Kit frowned thoughtfully. He’d never been the suspicious type; that was Sydony’s job. But after all his sister’s wild theories had proven true, he’d begun to view the world differently. Instead of accepting everything at face value, he questioned what lurked beneath the surface. And as he looked across the table at his guest, he felt a twinge of doubt.
Hero Ingram could either be the most composed woman he’d ever met, or she could have some other reason for not turning a hair when her carriage was attacked. Perhaps she’d been unafraid because there was nothing to fear. Were the riders her uncle’s men, intent upon forcing his hand? But there was no denying the ball that had whizzed past his shoulder, Kit thought, shaking his head.
Another possibility, even more insidious, kept nagging at his thoughts. After all, what did he really know of the woman before him? Was she even who she claimed to be? Some of her comments had been so jarring as to make him wonder about her relationship with Augustus Raven.
The letter she presented to Kit could have been written by anyone. Those who accompanied her had been odd, at best, and seemed to have disappeared, along with the carriage. Although he’d sent Hob’s young helper Jack out to the road, the boy had found no sign of it.
Hob hadn’t returned, either, and Kit frowned at the darkness outside the windows. It had been just such a night as this when everyone in the household had been picked off. One by one, they had been lured away or drugged until no one was left except Sydony. Kit looked down at the mutton he had been eating and felt the sudden loss of his appetite.
A sound from the doorway made him glance up warily, but it was only Jack, half-hidden in the shadows, an expression of urgency upon his face.
“Excuse me,” Kit said, rising to his feet. He did not wait for Miss Ingram’s acknowledgment, but hurried to where the boy stood, drawing him farther into the other room for a whispered conference.
“What is it? Has Hob returned?”
His eyes wide, Jack shook his head. “No, sir, but when I was making the rounds, I saw a party coming toward Oakfield.”
“A party?” Kit echoed. His normally inactive imagination conjured up his worst nightmare, a cloaked group of so-called Druids intent upon a virgin sacrifice. Only this time, Miss Ingram would take his sister’s place.
“What kind of party?” he demanded.
“It’s the parish constable and a couple of his cronies, sir, and they’re nearly here,” Jack said, obviously agitated.
Kit felt some of the tension in his body ease. It was about time the local authorities, who had been noticeably absent before, stepped in to help. But something about the look on Jack’s face made him pause. “What’s wrong?”
The boy’s eyes grew even bigger, if that was possible. “They’re claiming to have a warrant straight from the magistrate for your arrest—on charges of kidnapping a lady!”
The idea was so outrageous, Kit might have laughed, but coming as it did upon the heels of their earlier peril, he was not amused. If he were taken away, Miss Ingram would have no protection at all as, one by one, those around her disappeared. Just like Sydony.
After giving Jack some hurried instructions, Kit turned toward the open doorway and called softly to his guest, “Miss Ingram, I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans.”
Although he had recently eyed her composure with dismay, now Kit was grateful for it. She evinced no alarm, but rose to her feet and moved toward him quickly, her golden brows lifted slightly in question.
“I’ve been told that the authorities are approaching with the intent of arresting me on a charge of kidnapping, presumably you. Now, we can either try to sort it out with the locals, who view Oakfield and anyone who resides here as in league with the devil. Or we can depart before their arrival.”
Miss Ingram took the news with her usual aplomb. “By all means, let us avoid any confrontations, especially since they might have been engineered to destroy our alliance,” she said. “Just let me get my things.”
“You’ll find a pack to use in my sister’s room to the left at the top of the stairs, and feel free to take anything in there,” Kit called after her. His own bag remained with Bay, so he took a moment to alert Mrs Osgood to the situation.
That stolid personage was more horrified than Miss Ingram, but agreed to tell any callers that no one had returned since setting out with the carriage earlier in the day. Exhorting the maid to clear all evidence of a meal from the dining hall, she went into the kitchen, returning to slip a package into Kit’s hand before aiding the flustered maid.
Heading toward the stairs to hurry his guest, Kit had to look twice at the figure on the landing before realizing it was Miss Ingram. A vastly different Miss Ingram.
Instead of her cloak, she wore a heavy greatcoat that was a fitting garment for traveling, but not often worn by women. And beneath the hem, Kit could see a pair of scuffed boots, not dainty slippers, while her lovely locks were pulled tight and tucked up under a boy’s cap that cast a shadow across her features. At first glance, she would seem a youth. Had she even dirtied her face?
Acknowledging Kit with a nod, she moved down the steps toward him. “It will throw off any who search for a missing woman—or the man alleged to have kidnapped her,” she explained.
Yet she didn’t meet his eye, which was understandable. Most men would have recoiled in shock, but Kit could only admire her cleverness, while trying not to imagine just what she wore beneath the coat.
“Let’s try to avoid the servants,” he said. “It’s better if no one else knows of your new appearance.” With that in mind, he led her to the parlor, where they slipped out the tall doors into the darkness outside.
The fog still lingered, casting a disorienting veil over the landscape, and the burned garden was rough going, with clumps of stubble looming up to trip the wariest of walkers. But Kit told himself that whatever hindered them would work even more upon their enemies, though he doubted any locals would willingly be out at this hour searching the grounds of Oakfield, a property steeped in legend and dread.
Kit set a good pace, and Miss Ingram kept up without her skirts to encumber her. She didn’t harry him with questions, but silently followed his lead until they reached the barn that was being used as a temporary stable.
Jack had their mounts ready, and Kit set the boy to keep watch while he helped Miss Ingram onto Sydony’s horse. Having not seen her disguise, Jack could not report it to anyone, should he be questioned after their departure.
Kit had no time to ponder the whys and whos of their predicament. Right now, his only concern was to put more distance between them and the party Jack had heard approaching the house, so he urged Bay into the night as quietly as possible. He had a lantern, but he was loathe to use it, at least until they were away from the barn. Oakfield’s eerie history would keep the locals at bay, but any others might not be so easily frightened.
When he and Syd had first arrived at their new home, Kit hadn’t seen a pressing need to map the countryside. But after the fire, he had ridden out daily until he knew these lands like the back of his hand, and that knowledge served him well as he found the small path that led toward the arable fields.
By the time he reached an abandoned tenant cottage, Kit was eager for a respite. They could not ride indefinitely in such darkness, and although the Druids had once used this building, no one had been near it since the fire. Kit and Hob had made sure of that.
Dismounting, Kit led the horses into a small barn. After tethering them, he turned to help Miss Ingram, only to freeze as his hands brushed against a solid human form. His normally even heartbeat skipped in its rhythm as he wondered whether to reach for his pistol or slam the figure against the wall.
“It’s me.” The familiar sound of Miss Ingram’s throaty voice made him loose a sigh. She had dismounted without his aid, and there was no one else in the barn with them. No Druids, no authorities, no bibliomaniacs. Realizing that his gloved fingers still pressed against her, Kit dropped his hand away
, but a noise outside made him stiffen.
They both remained still while an owl hooted and then fell silent. But as the sound faded away, Kit became aware of a more immediate and more personal danger. He was alone with Miss Ingram, standing only inches from her, in the dark. The lack of light seemed to heighten his senses, and Kit caught a whiff of her scent, delicate and intoxicating.
“We can spend the night here and ride out again at dawn,” he whispered, expecting her to move. But she remained where she was, and in the ensuing quiet, Kit thought he heard her breath catch. Did she feel it, too?
Just as Kit was tempted to take the single step that would bring them together, a snort from Bay broke them apart. It probably was as succinct a comment as any on his folly, a rebuke for behavior that would hardly be welcome at the best of times, let alone now, when they were in jeopardy. And Kit took the message to heart: Remember that you are a gentleman.
With that in mind, Kit peered outside before leading Miss Ingram to the cottage, where they were met by the smell of dust and disuse. But Kit knew the place was sturdy and would keep out the worst of the night chill. There was a lantern by the door, and he lit it, turning the wick low, though the windows were tightly shuttered.
“I’ll tend to the horses,” he said, trying to ignore the sight of Miss Ingram’s greatcoat falling open to reveal her slim legs, clad in breeches. “Will you be all right?” It was a foolish question, and, of course, Miss Ingram nodded.
Still, Kit did not dally. Returning with their packs and some wood, he shut the door behind him, only to find that his companion had already started a fire. For a long moment, he simply stood still, transfixed by her costume, which boldly delineated her long legs, while hiding her breasts under a boy’s coat. It was a paradox that kicked Kit to life.
Thankfully, Miss Ingram showed no signs of succumbing to a similar passion. “I found some cut logs and thought we’d need the fire for warmth,” she said. “Unless you think we’ll be seen.”
Kit shook his head as he put down the baggage. “I doubt the locals will search for us at this hour, and no one else should know of this place.” In truth, he was grateful to be out of the darkness, with its inherent temptations, especially now that he suspected he had conjured their earlier intimacy out of whole cloth.
Jack had given him a blanket from the barn, and Kit spread it in front of the fire for Miss Ingram. With a gesture toward it, he took his own place, seated on the floor, his back against the door. The hard wood and the cold floor did much to help him gather himself—and his thoughts. Since they were safe for the time being, Kit took the opportunity to consider the events that had led him here.
And when next he gazed at his companion, he looked beyond the enticing form to the person inside. Up until an hour ago, Kit had thought Miss Ingram an independent and daring female in the mold of his sister. But during the course of the evening, she had proven herself to be far more unusual than Syd. Obviously, Miss Ingram was no ordinary young lady. But what, exactly, was she?
“So why does Augustus Raven’s niece carry boy’s garments with her while traveling?” Kit asked without preamble.
If Miss Ingram was startled by the question, she didn’t show it. She glanced toward him, but her face was in shadow, making it difficult for Kit to gauge her expression. “I like to be prepared for anything.”
“And just what sort of ‘anything’ were you expecting?”
She shrugged. “It’s not what I was expecting—it’s the unexpected that concerns me, Mr Marchant.”
“And that includes having to masquerade as a male?”
She nodded, but told him nothing, as usual. And, as if the conversation were over, she spread her hands toward the hearth and turned her back to him.
But Kit was not prepared to be dismissed this time. “I’m a simple man,” he said. “A gentleman farmer who wants nothing more than a quiet life in the country. Yet over the past months, I’ve been treated to my fill of deception and threats from everyone from cloaked intruders to my oldest friend.”
She swung round then, perhaps shaken by the raw tone to his voice, but he was not adept at dissembling. And his gut twisted at the thought that this woman might be a thief or some kind of Captain Sharp, out to hoax him for reasons he could not fathom. Although she might deny it, Kit had to put the question to her.
“So you’ll understand if I won’t be played for a fool, Miss Ingram,” Kit said. He paused to fix her with a probing gaze. “Are you even who you say you are?”
The light was behind her, so Kit could not see her eyes. Still, she did not look away, and he felt a measure of relief. She did not launch into any outraged protests or weeping admissions, but simply nodded. Then she cocked her head to the side, as though studying him.
“But if you doubt me, why are you here?” she asked.
Kit could have given her a number of different answers, but in the end, he chose the simplest one.
“Because, Miss Ingram, I am a gentleman.”
Chapter Four
W rapping herself in her heavy coat, Hero lay down upon the blanket Mr Marchant had so graciously put in front of the fire. Perhaps he knew she was always cold, she thought, before rejecting such a notion. The real reason for his behavior was more straightforward and required no personal knowledge of her.
It was the act of a gentleman.
The word was a common one, used to describe nearly all males except the poor, servants and those with money, but no lineage. And yet, Hero wondered if she’d ever met a gentleman in the strictest sense of the word—one who was decent, kind, thoughtful…I’m a simple man, he’d said. But Christopher Marchant was anything but.
Her back to the flames, Hero looked from under lowered lashes to where he was seated against the door. Presumably he had taken that position so that any attempt at entry would waken him, if he nodded off. But he couldn’t be comfortable, arms across his chest, long legs stretched out before him. Although not normally bothered by such things, Hero found herself wondering about draughts, the hard surface of the door, the awkward position.
She could invite him to join her here by the fire.
The wild thought was born of drowsy warmth and set Hero’s heart to pounding with both anticipation and alarm. Fully awake now, she knew she could not relax into a false sense of security just because her companion treated her far better than anyone else ever had. Manners made for a fine show, but what did she really know of Christopher Marchant?
Although the urge to accept this near stranger as a protector was strong, Hero knew better than to rely on anyone except herself. And hadn’t he already proven many times that he was not what he seemed? That might include being the gentleman he claimed.
Roused to alertness, Hero was determined to keep one eye open through the night. She was a poor sleeper, at best, and vowed not let down her guard when alone with this man, no matter how tempting it might be.
Yet the heat of the fire relaxed her, making her lids heavy, and soon Hero had closed them. The tension in her body eased, reminding her of her ride earlier in the day, when she had held on to Mr Marchant’s warm and solid form. Even as she tried to banish the memory, Hero’s thoughts returned to the moments when she had rested her head against his strong back, leaning upon him.
And she slept.
A cock crowed in the distance, and Hero awoke with a start. She heard a thud and opened her eyes to see Mr Marchant jerk away from the door, rubbing the back of his head. The sight of him made her pulse quicken and not just because she had slept the night away alone with a man she barely knew.
It was the length of his fingers threading through the strands of silky dark hair that held her interest, the tilt of his head, the full line of his mouth as he frowned, and the way his brows lowered in annoyance. If Hero’s heart hadn’t been pounding so painfully, she would have smiled at his reaction. Simple. Natural. Endearing.
As if aware of her study, he suddenly looked at her from under impossibly long lashes, pinning her with o
ne of his probing gazes. And all that Hero felt for him—and more—was reflected right back at her. Startled, Hero sucked in a deep breath as she realized that she was sprawled before the fire, her cap long gone, her hair falling in thick tendrils from where she had secured it.
In short, she was in deshabille, warm and languid and witless from sleep, and she hurried to rectify the situation. She would not expect her boy’s costume to incite passion in any man, let alone one who looked like Mr Marchant, but she had seen something in his eyes that made her both wary and exhilarated. Glancing away, she rose to her feet as she pulled her coat close.
“It’s light,” she muttered. “We’d better go.”
Turning her back to him, Hero heard his grunt of assent as he stood, yet the hairs on her neck tingled at his very presence. She waited, tense, until she heard him step outside. Then, and only then, did she release the breath she had been holding and reach for her cap.
She straightened and saw, to her dismay, that her hand was trembling. What next? Would she start stuttering? Hero cursed this man’s ability to discompose her, senses running riot, wits scattered when she needed them most.
Kneeling before the hearth, Hero doused the lingering embers there, and shivered. Better to be cold, she thought, than so warm that she couldn’t think properly. By the time she had finished, Mr Marchant had returned, and Hero turned to face him with a chillier greeting on her lips.
He didn’t seem to notice, and they made a quick meal of bread and cheese from the packet he had got from his housekeeper. Then he went out to ready the horses while Hero tried to remove all evidence of their presence. After sweeping away their tracks on the floor, she stood at the doorway, giving the place one last look.
Still laden with dust, it was nothing more than a small farmhouse, but the single room was cozier than her bedchamber at Raven Hill. Hero’s gaze lingered before the hearth, where she had slept so effortlessly for the first time in long memory. A surge of unfamiliar feelings kept her where she stood until a draught rattled the shutters. The noise finally spurred her to step outside and shut the door behind her.
The Gentleman s Quest Page 5
