“Sick o’ your lot, I am!” the man roared. He shoved Colin again. “Comin’ in ’ere w’ yer fancy clothes and yer fancy women, spillin’ the best ale in three counties!”
Colin braced himself and licked his lips uneasily. The fellow was right. It really was excellent ale. Top-notch.
He saw a meaty fist coming for his face. Pity he wasn’t going to have the time to enjoy a tankard of his own.
CHAPTER 20
When Mr. Lambert took the first blow, Pru was ready to rush into the fray. There was nothing to hand but broken pottery but perhaps she could throw shards—
Olive pulled at her arm. “That’s no good, dearie!” The woman tugged her back toward the bar. “Best stay out of the way until the dust settles. Besides, we got to defend the ale!”
Mr. Lambert’s first attacker went flying backward. For a brief moment, Pru caught sight of Colin’s face. “Oh! He’s bleeding!”
Olive was much more matter-of-fact. She shook her head in disgust as she reached into a cupboard beside the kegs. “Another brawl. And I just got the blood scrubbed off me floor from the last one.”
Turning, she hefted two brooms, then discarded the lesser one as unlikely to do adequate damage. “Get me rolling pin, dearie. Makes a handy truncheon, it does.”
Mr. Rugg burst out of the back room, red-faced and furious. “Oy!” He strode into the fracas like a mad giant, tossing men away indiscriminately. The black rag he wore to keep his hair out of his face gave him a rakish air.
“Pirates!” cried Melody. “Raise the mains’l!”
One of the drovers atop Mr. Lambert flew across the floor and smashed a chair into splinters that peppered the room. Pru gave a yip of dismay and tucked Melody behind her. “The children!”
“Put the little ones in the back room.” Olive indicated the door with her chin. “Then take up that rolling pin!” Olive swung her broom into battle position before the stacked kegs. “We got to protect the ale!”
It might have seemed silly but Pru realized that without their ale, Olive and Rugg would be ruined. Pru shepherded Melody and Evan through the door. It was a heavy oak panel, sure to withstand flying tankards by the look of the scars in the wood.
“Stay here!” She expected argument from her brother but Evan scrambled in, then held out his arms for Melody.
“I have her, Pru! Go protect the ale!”
Pru’s lips twitched. Evan realized the value of good ale, even at his age. Were men born with that priority?
Then she picked up the massive rolling pin and joined Olive before the bar, ready to thump skulls.
In the back room, Melody snuggled close to Evan. She liked Evan. He was funny and he had pretty eyes. He wasn’t looking at her right now. His face was pressed to where light shone through a crack in the door. She turned around, scrambling over Evan. “A peek-hole! I want to see!”
Evan turned and grinned. “It’s a right scuffle, it is!” He let Melody peek.
The room was a sea of flailing fists and flying tankards. It looked as though in the smoke and confusion, some of the men had forgotten precisely who they were fighting.
Or perhaps they’d simply decided time was ripe for a fracas.
The smoky air gave the heaving pile of bodies a hazy unreality, as if ancient beasts fought a mythic battle.
A drunken drover slithered across the floor, thrown before the children’s wide eyes. He grinned toothlessly in his sleep and began to snore.
Perhaps “mythic” was a bit of a stretch. Still, it was a bloody good show!
Melody squealed with excitement. “It’s a pirate mutiny!”
Evan grinned. “I’ll say it is.”
“Keelhaul ’em, Uncle Colin!”
Uncle Colin had his hands full not having his face used to mop the floor. Rugg fought near him, apparently on his side. At least, Colin thought so until the large man picked him up and tossed him aside as well. He landed atop a pile of semiconscious men. At the very bottom, he recognized the gold-trimmed sleeve of Lord Ardmore.
“Bloody hell!” He began to dig the man out. If Baldwin died, Colin would never track down Chantal!
Without Colin to beat on, there was only the fury of the mighty Rugg to face. This made things difficult for the remaining brawlers, for without Rugg, there would be no place to drink and brawl. The final straw came when a washtub of icy water splashed over them, thrown by Pru and Olive. Then the humiliation of being smacked by broomstick and rolling pin—“Oy! Get off me, woman!”—took the last of the starch from their spines.
There was a general call to retreat and soon the taproom was empty but for the wreckage, two dismayed innkeepers, one panting seamstress, and Colin, gazing with dismay at the richly clad man who lay unmoving in the ale, splinters, and shards.
“He’s out cold.”
Pru brushed her fallen hair out of her face with the back of her forearm. “Good riddance.”
Colin turned to gaze at her. For a moment he was distracted by her becoming disarray. How pretty she looked all pink-cheeked and mussed, with her rich auburn hair falling down and the neckline of her dress pulled awry and those generous breasts heaving . . . the way her flush descended all the way down . . . how far did it go?
“Ah.” Wake up, man! He shook off his trance. What had she said? “No, no, it isn’t good riddance. I’ve no way to find Miss Marchant until he awakens.”
Olive gave Lord Ardmore the toe of her boot. “Well, he ain’t dead, more’s the pity. I’ve seen this afore. He won’t be roused till tomorrow mornin’.” She grinned at Pru. “You lot can stay the night and help tidy up this mess.”
Miss Filby nodded. “O’ course.”
Colin twitched at the delay, but what else could he do? There were four possible directions Chantal could have driven from here. If he chose the wrong one, he could lose her forever.
Miss Filby came to him and laid a sympathetic hand on his arm. “Come on, guv. One more night won’t matter that much, will it?”
Colin looked at her. She didn’t comprehend the delicate situation.
So tell her. He opened his mouth but weeks of secrecy to protect Melody kept the words tightly locked away. Besides, now was not the time. He looked over his shoulder to see Melody and Evan emerging from their hiding place. Melody ran to Colin on chubby little legs and he picked her up, automatically hefting her to his hip. Melody leaned back to examine his face.
“You got hit, Uncle Colin.” She pointed a tiny finger at his reddening jaw. “Cap’n Jack never gets hit.”
Colin sighed. “Cap’n Jack ducks faster than I do.”
Evan sidled up, his hands in his pockets. “I kept Miss Mellie safe, guv.”
Colin put a hand on that thin shoulder. “I thank you for that,” he said seriously.
Evan shrugged and glanced away, but Colin could see the boy was pleased. Then Evan slid a knowing glance back his way.
“Funny thing, that.”
Distracted, Colin worked his jaw. Not broken. “What’s that, Evan?”
“You said violence ain’t the answer to anythin’ when it was old Tee—”
Colin raised a brow.
Evan changed tack. “When it were Miss Marchant what got offended.” Evan grinned. “Then you hit him like a speedin’ alecart when it were Pru he put his paws on.” Evan tilted his head and gazed at them both. “That were beau’iful, that.”
He wandered off, a jaunty roll to his walk, while Colin and Miss Filby very carefully didn’t look at each other. Colin resolved not to consider the ludicrous implications of such a notion.
He didn’t succeed.
With nothing to do but wait for Lord Ardmore to recover from the brawl, Pru and Mr. Lambert took the children upstairs to the best room in the inn. The walls were unplastered boards and there were gaps around the warped frame of the single small window, but it had a fireplace and it was painfully clean.
“It ain’t much, sir,” Olive had told them, “but it has a lock on the door.”
Pru set about soothing an
overstimulated Melody and preparing her for bed, while Mr. Lambert and Evan made up pallets on the floor for themselves.
“I think we should all share the room this evening,” Mr. Lambert had said. “Rugg is a good man, but this is not the sort of place a lady should stay alone.”
Pru let it pass that he absentmindedly continued to treat her as a lady, for the truth was she didn’t look forward to sleeping in the rough room alone with the children.
With herself and Melody in the bed and Mr. Lambert and Evan on the floor before the fire, it was quite cozy. She hadn’t bothered to protest being given the bed, only snuggled gratefully into the deep straw fill. The ticking was coarse but smelled of soap and sun-drying and the blankets were old but clean and plentiful.
Melody insisted on a story and Mr. Lambert complied. As he spoke in his deep, rumbling voice, Pru held Melody in the curve of her body and watched as the brawl-inspired agitation melted away from the sleepy, soft baby features.
What a beautiful child. She was a brave little thing, too. Little on this journey had overwhelmed her good-natured liveliness. Pru smiled fondly. Give Melody a quick nap and she was ready to face anything.
I could love her.
I think perhaps I already do.
Mr. Lambert was bent on wedding Chantal. Would that make her Melody’s mother?
God, what a notion!
Unable to bear the thought of saying good-bye to Melody at the end of the journey, Pru dropped her face to hide it in Melody’s soft curls.
Mr. Lambert was still telling the story, for Evan was still wide awake and enraptured. “So of course, the princess of Spain fell madly in love with Captain Jack. After all, he was the only man she’d ever met who understood her love of climbing trees. But regretfully, Captain Jack could not marry her.”
“Why not?” Evan’s awe-filled whisper made Pru smile into her pillow.
“Because if he were to get married, he would have to stop sailing and he could never bear to give up the sea, not for anyone, not even a princess.
“But since she’d been such a model prisoner and a very fine cook, and she’d brought him such a very fine ransom, he told her he would take her anywhere she wanted to go in the world.
“Did she want to go home to Spain and the father who wouldn’t allow her to climb trees? Of course not. She told Captain Jack that she’d once heard of an island where the trees grew so tall and covered so much of the land that the people had simply given up trying to cut them down to make room for houses and had decided to live high in the trees, so high that they could live from birth to old age and never touch a toe to the soil. Well, Captain Jack had sailed the world . . .”
Ten times over, Pru thought, listening with her eyes closed.
“Ten times over.” Evan’s voice was getting sleepier.
“Ten times over,” Mr. Lambert went on. “So he knew of this mysterious and magical island of trees. He turned the Dishonor’s Plunder about and after a minor hurricane or two, they dropped anchor off a perfect lagoon . . .” His voice faded away to silence.
Pru opened her eyes to see Mr. Lambert tucking Evan’s covers more closely about him. He looked up to see her watching and smiled.
“He’s a tough nut,” he said softly. “Melody never lasts that long.”
She rose from the bed, tucking the covers around Melody to keep her warm, then padded across the floor in her bare feet to see her brother’s face. All trace of hardened, cynical street rat was gone, leaving only a tired little boy. “He hasn’t gone to bed with a story for years. That was Papa’s task.”
Mr. Lambert stepped back as she approached. “Aren’t you tired?”
She smiled crookedly. “Too many beheadings for me. But your stories are wonderful.”
“Hardly that. High body count, low vocabulary.”
“But they’re so exciting! They please people.”
He shrugged it off but he couldn’t hide his flattered expression. “Hardly the sort of thing the Bathgate Scholars expect to hear from me.”
“Scholars have their place, I suppose,” she said without interest. “Yet what’s so valuable about writing words that only a few people can understand? Isn’t there something to be said for bringing happiness to many?”
He blinked. “I . . . I never thought of it that way.” His brows went up. “My father certainly thought that there was nothing more important than writing words only a few people could understand. The fewer the better, really.”
Pru let out a sigh as she looked at Evan. “I told him stories every night for a while,” she said, as she bent to brush Evan’s overlong hair from his brow. “But what with working all day and evening . . .” She shrugged.
A warm, gentle hand fell upon her shoulder.
“You’ve done your best and I, for one, think you’ve done a wonderful job. He’s a good boy.”
No, she wanted to cry out. He’s a good commoner boy, he’s a good errand-runner, a good scrounger, a dab hand at picking through the grocer’s leavings—but he’s not a good gentleman’s son.
He’s not who he is supposed to be.
And neither am I.
If I could be a lady again . . . I might just be the lady who makes you forget Chantal.
The thought took her breath away. Dare she?
I could try.
Yet to reveal herself now, after years of pretending? Furthermore, it wasn’t only herself she would be revealing. If Evan’s whereabouts became known to the Trotters—no, it didn’t bear thinking about.
I could try . . . as Pru. To make sure of him first, to be truly, truly sure . . .
CHAPTER 21
Miss Filby went completely still when Colin touched her. He became aware that they were virtually alone in the quiet night. The last time they had been thus, he had not been able to keep from ravaging her to the limits of her permission.
With great force of will he slid his hand from her shoulder and stepped back. Look at me. I’m so proper and respectable. Only I’m not nearly so decent in my mind, am I?
In his imagination, the plain nightgown was sheer and clinging and the firelight showed him every luxuriant curve. In the privacy of his own mind, Miss Prudence Filby was not frozen in dismay, but burning with a lust of her own, ready to press herself to him passionately once more. In the bedchamber of his fantasy, they were not master and servant but man and woman, equal and eager, two people without responsibilities or ties.
Or clothing.
She lifted her chin and met his gaze. Her gray eyes were almost silver in the firelight and he thought he saw something new shining in them. Was that . . . longing?
If it was, it was impossible longing. He would not be that man—the one who took advantage of a woman, knowing full well he intended to wed another.
Miss Prudence Filby, seamstress. With her quick mind and her clear honesty, she could be so much more. He admired her, which was odd considering that he’d never been one to like his women so tartly outspoken.
Nothing at all like Chantal.
Yes, remember Chantal. Remember how she made your heart thud, how she made your blood hot, yet how her delicacy and her vulnerability made you feel strong, her powerful protector.
That wasn’t how Miss Filby made him feel. She was no fainting wisp. He reckoned he wouldn’t mind having her at his back with a rolling pin in any fight. Yet, she also set his body afire.
And more. The way she saw into him, as if she understood what lay beneath the insouciant façade that most people never looked past. Being with her was like being with Jack, or Aidan.
Miss Prudence Filby, saucy and common, felt like . . . a friend. A friend who set him afire. What was a man supposed to do with a woman like that?
He heard Jack’s voice in his head, the old Jack, the one who could laugh and point out the single obvious thing that Colin had never considered.
What do you do with a woman like that? You marry her, you idiot!
Oh, God.
“Chantal can only be a day ahead
of us,” he blurted, apropos of nothing. “Perhaps less.”
Miss Filby drew back and the silvery gleam of yearning disappeared from her eyes, if indeed it had ever lived there. Colin’s jaw clenched at the loss of it, though he’d killed it intentionally.
She bent to gather up Evan’s discarded outer clothing, shaking his things out and folding them neatly. Her domestic motions made her old thin gown tighten about some very interesting portions of her anatomy. Colin bit down hard on the inside of his cheek and riveted his gaze on the smoke-tinted rafters.
Think about Chantal. Difficult, for he was beginning to think very little of his former lover. “She’s not accustomed to travel. She spends all of her time in the theater, working.” Or in some man’s bed, apparently.
“Aye,” Miss Filby said, with the barest hint of dryness in her tone. “It’s that hard strollin’ around the stage for three whole hours of the evenin’.”
The thought of Miss Filby’s work-worn hands mocked him. “Well, you can’t deny that acting can be difficult . . . er, emotionally.”
“Oh, aye.” Miss Filby turned her back on him to gaze through the small bare window into the night. “She emotes all over the bloomin’ place.”
Thinking uncomfortably of the few tantrums he’d witnessed himself—that vase had come very close to striking his head—he changed tack once again.
“It’s very late. We must leave as soon as I can pry Chantal’s direction out of Lord Ardmore.”
Miss Filby leaned her head against the window frame. “Hmm.”
“It’s been a very long day.” He waited for a response. She said nothing for a long moment. He had the sudden sensation that the entire world was asleep except for the two of them. The feeling intensified, lonely and intimate at the same time.
Then, she let out a long, slow breath. “Do you ever wish,” she said softly, “that you could wave your hand and change one thing, just one moment of your past?”
“Yes,” he said instantly. “I do.”
She turned, wearily rolling her head on the window frame as she leaned her back against it. “What do you wish to change?”
“I wish I’d stopped my friend Jack from going to war. He didn’t have to go. He didn’t go to be a hero. He went to protect his idiot cousin.”
Rogue in My Arms: The Runaway Brides Page 15
