I was right. He is a piker.”
/> Colin didn’t bother to correct her disrespect. She was only stating the obvious. He gave the room another sweeping glance. “I don’t see Chantal.”
“Well, you wouldn’t. She’d be in the best room, gettin’ waited on hand and foot, probably for free.”
He slid a warning gaze sideways at her. She shrugged unrepentantly. “Well, she would.”
Again, undeniable.
He reached for Miss Filby’s hand and pressed a coin into it. “See to Melody. Over there, where the alewife awaits. Stay in sight but out of the way. And when Evan comes in, keep him with you.”
He didn’t want to fight Baldwin, but if the man didn’t see reason, Colin wanted Pru and the children safe.
Approaching the table, Colin had to resist the impulse to smooth his hair and straighten his weskit, simply in reaction to the slovenly appearance of Lord Ardmore. No daily bath with mint leaves for him!
Placing his palms on the table, Colin leaned forward. “Where is Miss Chantal Marchant?”
Baldwin jerked back, blinking in surprise. “What?”
Up close, Colin could see the damage done by such overindulgence. The man before him was a pasty, bloated version of the portrait back at Ardmore. The reddened features of a habitual drunkard surrounded the piercing blue eyes, now gone vague and bleary.
Colin tried again, this time smacking his hand on the table to get the man’s attention. “Where is Chantal?”
Ardmore belched. “She’s gone.”
Colin drew back as much from the man’s disgusting breath as he did from shock. “Where has she gone? With whom? When?”
Baldwin waggled a finger in the air. “That way . . . or maybe that way. What’s it to you?”
Colin narrowed his eyes. “Explain yourself, my lord! You were in charge of the lady!”
Baldwin snorted. “Lady?”
“Lady enough for you to propose marriage!”
“Oh, that.” Baldwin flapped a hand. “I was just winding Bertie up. I couldn’t marry an actress. Think of my standing. Besides, she’s not as pretty as she used to be.”
“Your standing would have been hers as well, once you’d wed,” Colin pointed out, somewhat defensively. “Worse matches have been made.”
Wait, what was he doing? He ought to be relieved. He’d come here to stop the marriage, remember? Yet he was furious at Baldwin’s cavalier treatment of Chantal. “At the very least, you ought to have seen her properly returned to Ardmore. You sent her away alone?”
“Sent her? The bitch stole my curricle and my horse!” He hiccupped. “Didn’t even know she could drive. She did, though, galloped out of here in racing form!” He gulped another draft and wiped his arm across his mouth. For the first time he seemed to actually see Colin. “I know you.” He blinked slowly. “You and those other two. Always three of you.” He peered across the room. “Where are they?”
“Elsewhere.” Colin’s voice was clipped. “Lord Ardmore, are you going to tell me where Chantal went or not?”
Baldwin’s muddled gaze turned mean. “Why should I? I’m quite happy here. I’ve got good ale and plenty of coin. I might sit right here for the rest of the week and not give a tinker’s damn about you and bloody damned Chantal!” He buried his face in the pitcher again, his next words distorted by his greedy slurping. “Thieving whore.”
Colin felt a pull at his sleeve.
“What you doin’, just standin’ there?” It was Evan at his elbow. “I thought you were all lovey-dovey with old Teeth ’n’ Tits. I thought I were goin’ to see a duel!”
Colin stared down at the boy. “Evan, a gentleman does not refer to a lady as ‘old Teeth ’n’ Tits.’ ”
Evan scowled but also flushed with embarrassment. “What do I care ’bout gents and ladies?” he muttered. “Want to see you shoot his ear off at twenty paces!”
Colin sighed and looked back at Lord Ardmore in disgust. “Evan, violence isn’t the answer to anything. Yes, I am very angry at his behavior, but even if I beat the tar out of Lord Baldwin, all that would accomplish would be to produce a black and blue version of the same man. Besides, then I’d have to bathe.”
Evan rolled his eyes. “You can’t fight, can you?” He walked back toward his sister, shaking his head. “Spineless, through and through.”
No, just sensible. I am a scholarly, logical man. I don’t act on impulse and I don’t brawl in alehouses. An uneducated boy could not truly understand the notion of a civilized manhood.
Baldwin belched loudly as Colin turned and walked away.
Once Pru had Melody settled with a clay mug of milk and Evan was tearing into a chunk of remarkably fresh bread, she had a moment to breathe. Straightening and smoothing her hair, she smiled at the landlord’s wife standing nearby. The woman had been most eager to serve the children.
Pru handed her the coin. “Those are your flowers out front, aren’t they? You’ve done a right job sprucin’ up the place.”
The woman blushed, pleased. “I’ve only just got me start. Mr. Rugg and me ain’t been married long.” She was a well-padded woman of middle years with a touch of gray at the temples, but she blushed like the bride she was. “He said he needed a hand w’ the inn and I said I had me a right good brewing recipe, so we met up with vicar last month and did it up right and proper.”
Pru laughed. “That sounds perfect.” She held out her hand. “I’m Pru Filby. This here’s me brother, Evan. And this young lady is Miss Melody, Mr. Lambert’s ward.”
The woman smiled. “I be Olive. Olive Rugg, now.”
Further demanding banging came from the one table in the room. Both women turned to glare at Lord Ardmore.
“Lord or no, I wouldn’t feed that man to me pigs. He’s pure poison.” Olive plunked her fists on her wide hips and scowled at Lord Ardmore. “If he don’t pay for all the ale what’s spilled, he’ll be leavin’ that fancy weskit w’ me.”
Pru believed her.
Her husband emerged from the back room. “Ollie! Stop yer yakkin’ and get out there.” He grinned at his wife and smacked her on the buttocks as she passed. “Lazy cow.”
Olive gave her ample rear an extra wag just for him and he barked a laugh before he disappeared into the back again. Pru smiled. Olive might have described a practical arrangement, but it was clear her husband thought the world of her.
Fortunate woman.
Mr. Lambert joined her where she sat with Melody and Evan. She turned to him, still smiling. He blinked as if surprised to see it. Was she being inappropriate? She reeled herself in a bit, letting the smile fade.
Something flashed across his expression. Now what? Disappointment? Men were so bloody confusing. She gave up and simply asked, “Did you find out what room Miss Marchant is in?”
He sat down next to her on the bench. Still he towered over her. The man was like a great tree.
And wouldn’t you like to climb those branches? Well, any woman would.
He folded his arms and fixed Lord Ardmore with a flat gaze. “She left him. He must have done something reprehensible to cause her to flee all alone, but I can get nothing out of him at the moment. Perhaps when he sobers up.”
Thinking of the fresh pitcher of ale that Olive had just taken out to the man, Pru doubted that would be any time soon.
Just then, a crash of shattered crockery startled everyone in the room. Benches scraped as the other customers rose to their feet in alarm. Pru looked up to see Olive gazing down at a mess of shards and ale on the scrubbed boards of the floor and Lord Ardmore, standing over her, red-faced with fury.
Mr. Lambert took a step forward, but Pru was faster. In a flash she was at Olive’s side, pushing the woman slightly behind her. She smiled at Lord Ardmore. “Sorry ’bout that, milord. We’ll get you cleaned up in a jiffy.”
Olive was near tears. “That were me best pitcher,” she whispered sadly. “It were a weddin’ present. I only took it out ’cause his lordship come.”
Pru patted her on the shoulder. “Go get his lordship another
one, quick now.” She gave Olive a bit of a push, taking the woman’s towel from where it hung from her apron. “I’ll start w’ the cleanin’.”
Moving closer to the drunk and furious Lord Ardmore wasn’t particularly appealing, but she grimly set to swabbing the ale from the front of his coat and weskit. In her opinion, he could have done with a more thorough drenching. Oh, look, now I’ve made a clean spot.
He grunted, sending a wave of putrid breath her way. “Lower down.”
Pru gritted her teeth and moved to the front of his breeches. He gave a phlegmy laugh. Pru dabbed, staying away from the hazardous region. If it wasn’t for the fact that she’d not have Ollie suffer for it, she’d clean his lap for him all right! Would you like the mop shoved down your throat or up your—
A big sweaty palm closed over her breast. She jerked backward but the cad had her collar in his grip. He squeezed her flesh painfully.
“Keep rubbing, girl!”
And then Lord Ardmore learned to fly.
From her vantage point kneeling on the floor, Pru saw a green-coated blur hit Lord Ardmore from the side, taking him off his feet and sending him halfway across the room to barrel into the benches occupied by the other customers.
Pru scrambled backward out of the ale puddles and pottery shards. She stood, ready to rush to Mr. Lambert’s side.
Colin sprang to his feet, in much better form than the heavyset lord. Unfortunately, when Colin pulled the fallen bench off the man he found his opponent lay still, freshly soaked in the other men’s ale.
“Oy! What’re you about?”
Colin looked up in alarm, the red haze of rage fading abruptly as he realized he was surrounded by rough, angry drovers. The largest—hell, he was big!—advanced on Colin, shoving him back. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all. He held up his hands. “Now, my good man—”
Rogue in My Arms: The Runaway Brides Page 14
