The Reluctant Guardian

by Susanne Dietze

  Nothing had worked for so long. What it would feel like to get the upper hand for a change? To at last put a stop to the smuggler known as The Sovereign—a murderer who thought so highly of himself that he called himself after the king.

  While Wyling used the spyglass, Tavin’s thoughts returned to Miss Lyfeld, her light brown hair framing her sad blue eyes when she spoke of being forgiven. Did she question God’s forgiveness like he did? She had no reason to. Of course she was absolved. Her sins were no doubt the sort God could easily pardon. She was no thief, no liar. No murderer.

  Something he could never claim.

  “I upset Miss Lyfeld. Again.” He fumbled with the cuff of his black coat.

  “Did Gemma wish to know your whereabouts yesterday? I gather you didn’t tell her.”

  “No, I walked in on her and Beauchamp.”

  “Did he do it, then?” Wyling lowered the spyglass, his expression eager. “Are they betrothed?”

  “He looked like he was being strangled by his cravat, so it’s possible he was about to ask. But they hadn’t finished their conversation when Beauchamp left.”

  “You didn’t leave them to it?” Wyling’s brows lowered.

  “I made an attempt.” The words sounded feeble.

  “You should have tried harder. She’s waited years for Hugh to gather his courage.”

  “Don’t give me that look. I thought he was just making moon eyes.”

  “Cristobel would not have allotted privacy for mere moon eyes.”

  “I don’t have sisters. How should I know?”

  “Because you’re a gentleman. Alone means betrothal.”

  Tavin shook his head. Had he known that? Perhaps. But he was no gentleman anymore. These past years, he had stuffed his upbringing away with the natural efficiency he demonstrated when tucking a trouser cuff inside a boot.

  Nonetheless, the trouser cuff was still there, even though it was not visible. Why had he forgotten everything he’d been taught?

  “I am incapable of interacting with decent people anymore.”

  “That’s not true.” His friend clapped his shoulder. “But you have been among a different sort for too long. I hope it will not be much longer before you can stop this sort of thing.”

  Tavin took the spyglass, aiming it toward the New Forest, as thick with thieves as trees. Weary as he was with his life, he had a debt to repay. Perhaps if he succeeded today, he’d be able to cease being an undercover agent for the Board of Customs. He could serve King and country in another—less dangerous—capacity.

  He scanned the view. No activity on the hilltop. “I’ll apologize to her again later, but right now—”

  He thrust the spyglass at Wyling. “This makes no sense.”

  “What?”

  Tavin pointed to a red-cloaked figure emerging from the trees, ascending the hill at a smart pace.

  “It’s Gemma. Out for a walk.”

  “Wearing a red cloak.” His plan unraveled like a skein of yarn at the paws of a cat. “I’ve got to stop her before—”

  “What?” Wyling gripped his arm, wasting precious seconds.

  “She’s signaling the smugglers, whether she knows it or not. There’s a woman in these parts. She mounts that hill to signal her brethren to turn back if a government man is nearby. By night she burns a lamp. By day, she dons a red cloak. Like the one Gemma is wearing.”

  “And the smugglers will see her.” Wyling’s ruddy complexion paled.

  “Aye. And if they turn ’round, they’ll smack into the revenue agent. If they stay the course, they’ll encounter Miss Lyfeld and may not treat her kindly.”

  Tavin spun from Wyling’s grasp, bounding downstairs and out the front door. The spongy earth sucked at his boots as he ran across the park toward the hill.

  You have no reason to answer me, God, but she’s an innocent. And this job is too essential to fail.

  His breath came in stabbing gasps. His side ached as if he’d been dealt a blow to the ribs. But nothing would slow him. He’d worked months for this day—planned and prayed and waited.

  This was justice for his sins, he supposed. He’d ruined Miss Lyfeld’s marriage proposal. And now she was about to ruin his chance to end this case once and for all.

  Chapter Two

  “My life is not ruined.” Gemma’s breath grew labored as she ascended the gentle slope. “Cristobel is wrong. Hugh is too honorable to go against our families’ wishes.”

  Saying the words aloud helped her believe them. If only Mr. Knox had not scared Hugh away... No. It was not worth playing the if-only game. Once started, she would never quit. Her list of losses was lengthy enough to fill pages of foolscap. And writing such a pitiful list accomplished nothing.

  Unlike a list of blessings. She had much to be grateful for, regardless of her circumstances. All around her, the glossy green leaves of bluebells carpeted the landscape. Gusts of wind stirred yellow-flowered gorse and rustled through the budding oaks, carrying the clean fragrance of rain.

  Thank Thee, Lord.

  How pleasant it would be to reach the summit of the little hill and enjoy the view. Gemma marched on. Then stopped.

  She was no longer alone.

  A plain-dressed man hiked toward her, his gaze on the trees. Skirting the hill behind him, a loaded cart trudged across the chalky Smuggler’s Road. A small party of musket-bearing men trailed in its wake, followed by a lone rider on an ink-dark horse.

  Free traders.

  Not that ladies spoke of such things in polite company. Nevertheless, the wealthy and poor alike avoided paying taxes and Customs duties on their tea or laces by purchasing smuggled goods, illegal though it might be. Who knew how much revenue the government had lost to smugglers? Peter and Wyling obeyed the law and shunned smuggled goods, of course. But as a child, Gemma hadn’t understood the illegal nature of the smugglers’ work. Years ago she and Hugh had followed Smuggler’s Road, pretending they hauled exotic wares from Christchurch Harbor, with plans to sell their imaginary spoils from the sanctuary of a ditch under the trees.

  It was one thing to play a criminal as a child. It was quite another to engage the illicit fellows. Gemma hastened back down her side of the hill. Perhaps she had gone unnoticed.

  “Ho!” The yell dispelled the notion she had not been seen. She quickened her steps, rolling her ankle in the process and slowing her gait to a painful, awkward trot.

  A hand gripped her shoulder and turned her about. He was young, this smuggler, with pocked cheeks, a slack jaw and protruding teeth. “’Oo are you?”

  “No one who wants trouble.”

  “’Oo is it, Bill?” A shout called from above.

  “Nobody, I think.”

  Then let go of my arm.

  A shot boomed from the trees, echoing off the hill. The sound reverberated while the smugglers burst into activity. The inky horse galloped up the hill. Its rider wore a look of thunder to match the rumble of his horse’s hooves.

  “She’s not nobody, you fool.” He dismounted and yanked her from Bill. His free hand smacked her cheek, sending shock and pain through her jaw.

  “She’s a trap.”

  Gemma’s vision sparked red. “I don’t know what you mean. Unhand me.”

  Another shot cracked through the drizzle. “Hide before you’re shot,” the horseman ordered his fellows. Then he ripped her bonnet from her head. “You’re too young for the Lady in Red. Too refined of speech to be a government girl. Whom do you serve?”

  She wrestled against him. “I said unhand me.”

  “I’ll not be generous because you are female, Jezebel. Whom do you serve?”

  “No one—”

  “Lies.” He yanked her arm as if she were a cloth doll, pulling her toward his horse.

 
The world seemed to darken at the edges, but she fought against the sensation. She must stay alert. Memorize his features so she could describe him to the magistrate when she escaped.

  Taller than Peter but shorter than Hugh. Brown hair, gray at the temples. Blue eyes. About forty years of age. And a fetter-strong grip she had to break.

  She twisted into him. Her free hand grasped the fingers shackling her and jerked them back. Then she kicked.

  Her boot found his knee. He let go and she ran.

  Her rolled ankle protested each step, but she dared not slow. The sting of the smuggler’s slap still prickled her cheek, and she didn’t care to suffer more from his hands.

  Dashing through a gap in the trees, she hurtled into the dark of the woods toward home. Perhaps if she screamed for help—

  Fresh pain pressed her arm and tethered her to the spot. A grip far tighter than the smuggler’s captured her and spun her around. She prepared to kick.

  Father, make my aim true.

  * * *

  Pain split Tavin’s shin, but his Hessian boots did a fair job protecting him. He swept Miss Lyfeld’s leg back with his and covered her mouth with his hand. “I’m here to help,” he whispered. “But you must be quiet, or they will find us.”

  Her clear blue eyes narrowed when she recognized him. At her nod, his hand fell. He beckoned her deeper into the woods. “Let’s go.”

  “What are you doing here?” Her tone was an accusation, as if this was his fault. Well, it was. In part. Still, she had no way of knowing that. Could she speak to him—even in a whisper—without sounding like a wasp about to sting?

  “Later.” He’d not noticed the welt blossoming across her cheek until now. Tavin’s fingers itched to return the favor to the man responsible. “Are you hurt?”

  “More furious than anything.”

  “I want to hear the details, but we must hurry.”

  “Aren’t we safe now that we’re in the trees?”

  A shot cracked into the trunk of a nearby oak. Not as safe as she’d hoped.

  He pulled her by the hand and ran. Dodged trees. She slid, and when he pulled her back to stand, she winced. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No. My ankle twisted on the hilltop.”

  “I’ll carry you.” One arm swept around her shoulders. The other scooped behind her knees, but she stepped out of his hold.

  “I won’t slow us down.”

  His estimation of her raised a notch. “Come on, then.”

  Crack. Would they never stop shooting? Another crack, as a bullet struck a tree. Then a third, hitting ground. Moldy leaves skittered up the hem of her cloak. Of course. He tugged her behind a thick oak and pulled on the cloak’s fastener at her throat.

  Her fingers fought his. “What you are doing?”

  “The red draws his eye.” He yanked the garment off and wadded it, inside out, into a ball. He stuffed it under his arm and gripped her hand again. To his surprise, she curled her fingers around his, pulling him to the right.

  “My home is that way.”

  “Not yet.” He jogged with her in tow for a short distance. Releasing her hand, he slid into a ditch, then lifted his arms. Before he could instruct her, she leaned into him. Her breath was hot against his cheek when he lowered her beside him. “Not much farther.”

  He’d spent the past few days scouting these woods, never imagining he’d be running from gunfire with Gemma. He pushed aside a clump of foliage and gestured for her to precede him through.

  Smelling of decay and earth, the small clearing offered slight protection. “A moment’s rest.” He gestured to a fallen oak where she could sit while he thought.

  “The Gypsy camp.” She touched her ankle and winced. “Why did we not go straight home?”

  “We cannot risk being followed.” He walked the clearing’s perimeter, straining to see movement through the trees. “You don’t want them to know where you live and thereby learn your identity.”

  “But I meant them no harm.”

  “They may have believed that, until someone started firing a weapon.”

  “That was not you?”

  “Do you see a musket?” He didn’t even have a pistol.

  “Then who shot at them?”

  “It came from here in the trees. I’d fathom a guess I’m not the only person in Hampshire displeased with that particular group of smugglers.”

  “There are more?”

  It was hard not to laugh. “Many. And it’s a competitive field.”

  She pushed a damp curl from her cheek. Without her bonnet or cloak, she appeared vulnerable and young, but not as young as he’d first thought. Her cheeks had lost some of the fullness of girlhood. She may be about to embark on her come-out, but she was no chit fresh from the schoolroom. “This makes no sense.”

  It did to Tavin, but he’d not explain now.

  A rustle. Tavin spun, his hand reaching behind his back for his knife—

  Through a parting in the leaves, a dun-colored body sauntered several yards’ distant. Tavin’s shoulders relaxed.

  “A pony.” He could hear the smile in her tone. “They run wild in the forest.”

  “And it wants naught to do with us.” Tavin watched the creature. Its ears twitched, but it didn’t exhibit signs of alarm as it disappeared around a group of trees. That boded well for him, and Miss Lyfeld, too. He gestured for her to rise. “I’ve not heard a shot in a while. We’ll take a roundabout way and return to the house.”

  “Where you will explain all of this to me?”

  Her tone brooked no argument. Nor did the set of her jaw.

  Better to change the subject than agree. “You said the man meant to take you with him. How did you break away?”

  “I would not be a good aunt to two boys if I paid no mind to their tricks.”

  Despite himself, he laughed. His smile fell when he reached the far side of the clearing. The pond he’d planned to skirt had swollen from last night’s torrent, blocking their path. “We could have walked around it yesterday.”

  “You don’t mean we’re going through it.”

  “I see no better option. We aren’t visible, with the trees circling us. And I’m certain the pond isn’t deep. Must I carry you?” He meant his words to be gallant, but they sounded frustrated. Of course. Everything he said came out wrong with Miss Lyfeld.

  She squared her shoulders, shot him a glare and marched into the pond ahead of him.

  * * *

  Gemma might as well have trudged barefoot through snow. Spring-chilled water soaked her to the knees and flooded her kid boots, which found little purchase on the slimy stones underfoot. Not that she would complain. This was not the first time she’d crossed a pond.

  “Take care with your steps,” he warned, “but make haste.”

  “Make haste,” she mimicked, muttering under her breath, “but don’t slip—”

  Faster than a blink, her twisted ankle rolled. Her foot slid out from under her.

  Mr. Knox grasped her arm, pulling her upright. She expected to be chastised, but his eyes were soft and warm, like her morning chocolate.

  Then he slipped, pulling her into the frigid water.

  Gemma’s hands and rear smacked the stony bottom. Her backside stung, but she waved off Mr. Knox’s outstretched hand and stood on her own power. Shivering as the wind’s chill fingers stroked her soaked garments, she hastened toward the edge of the pool, thoughts of a hot cup of tea and thick blanket urging her forward. At least her front side was dry.

  He extended his hand. “May I—”

  “No.” She would do this.

  Her wet gown tangled around her legs and she slipped again, this time landing on her elbows and belly. Frigid water drenched her bodice and lapped her chin as tendrils of slimy wa
ter plants tickled her neck.

  Mr. Knox hauled her into his arms, as a lamb to its shepherd. With a sharp catch, her breath stuck in her throat, and her face warmed despite her soggy state. She’d never been this close to a gentleman before. She’d always imagined Hugh’s future embrace, slow to unfold, tentative, with a proper distance between them.

  Mr. Knox’s arms felt nothing like her imaginings. He held her so close she could hear his heart thudding against her cheek, and his arms were solid and blessedly warm around her. Her insides flipped and rearranged themselves, and all she wanted was to turn her head toward his warmth and wish he could carry her all the way home—

  What nonsense was this? She didn’t even like Tavin Knox. Did she?

  He didn’t like her, either. But then he set her down on the bank, leaving her skin cold and her heart thumping, and his hand rose as if he’d touch her face.

  “Hold still.” His fingers brushed damp tendrils of hair from her chin. More intimacies she’d never permitted a gentleman. Her pulse pattered in her ears as he leaned closer.

  “You’ve a leech on your neck.”

  All tender sentiment vanished. Her fingers flew to her collar. “Get it off.”

  “Patience.” He glanced about, reminding Gemma of a dog sniffing the air for a fox. “Come into the trees.”

  He led her into the cover of the oaks. She lifted her chin and he set to work with a touch far gentler than she expected. His fingers pressed her skin, first under her ear, then lower, where her pulse throbbed in a frenetic beat. Gemma forced her breath into evenness, concentrating on the calming sounds of the forest—the rustle of wind in the trees, the chit-chit of a nuthatch.

  Still, she couldn’t ignore the fact that she hosted a leech. While wearing a sodden gown, allowing a man she didn’t like—or maybe did—to touch her neck.

  Or that she’d been slapped by a stranger. Who then had shot at her.

  “There.” Mr. Knox flicked a brown blur from his fingers. “Just think, you’d normally pay a physician for the privilege of losing your blood.”

  For a moment his eyes met hers, then another shot cleaved the quiet.