The Gentleman's Quest

by Deborah Simmons

  Hob waved them away even as he backed into the kitchens, unhurt, and Hero pulled at Kit, dragging him beneath the cart. Exiting on the other side, they dodged the growing throng and ran to where their horses waited, making good their escape.

  Chapter Eight

  Hero did not know her way around Piketon, so she followed Kit as he took a circuitous route through the narrow roads and lanes. Perhaps he was sighting from the sun because it soon became apparent that they were heading north, not east. She could only guess the change in direction was to escape their pursuers, who would be watching the road to London when they recovered.

  But for once, Hero did not care where Kit led her. She was simply glad that he was unhurt and astride his mount, his familiar form only feet away from her. Although she had learned long ago how to hide her fright, her hands were still shaking after what they had been through.

  Before her fear had always been for herself—for her safety, for her sanity, for her ability to evade a situation or to complete a task. But when Kit was threatened, Hero had felt a panic such as she had never known. And it lingered, making her cold and queasy. She kept her gaze on his wide shoulders, as if he might suddenly disappear from the saddle. From her life.

  When Kit finally headed off the road toward a sluggish stream, Hero was grateful for the respite. She dismounted quickly, driven by an urgent need to touch her companion, as if the feel of his solid form might assure her of his safety. But she did not know how to approach him, and simply stood by, uncertain, while he watered the horses.

  As she watched his graceful movements, Hero felt her throat thicken, as though clogged with some kind of violent emotion. But Kit’s casual demeanor was not conducive to dramatic declarations. Nor was she accustomed to making them.

  Hero took refuge in a less personal observation. “Y-you handle your fists very well for a gentleman farmer,” she said. And he did. She had caught only glimpses, but she was certain that not every member of the landed gentry would be able to acquit himself so admirably in a fight.

  “I know a bit of boxing. Just enough to protect myself from someone who doesn’t,” Kit said, in his usual modest fashion. Then he turned his head to flash her a grin. “You were right. I do feel better after thrashing one of them, though I wish I could have got some information from him first.”

  Hero might have been gratified by his statement, but she was too horrified by the sight of blood on his mouth. “You’re hurt.”

  He lifted a hand to finger his lip gingerly. “That’s to be expected, I suppose, but at least the fellow didn’t nick me with the blade he was brandishing.”

  Hero felt the earth sway beneath her feet. Not only had Kit been in danger, but he had been injured. He was so capable that she had thought him invincible, and the realization that he was not filled her with alarm.

  “Don’t tell me the imperturbable Miss Ingram swoons at the sight of blood?” he teased.

  Hero shook her head as she searched for a handkerchief. It wasn’t the blood that made her uneasy, but the fact that it was Kit’s blood. The knowledge that he could have been knifed or killed terrified her, making her throat tight. She had blithely traveled with this man, using him just as she would any convenience to meet her ends. And she had justified her actions with the assumption that he was using her, as well.

  But suddenly that wasn’t important anymore. What was important was Kit’s well-being, Hero realized, as she dipped the handkerchief in the cold water and moved toward him. Stepping close, she lifted the cloth to dab at the drop of red, but she was so near that memories of his kisses rushed over her, threatening her tenuous composure.

  Hero’s trembling fingers slipped, her thumb brushed against his lower lip, and she thought she heard Kit groan. Had she hurt him? Abruptly, he had her wrist in a tight grip, and her gaze flew to his dark one. For a long moment she stood there, her pulse pounding under his touch, before he released her hand.

  “Thank you for your quick actions,” he said. “I’m glad you didn’t leave.”

  Did he think her so heartless that she would abandon him to his attackers? Hero felt stricken.

  “The men didn’t know you were there, dressed as you were. So you would have been wise to go since it was you they were after,” Kit said. “But as much as I wanted you to get away safely, I wondered how I’d ever find you again.”

  In the silence that followed his admission, Hero could hear her heart thundering. The husky tone of Kit’s voice hinted at something that so closely echoed her own feelings that she was afraid to look into his eyes for fear he might see her thoughts. Yet she stood rooted to the spot, unable to move away, fighting the urge to touch him that had somehow turned into an urge to throw herself into his arms. And stay there.

  Even in her current state, Hero knew that no good would come of that desire. Pursuing any sort of relationship was impossible because of what she was, where she had come from, and what her future might hold. That bitter reminder finally spurred her to turn away. All that she had left unsaid would have to remain so, for Kit’s sake and for her own.

  It was time to resume their journey, to return to her quest and the life that had no place in it for anyone like Kit Marchant. Mounting, Hero watched him do the same, the emotional interlude seemingly forgotten. But her hands shook as she took the reins, proof that she could not so easily put it from her mind.

  Kit frowned when the rain began. They’d had unaccountably good weather for days, so it was to be expected. But that didn’t make the cold pelting any more comfortable. Hero turned up the collar of her greatcoat and donned a wide-brimmed hat to replace her cap, yet Kit couldn’t help worrying about her, and when they came upon a private home that had been converted into a country inn, he was more than ready to retire for the day in front of a blazing hearth.

  Unfortunately, all inns were not created equal. Some had terrible food, abusive proprietors, poor servants or those who did little or stole or demanded coin for any service. Others had rooms that were dirty and bug-ridden or cold and damp, without even the meanest of comforts.

  Kit should have recognized their fate when the private parlour where they ate boasted only a meagre fire, and their sumptuous meal consisted of hard potatoes, undone mutton and even less palatable fare. As they sipped their watery wine, Kit tried not to imagine what would have been awaiting him at Oakfield—good, simple food and a hot bath. Thoughts of the latter made him sigh into his plate.

  “What is it?” Hero asked, looking up.

  Kit shook his head. She must be chilled to the bone, but had not complained at all, so how could he voice his grievances?

  “Are you feeling all right? How is your lip?”

  Was that concern that shadowed her face? Kit grinned at the thought and touched his mouth gingerly. “I’m all right.”

  And he was. Despite the discomforts, Kit realized that the dismals and moodiness that had plagued him after the fire were gone, banished perhaps by time or the pummeling he had given his assailant or Hero herself. But now that he felt a bit like his old self, Kit was ready for a little less excitement. And the home he had viewed so dimly just a week ago now seemed a veritable haven, where he could make a life for himself—if he had someone like Hero to join him there.

  The thought brought Kit’s attention back to his companion, and he frowned at the damp spots on her sleeves. “If you’re finished, we should get you out of those wet clothes,” he said. The words came out differently than he intended, and Kit pushed away from the table rather than face Hero’s reaction. He walked to the small window, where daylight was fading into darkness, but the thrumming of the rain continued.

  “I don’t want you catching a chill,” he explained, something seizing within him at the notion.

  “I’m very hardy,” Hero said in a wry tone.

  Kit turned round to look at her. Certainly, she was taller than most women and seemingly capable of just about any task, but that didn’t mean she could not be felled by the illnesses that struck everyone.
“Perhaps we should think about taking a coach.”

  “Passengers on the stage have been known to die from exposure,” Hero stated baldly.

  “Those on the outside, yes, but I was thinking of hiring a coach, so we could be out of the weather.”

  “What of the horses?” she said. “And I don’t like the idea of being dependent upon anyone else.”

  Kit frowned. Nothing except their own mounts would give them the ability to escape quickly when necessary, as well as to go about their business without anyone taking note of them or their whereabouts, an important consideration after what had happened at Piketon.

  “All right, but if the weather gets too bad, we’ll stop for a while,” Kit said.

  “The sooner we get to London, the sooner we can find the Mallory and foil our pursuers,” Hero argued.

  Kit felt a twinge of annoyance at her eagerness to end the journey, but he pushed it aside. Right now he had more pressing concerns, and there was something that neither one of them had mentioned.

  “The men in Piketon weren’t wearing livery,” Kit said. Although he’d never believed there was a connection between their pursuers and the Duke of Montford’s staff, still he had to admit that such men would be recognizable.

  “Maybe they took off their livery, the better to avoid notice.”

  Kit snorted, unconvinced.

  “Or maybe the men in livery are waiting outside.”

  Kit would have laughed if she hadn’t been so serious. Indeed, her calm expression was so alarming that he posed the question even though he knew he would receive no answer.

  “Just how many people do you think are chasing us?”

  Hero breathed in the moldy odor of the small room and sighed. Although they had asked for two beds, there was only one, and the paltry fire in the small grate produced little warmth. Circumstances had forced her into worse places, but not often. Yet what else could they do unless they were willing to travel by night in the rain?

  While Kit went out to call for a chambermaid, Hero took his advice and quickly changed her breeches and socks. She had no other coat, so hung it up as best she could, though the room’s dampness boded ill for anything drying during the night, especially two greatcoats and a variety of lesser garments.

  She had just finished dressing when Kit returned with a belligerent girl who obviously did not intend to be of much help. She carried a poker with which she stirred the fire, but she did not add any wood until Kit promised her good coin. And even then, the room did not heat.

  It was a gloomy night, and Hero might have been excused for being sunk in the dismals. But instead, she felt as though something hard inside of her had crumbled, freeing her from its grip. And even the grim accommodations could not dispel the odd sense of lightness in her chest.

  They were alive and well and together for now, and perhaps that was enough, Hero thought. Glancing surreptitiously at her companion, she studied his mouth, where his beautiful lower lip was cracked. Fighting back the urge to touch it, she contented herself with helping him off with his coat.

  “Did you change your clothes?” he asked, and his protective manner warmed Hero far more than the wretched blaze. No one had ever cared for her welfare, and no matter what the reason behind his concern, she delighted in it.

  At her nod, he began rummaging through his own pack. “Better get into bed then. It’s got to be warmer in than out, and I don’t want you catching a chill.”

  Hero didn’t pause to wonder just why he cared, but enjoyed the proof that he did and crawled under the covers, trying not to think about the general cleanliness of the place. What she wouldn’t give for a bath. Instead of curling up to sleep as she usually did, she turned over, peeking out at Kit, who was sitting on the lone spindle chair and pulling off his boots.

  Hero knew she should look away, but after what had happened in Piketon, she found it difficult to let the man out of her sight. And her view of him in his shirtsleeves, his wide shoulders straining, was arresting. As she watched, he set his boots aside and then stripped off his socks, and there was something about the sight of his bare feet that made her heart trip.

  When he covered them with a dry pair of socks, Hero wondered if he would change his breeches, as well. And although she flushed at the thought, she didn’t look away when he stood and turned his back to her. He peeled away the buckskin to reveal a brief white garment that clung to his behind and thighs hard with muscle before donning another pair.

  They had been sleeping in their clothes, but Hero wondered what he wore when alone. A nightshirt? Nothing at all? Hero stifled a bubble of hysterical laughter at questions that only a week ago would have been unthinkable.

  Kit must have heard something because he paused in his circuit of the room, perhaps looking for the driest bit of floor. “What?” he asked.

  Without pausing to consider the reckless thought that came to mind, Hero moved over and threw back the blankets. “Here,” she said. “As you pointed out, it’s the only warm place.”

  For once, the easygoing Kit appeared startled. “No, I’ll be fine in front of the fire.”

  Hero shook her head. “It’s the only sensible solution.”

  Kit looked right at her, that dark and dangerous glint in his eyes. “I don’t think sharing a bed is a good idea.”

  Hero shivered at his low tone, husky with promise, and she knew she was on treacherous ground. She had no business encouraging any closeness between them, but neither did she want him to lie freezing upon the filthy floor.

  “Huddling together might be the only way we both fend off illness,” Hero said. “And I don’t see a problem because, as you so often point out, you are a gentleman.”

  Kit’s mouth twisted at the reminder, and he put a hand to his split lip, with a grimace. “Even a gentleman has his limits.”

  Hero shivered again at the stark admission. Although they were both fully clothed, something in Kit’s gaze hinted at a different arrangement, should he join her. And her heart thundered in response. For one wild moment, Hero wanted nothing more than to give this man her all, to deny him nothing.

  And then? All actions had consequences, and it was the knowledge of what they might be that kept Hero from succumbing to the temptation Kit Marchant presented. Swallowing a groan, she pulled the covers over her head and turned to face the wall, her lightened spirits abruptly dimmed.

  But then Hero felt the bed dip and a sudden warmth by her feet. Peeking out once more, she saw that Kit had taken up a position at the other end. He was sitting up against the bedstead, his long legs stretched toward her, and the last blanket tossed over them both.

  “You can’t be comfortable,” Hero protested.

  “I’m all right,” he said. Hero would have argued further, but the comfort of his closeness and heat made her shut her eyes.

  “Tell me more about this uncle of yours,” he said, his voice low in the darkness. “Why does he have you fetch books for him? Is that how he adds to his collection?”

  “He never leaves Raven Hill,” Hero said. Like a spider at the middle of his web, he sends his minions out to do his bidding. “He looks at the auction catalogues and knows booksellers, but he usually won’t pay what they are asking. He prefers contacts who look through the various booths and backstreet sales and report what is available.”

  “Why doesn’t he just have them buy it?”

  “He doesn’t trust anyone.”

  “But he trusts you?

  Hero would have shrugged, had she not been tucked against Kit’s solid form. “To a point,” she muttered. She often arranged buys, especially whenever Raven thought her wiles and attractiveness might sway a client. And he always said she was smarter than anyone else, though it was hardly a compliment. Cleverness and cunning will out every time, my girl, he often said.

  But he had many other resources. “He sometimes sends my, uh, cousin, Erasmus Douthwaite Raven,” Hero said. But Raven claimed Erasmus was too stupid and too greedy to be depended upon not to t
ake his own portion out of the dealings. Which didn’t sit well with Erasmus.

  “He was for the law, but he would rather be a gentleman of leisure, like Raven. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the necessary funds.”

  “And where did Raven come by his fortune? What are his connections?”

  “I don’t know,” Hero said. “He probably inherited most of it, for he bought Raven Hill many years ago. Perhaps he sold other property in order to do so. He does have a man of business, so he might well have other investments.”

  “But he spends it all on books.”

  “He has done a lot of work on Raven Hill over the years,” Hero said. So-called improvements that suited Raven’s fancy. “That continues, but his main interest now is books and other acquisitions. He’s a member of the antiquarians.”

  However, he hadn’t joined in order to write papers or see lectures, but to show off that which he owned and try to obtain that which he sought. Collecting was Raven’s mania. Sometimes Hero thought he considered her part of his collection, a pretty decoration no more valuable than the least of his possessions.

  At the reminder, Hero frowned and feigned a yawn in order to put an end to the discussion. But she could not return to her earlier ease, and sleep was long in coming. The conversation had cast a pall over her mood, as though Raven, like his namesake, was spreading black wings over her, even here, and reaching out to steal her from her cozy nest.

  The next morning, Hero woke to the sound of rain pelting against window panes. Snuggling deeper into her bed, she became aware that she was not at Raven Hill, for she had slept long and well. And she was more comfortable than she ever had been in her life.

  The reason for that condition soon became apparent, for when Hero opened her eyes, she saw that she was clinging to a large lump of blankets. Since it was solid and gave off an enormous amount of heat, she realized that Kit must be in there somewhere.

  Heart thudding, she glanced around to view the room crookedly. Sometime during the night she must have migrated to the other end of the bed in search of Kit’s warmth. Although he was still on top of most of the bedding, it was a tangle, and Hero struggled to extricate herself. For in the bright light of day, the dangers of sharing a bed were far more glaring than in the seductive darkness.