The third man, whose age seemed to fall somewhere between that of the other two, was by far the most dangerous looking. She had heard the others call him Hawke and deemed it a suitable name for him.
She turned to look at him now. His nose, while not disproportionately large, was definitely aquiline. His jaw was angular, his eyes, when they were open, were piercing, his complexion swarthy, although it was hard to tell in the dim light whether it was actually his skin that was dark, or whether it was the several days’ growth of beard that made it appear so.
From where she was now sitting she could not see the short scar by his left eye, which added to the aura of danger and violence that surrounded him, but even without a scar, the right side of his face could not by any means be called handsome.
He was uncompromisingly male, without the slightest touch of any of the softer, more feminine traits. Even in sleep his face did not relax, but remained as strong and forbidding as when he was awake. In a word, he was the embodiment of everything she most distrusted in men.
Cassie yawned again, then stiffened her back. The trip, which had seemed long before they even set off, began now to seem interminable, as if somehow they were all destined to ride onward for the rest of their days, trapped together in the confines of the coach. Her initial hope that perhaps the other three would not be accompanying them for the entire trip had been dashed earlier, when she had overheard one of them mention London.
To make matters worse, even the weather was conspiring against her. It had started snowing almost as soon as they had set their trip forward after lunch, and from the muffled sound of the horses’ hooves, the snow was already piling up enough to slow their progress considerably. Such a storm, coming so late in the winter as it did, was quite unusual. Perhaps it was an omen that they should not be going to London?
While she sleepily debated the wisdom of waking her stepmother and trying to convince her that they should give up this wild adventure and return to their home, Cassie’s eyes finally drifted shut.
* * * *
Richard Hawke only gradually became aware of a warm body cuddled up against him, and it took him a few more moments to become sufficiently awake to identify where he was. His eyes opened only enough that he could recognize John sitting across from him, snoring softly. Shifting his glance a bit to the right, Richard gradually remembered the older woman and the young girl who had gotten on the stage in Truro. By turning his head slightly, he could see Perry, who was also lost to the world.
Which left whom? He had a vague memory of a third woman—of deep blue eyes and black hair and a forehead that seemed perpetually creased in a worried frown ... a little figure struggling to sit up straight. He smiled to himself, pleased that she had finally relaxed. He doubted that he made a very soft pillow, but apparently she had no complaints. And he definitely had none.
With that thought, he allowed the rocking of the stagecoach to lull him back to sleep.
* * * *
With a sway and a creaking of harnesses, the coach made a sharp turn and lurched to a halt. Cassie woke up abruptly to find her shoulder tucked behind Hawke’s arm and her cheek pillowed against his shoulder. With deep dismay she pulled herself upright, then was reassured to realize the other five occupants of the coach were still sleeping, and no one else was aware of her lapse in decorum.
Even so, she could not keep a blush from creeping up her cheeks at the knowledge of how intimately she had been pressed up against a strange man.
Suddenly the door was thrown open with a crash, the wind catching it and jerking it out of the coachman’s hands. The resulting noise woke up not only Ellen and Seffie, but also the three sleeping men.
“What’s amiss?” the man beside her asked, and at the sound of his deep voice, Cassie recalled the warmth of his shoulder against her face. She was grateful for the chill wind, which cooled her overheated cheeks.
“I thought we could make it through to the next stop, guv, but the snow is blowing so fierce, ‘tis nigh impossible to see the road. I’m for halting here, where we’re sure of shelter for the night.”
“How far is it to the next staging house?”
“‘Tis a good four miles, but it could easily take us several hours to get that far, assuming we didn’t end up in a ditch with a broken wheel.”
Cassie listened to the men’s discussion in growing horror, not really upset by the obvious impossibility of arriving in London on schedule, but truly stunned by the financial impossibility of paying for an extra night’s lodging and the additional meals. Geoffrey simply had not made any allowances for such an eventuality when he had doled out the pittance he had deemed adequate for their trip.
With great reluctance Cassie emerged with the others from the coach into a biting wind that whipped snow into her face with stinging force, and fought her way across the short stretch of open ground to the inn. At one point a sudden gust caught her and might have whirled her to the ground, but for a large hand that seized her by the elbow and virtually dragged her the last few feet into the haven that was the inn.
As a haven, it left much to be desired, the low ceilings and small windows giving the room a mean appearance. Cassie turned to thank the man who had helped her, but the words died in her throat when she realized it was the man called Hawke. Not that he seemed to notice her lack of manners since he released her arm as soon as they were inside and directed his attention to the innkeeper, who stood swaying in the doorway of the taproom.
“‘Ere, ‘ere, you can’t come in. We’re closed. No one ‘ere to look after you. Go on somewhere else. No one ‘ere. Not a staging house. Can’t stay. Go away.”
The coachman was not one to be put off by lack of welcome. “Look lively, man, and send someone out to help with my horses.”
“No one ‘ere. That’s what I’m tellin’ you. Wife’s gone to m’daughter’s. First gran’chil’ coming. M’son drove her. No one ‘ere but me. Can’t ‘elp you. Shelebrating. First gran’chil’. Be a boy. Told m’wife. Got to be a boy. Name ‘im after me. Can’t stay. No one ‘ere to cook. Go somewhere else.” He took another hearty swig from his mug and unexpectedly beamed at them. “Goin’ to be a boy.” Then he slid slowly down to the floor and started snoring loudly.
The coachman swore under his breath, then went back out himself to help the guard take care of the horses, but the other three men seemed unaffected by their strange reception. They calmly stepped over the landlord’s prone body and proceeded into the taproom where without any by-your-leave they proceeded to make themselves at home.
“I cannot approve of this place.”
Her step-mother’s petulant voice startled Cassie almost enough to make her blurt out her own misgivings about their lack of finances. Only by exerting the greatest effort was she able to say calmly, “I am afraid the weather has taken the decision as to where we stay out of our hands. I realize these are not the accommodations we were expecting, but we must make the best of the situation.”
“Very well, if you are so set on it, we will stay, although I will be very surprised if the sheets are not damp. Please have someone show us to our rooms, and then ask the maid to bring us something to eat.”
Cassie would have been irritated by her step-mother’s haughty attitude if she had not heard the tremble in her voice, and known that this was just Ellen’s way of trying to cope with a situation that was beyond her capabilities. Ellen was sweet and kind-hearted, and Cassie loved her dearly, but unfortunately Ellen had not the least particle of resolution, and she had never been able to handle the slightest adversity. Cassie had, in fact, become quite accustomed to taking care of her step-mother as if she, Cassie, were the mother and Ellen were the child.
So instead of reminding her that none of them really wanted to stay in this miserable place, but the weather made it impossible for them to go on, Cassie merely said matter-of-factly, “They are a little short of help now, so I will take us upstairs and together we can pick out a suitable room. Then I will see what is ava
ilable in the way of a meal.”
There was not much to choose from upstairs—four rooms, each with a double bed, all of them cold and damp with no fires lit. It was a relief, however, to leave her querulous stepmother in the largest of the rooms, with Seffie delegated the impossible task of cheering her up, while Cassie addressed herself to the only slightly less impossible job of securing wood for their fire and food for their stomachs.
Pausing in the door of the taproom, she evaluated her three potential helpers, the coachman and guard evidently still being occupied with the horses. She had already made up her mind to approach the oldest of the three, in hopes that she was not mistaken in her belief that he possessed at least a modicum of kindness in his make-up.
Unfortunately, the only one facing the door was the youngest man, who, as soon as he caught sight of her, started smiling in a way that made her thankful she had not yet put off her cloak. She did not need his smile to know any request she might make of him would undoubtedly be interpreted as an invitation to share her bed. On the other hand, unless she actually entered the taproom, which she was loath to do, she could see no way of attracting the attention of the man with whom she did wish to speak.
The young man chuckled out loud as she hesitated there, then said something in an undertone to his two companions, which caused them both to turn and stare at her.
For Cassie, it was the final burden that proved too much for her to bear, and she turned tiredly away from their mockery and went down the narrow hallway in what she hoped was the direction of the kitchen.
Her thin shoes were soaked through from the snow, her feet felt like blocks of ice with the rest of her not much warmer, her stomach was tied in knots from hunger and anxiety, and every muscle of her body ached from the hours of jolting about in the carriage. All she wanted was a hot bath, a bowl of soup, and a bed to lie down on.
Most of all, she wanted to be home where she belonged and not on her way to London. There was no doubt in her mind but that this day was a good indication of what was to come.
The kitchen, when she found it, was as cold as the rest of the inn.
“Are you in need of some assistance?”
Even before she turned around she knew from his voice that it was the man called Hawke who had followed her. They all three had slight accents, as if they had not lived their entire lives in England, but his voice was the deepest of the three and as such unmistakable. Turning reluctantly, she stared up a long way into a harsh face that had become entirely too familiar to her in the course of the day.
There was no way she could ask a favor of this man, because she had no way of knowing what he might demand of her in return. On the other hand, she might well be able to deal with him if she were the one to strike the bargain in the first place.
“I would be interested in making an arrangement with you that would be mutually beneficial.” She continued with more assurance in her voice than she actually felt. “Since we seem to be left to our own devices here, I propose that you and your friends see to the fires, and I will endeavor to provide food for us all.”
“Agreed,” was all he said before he turned abruptly, leaving her alone in the kitchen.
She could not suppress a shiver at her temerity, and she wondered briefly if she had been wise to make a bargain with such a man. Unwillingly she recalled the stories she had heard about people making pacts with the devil, but then she shook off her silly fancies and set to work to inventory the available food.
In that respect they were fortunate since the absent landlady appeared to keep a well-stocked larder. There was half a leg of lamb, some cold tongue, a few apples that were still firm, and the beginnings of a kettle of chicken soup still hanging from the iron by the fire, evidently abandoned by the landlady in her haste to go to her daughter’s bedside.
Carried away with the unaccustomed abundance of ingredients, Cassie prepared far more food than was necessary, adding the requisite vegetables to the chicken soup and starting three apple pies baking in the oven before slicing the lamb and tongue to make an enormous stack of thick sandwiches.
Having left the food for the coachman and his helper and the three other travelers on the table in the kitchen, she felt a slight twinge of guilt as she carried a tray upstairs to share with Ellen and Seffie. Not guilt because they might be sitting in the taproom expecting her to serve them, which she had never had any intention of doing, but guilt at the quantity of food she had prepared. She consoled herself with the thought that anything not eaten tonight would keep for several days and would probably not actually be wasted.
The fire in the fireplace had already done an adequate job of heating the room, Seffie had done a remarkable job of calming Ellen’s anxieties, and the abundant food was all that the three women needed to help them recover from the stresses of the trip. Of necessity they slept in their shifts, their luggage, such as it was, still on the coach, and they shared the double bed, also. It was a tight squeeze for three, but far, far better than one of them sleeping alone in another room, especially as that one would undoubtedly have been Cassie.
She lay awake a long time after the other two had fallen asleep, worrying at first about how much they would have to pay for their room the next day, but then gradually becoming soothed by the rumble of men’s voices coming up from below, which were audible now that the wind had died down. Every now and then she heard the deeper rumble that was the man called Hawke, and occasionally a burst of laughter, before finally she also drifted off to sleep.
* * * *
In the taproom Richard Hawke paid only the bare minimum of attention to the conversation of his companions. The bulk of his attention was directed to the women upstairs, or rather, to one of the women.
Thanks to the great quantity of brandy he and his friends had imbibed the evening before, he had not paid any special attention to the three during the day. In fact, were he to have been asked earlier to describe them, he would merely have said three women, assorted ages and sizes.
To be sure, Perry had ogled the black-haired one at lunch, and could probably have described her in great detail. His interest had achieved him nothing, but had merely revealed his youth quite clearly. Richard had long since passed the stage where he assessed a woman on the basis of how well nature had endowed her. Although he had later been intrigued with the same young woman, it was not her looks that had attracted him, but rather her attitude.
In a word, she reminded him of Molly. She had fussed over the other two women with the same loving concern Molly had once shown for him, and he suspected this girl could be as fiercely protective of the people she loved as Molly had been. Not only that, but Cassie, as he had heard the other two females call her, had pushed herself to the limits of her physical endurance to provide for them. When he had turned to see her standing in the doorway of the taproom, he had seen the same bone-weary exhaustion that had been a daily part of his life as a slave.
Following her to the kitchen, he had expected to be met with tears, pouts, fluttering eyelashes, and other obvious bids for sympathy—all designed to elicit from him the required offer of assistance. From the start, he had been prepared to send her up to join the other women, and to set John to fixing the food while he and Perry carried in the wood.
Instead, she had faced him squarely, almost managing to hide the fear she had of him, and had made her proposal. She had gotten less by bargaining than she would have obtained simply by ordering him to fetch the wood and fix the food, did she but know it.
He had not sent her up to her room as he had planned. Somehow he felt it would be belittling her simply to brush aside her efforts to manage, especially when she had shown such courage in asking, and so he had simply agreed to do as she requested.
Nor had she stinted on her part of the bargain, either, as many women would have done. Richard added that to her list of virtues and was impressed with the total. He would have to search far and wide to find someone who more closely fit his requirements for a wife. There
was something to think about in that.
The other thing to think about was a puzzling memory of the girl sleeping snuggled up next to him, but that memory was so vague, he was not sure if he was remembering what had actually happened or something he had merely dreamed.
* * *
Chapter 5
In the morning Cassie slipped out of bed without waking her companions and hurriedly pulled on her dress, forcing her feet back into her shoes which, although dry, were stiffened by the soaking they had received the day before.
The room was marvelously warm in spite of the fact that the fire had died out during the night, and a glance out the window confirmed the message the sun was trying to communicate—the snow had vanished, to be replaced by a day that was as unexpectedly balmy as the day before had been unseasonably cold. It was the kind of day when one could expect to see the first daffodils poking green shoots above the ground, and Cassie longed to be home in her own garden.
Upon descending to the ground floor, she found she was the first one to rise. The innkeeper was no longer sprawled in front of the door to the taproom, but was now snoring as loudly as ever on a wooden bench by the fire. In the kitchen the table was littered with dirty dishes, but to her amazement, not a single scrap remained of the food she had prepared the night before.
Cassie felt not the slightest responsibility to clean up after the others, but after a short debate with herself, she decided that even though breakfast had not been specifically mentioned in the bargain she had made, it would be petty to fix food for Ellen, Seffie, and herself without fixing anything for the men at the same time, especially when she found a supply of wood stacked conveniently on the floor beside the fireplace.
The Unofficial Suitor Page 6
