The Reluctant Guardian

by Susanne Dietze

  Tavin envied the maid when she dashed inside, at last. A warm kitchen or a dry attic had its comforts, to be sure.

  But he’d chosen his lot tonight, and he’d stay until dawn. He was not tired. The rain would pass. Already, shafts of moonlight poked through the leaden sky like silver threads through a dark coat.

  Tavin shoved his hands into his pockets and found the green ribbon. Ah yes. He fingered the length. The key to this riddle—

  A lime bough rustled, bowed, as if a cat pounced on its branches. The hair at Tavin’s nape rose.

  The knife from his back was in his hand before the two silhouettes dropped from the boughs of the neighbor’s draping sycamore, far closer to the servant’s door than Tavin. Muttering a prayer, Tavin burst from the shelter of the acacia. He’d have his arms around their necks while they struggled with the locked door—

  Which gave way with a single yank. They slipped inside. The maid had left it unlocked?

  His heart thudding in his ears, he pulled on the door. Stuck. Stuck. He shouldered into the door. His bones rattled, but the door held. He rammed his shoulder into it again. Again. How had the house not been roused by the noise?

  Gemma’s face on his mind, he breathed a prayer and kicked.

  * * *

  The coverlet rustled over Gemma’s head as she rolled over, the sound like a seashell pressed against her ear. Swish, swosh. How long since she’d seen the sea? When her parents had lived, she’d often visited Christchurch, touching the gray waves with her fingertips while cutters sailed past. Where did they go? Exotic ports, distant lands, where palaces and castles crested the hills.

  Creak. No seashell sound. No clicking of the settling house. She sat up in bed. Creak.

  Icy stings pricked her mouth, her arms, her spine. Tavin. She slipped from the sheets, her feet recoiling against the cold floor. Waving the drape aside, she peered into the darkness, searching for a shift of his leg, the fiddling of his hand, a glimpse of his white collar under the acacia. Nothing. Where had he gone?

  A footfall outside the door. She dropped the drape. Tavin? Or someone else?

  What if they found the boys? What if—

  No. I do not play that game anymore. I do not ask “what if?” I ask God. Though her stomach swirled with nausea, she forced herself to pray. Help me.

  The knob jiggled. Metal scraped. Covering her mouth, Gemma staggered from the window to the dressing table. Her fingers curled over the silver-plated candlestick. The door opened. Dark figures poured into the room like spilled ink. “Greetings from the Sovereign,” one whispered as they slunk to the empty bed.

  She sucked in a breath to scream.

  A growl erupted from the door. Tavin. As if he could see in the dark, he moved straight to her. His large hands gripped her arms, pushing her against the wall so fast her head spun. Sheltering her with his broad back, he kept one of his arms extended around her like a wing. “No,” she breathed.

  Then he disappeared to plow headfirst into one of the intruders—there were two, she could see that now. One engaging Tavin, one leaping over the bed. The second invader grabbed her. His fingers were cold around her wrist as he tugged her toward the door.

  She struck his face, his neck, anywhere she could reach with the candlestick. Tavin gripped the man’s collar, yanked him away from her while his boot met the other intruder’s gut.

  “Who is he?” Tavin’s shout sent shivers up her arms. “Who pays you?”

  Shuffling. Her nightstand crashed. An oomph escaped Tavin’s lips. Then more gasps, but not his. Scream, you ninny! Gemma uttered a weak cry.

  “You do not have to die.” Tavin’s voice was calm but menacing. “Tell me who he is.”

  Gemma gasped, then at last cried out. She stomped her bare feet, smacked her hand against the wall. Someone would have to hear her.

  Tavin thrust her behind him again. One man lay on the ground, unmoving, and the other lunged for the door. Tavin’s foot hooked the man’s ankle and brought him to the ground. He planted his boot on the intruder’s back as he bent to grip the hair at the back of his head.

  “Who?” His demand was almost buried under the thunder of padding feet.

  The intruder laughed, wheezy and wet. “Ye think ye’ll ever know?”

  The bobbing light of candles bounced against the walls and her chamber filled with forms and shadows, their horror-etched faces grotesque in the lights held under their chins. Wyling and footmen and even the aged butler, Stott, his hair in tufts, stormed into the room. Wyling called for rope and the magistrate.

  “Let him go, Knox,” he ordered.

  After a heartbeat, Tavin’s arms went around Gemma, warm and solid, smelling of rain and wool and acacia. Her ankles wobbled beneath her, but he steadied her, laid his head over her cap, murmuring nonsense words like she did when the boys scraped their knees.

  “Are you hurt?” she managed.

  “No.” But blood spattered his shirtfront. “You?”

  She shook her head, rubbing her forehead against the knot of his neck cloth. Then she peeked up. Oh, my, how many people gathered in her chamber? Housekeeper, footmen with rope and Wyling, ordering the footmen to bind both intruders. Then Wyling touched her shoulder. “Come, Gem.”

  Pain sluiced down her arm, and she winced.

  “You are hurt.” Tavin’s fingers reached for the collar of her night rail, but Wyling brushed them aside.

  “Amy will tend her, Knox.”

  At once, Gemma understood why everyone stared at her. It had less to do with the intruders than her, donned in a night rail, wrapped in a gentleman’s arms.

  She stepped back and recovered her wrapper from the foot of the bed. “There will be a bruise on the morrow, but I am well.”

  “Gemma.” Amy, her light brown curls framed by a nightcap, peered into the crowded chamber. “Come away now, dear.”

  Wyling turned to the doorway. “All is well upstairs?”

  Gemma gasped. “The boys!”

  “Safe and sound,” Amy assured her. “They slept through the whole nightmare.”

  Gemma’s breath left her chest in a painful whoosh. “I would like to see them, nevertheless.”

  Wyling stood aside. “An excellent idea. This is not the place for you, Gem.”

  No, her own chamber was not the place for her, with every man in the household crammed into the space. It seemed Tavin took up the most room, with his broad shoulders and wide stance. A muscle worked in his jaw. “Before the magistrate arrives, I’ve some questions of my own to ask these two. Starting with who they are.”

  “We don’t recognize yer authority.” The wheezy man spit blood onto the polished floor.

  Tavin’s hands gripped the intruder’s coat. Wyling held up a hand, but Tavin shook the bound intruder. “You tread on thin ice. Now speak.”

  Gemma’s bare feet froze into the floor. She had never witnessed Tavin like this, veins bulging in his forehead and neck, his hands like talons, his mouth curled in rage.

  “Who am I?” The man’s cracked lips spread into a grin. “A citizen of Britain, yer equal, and there’s naught ye can do to stop us.”

  Tavin glanced up, blanched when he saw her still there. He nodded to Wyling. “Get her out of here.”

  The footmen blocking the doorway stood aside, and at the same time a moan echoed from the far side of her bed. The footmen lifted the semiconscious attacker, who had crashed into her nightstand and whom they had bound at wrist and ankle.

  “Maybe this one’ll speak,” the younger footman said.

  “No need.” Gemma crept forward until she stared the bleary man full in the face. “I know you.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Tavin’s arm extended around Gemma like a shield. The blackguard might be bound and muddleheaded, but he could come
to his senses at any moment. Tavin’s limbs twitched. The brigand on the floor would not receive another chance to touch her. Not even with his teeth.

  “You know him?” He worked to keep his voice gentle. For her.

  “Saul. One of Hugh’s grooms back home.” She squinted at the bruise-mottled face. “Or he was his groom. I have not seen him in some time.”

  In response, Saul opened one eye. His companion, the taller, wheezy man, struggled against his bonds. “Not a word, fool!”

  “I know it is you, Saul.” Gemma’s voice was honeyed, as if she bade to her nephews to awaken. “You accompanied us when Hugh and I tooled the carriage to the lake.”

  Sympathy? For one of the men who had accosted her in her chamber? Tavin pointed at the door. “Enough, Gemma. Go lie down.”

  “Ha.” She spun and reached for Amy’s hand. “Let us go to the nursery.”

  When the patter of their footsteps faded down the hall, Tavin eyed Wyling. “Leave me alone with them.”

  “Are you mad?” Wyling shook his head.

  “Five minutes. ’Tis all I require.”

  “Five hours won’t help ye.” The taller intruder laughed, a snarling sound. A trickle of blood slipped down his chin and landed on his lapel, pooling on a slim green ribbon pinned there. A ribbon like the one in his pocket, found atop Verity Hill.

  “What is this?” He tugged the trimming from the blackguard’s coat with a satisfying rip.

  The man rolled his eyes.

  “Answer me.” Tavin leaned close enough to smell the man’s rotting teeth. “What does this ribbon mean?”

  Wyling took his shoulder again. “Do not do something you will regret—”

  “Who hired you?” Tavin moved to stand over Hugh’s groom—former groom. “Does Beauchamp know where you are?”

  “Wait for the magistrate, Knox.” Wyling’s arms folded. “Remember where you are.”

  “I remember all too well where I am. A chamber of innocence. I will know who they are if I have to pummel it out of them.”

  “You will not.” Wyling had never spoken like that to Tavin before. “You will let the magistrate do his job. You will not repay violence for violence.”

  Tavin gaped as if trying to breathe under water. His fingers flexed, curled, released. The anger did not diminish, but he nodded. Deep breaths of Gemma’s lavender-scented things cleared his head, and he stared at his hands. Dear God, I thought I was a new creation not ten minutes ago. Help me tame this anger within me.

  He glanced at Wyling. “You are a wise friend.”

  “Not so wise. But we will do this the correct way. I’ll not have the ruffians who invaded my home set free, I assure you.” He inclined his head at the footmen holding the down pair. “Take them to the library. If they so much as twitch their noses, stop them. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, Your Lordship.” The footmen hauled the attackers out the door, half dragging Saul.

  Wyling studied Tavin, his eyebrows high on his forehead. “I daresay you cracked the little one’s brain-box.”

  “And your furniture.”

  “Better that than Gemma. I cannot imagine what they intended with her.”

  Tavin shook out his frosty hands, still chilled from being outside. He held the green ribbon he’d taken from the intruder against the empty hearth. What did it mean?

  From the threshold, the white-haired butler bowed. “The magistrate is here, m’lord.”

  “Put him in the drawing room. I will be down in a moment.”

  “A moment? We go now.” Tavin started for the door, catching the eye of two maidservants huddled in the hall. They dashed away, giggling. Ire renewed in his muscles, like ember to flame. Gemma had been almost killed and the maidservants giggled.

  “I will speak to the magistrate. Not you.” Wyling held up his hands. “You have a problem at the moment, and it is not that green ribbon.”

  * * *

  Gemma didn’t catch much sleep on the cot set up for her in the nursery. After a few hours, she’d arisen to dress and pack. Now she helped ready the boys, despite her weariness. “No arguing, gentlemen. When we leave for Hampshire, you will ride in the carriage with me.”

  “But Raghnall is tethered outside.” Petey pointed out the rain-spattered nursery window.

  “We want to ride Raghnall!” Eddie stomped.

  “Mr. Knox is in a hurry, and he can travel much faster if he does not have to keep pace with our carriage.”

  “That is not fair.”

  Nothing is fair. Gemma laid out Eddie’s traveling cloak. “Finish your bread. Nellie will bring you down when it is time.”

  Gemma had her own preparations to make. All her possessions were packed except those of immediate necessity, and they awaited her in Amy’s dressing room. She’d not ever go into her bedchamber again.

  David, Wyling’s youngest footman, smiled when he spotted her in the hall. “His Lordship requests your presence in the drawing room, miss.”

  “Thank you.” She hastened there, curious.

  Wyling did not await her, however. Tavin stood at the window overlooking the square, his stance wide, hands behind his back. He looked hale, whole, unharmed by last night’s events. Her breath left her in a rush, and at the sound, he turned to face her, a tiny smile playing at his lips. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning. I thought Wyling would be here, but I am glad to see you.” She licked her lips, tasting the lingering apple sweetness from her snack of the children’s black butter. “Thank you for saving me. Once again. You always save me.” Hot tears pricked at her eyes.

  “Not always.” He drew closer and wiped her eyes with the callused pad of his thumb.

  She leaned into his hand. “I cannot think of a time.”

  “I can think of several.” His hand lowered.

  How brazen she was to feel disappointed that he did not pull her close. She dropped her gaze. “Do you soon depart?”

  “In a few minutes. My things and fresh horses have gone ahead. I plan to be at the village well before you arrive.”

  She nodded. “Did you glean information from the intruders? Something to lead you to the Sovereign?”

  “Those brigands’ mouths are shut tighter than oysters, but they may yet speak.” His eyes clouded. “Unfortunately, Garner is away from the office, so I cannot speak to him before I leave.”

  “Once home, I should like to call on Hugh. He must be warned of Saul’s part in the Sovereign’s scheme.”

  Tavin’s eyes narrowed. “Has it not occurred to you that Saul could still serve Beauchamp—even in the capacity he supplied last night? That Beauchamp could be the Sovereign and the man who accosted you on Verity Hill could be his lackey?”

  “Hugh?” Gemma almost laughed. “He would not dare.”

  “Soil his hands with murder? No. He has a plethora of alibis, but he could be the coin and brain behind all of this.”

  That was enough. “You have always disliked Hugh—”

  “The way he treated you was abominable.”

  “—but I cannot believe you would stoop to such accusations.”

  Tavin rubbed his forehead. “I do not wish to spend our time arguing.”

  “Nor do I.” It might be all the time they had.

  “Will you sit with me, Gemma?”

  How she wished to, but now? The house was occupied with preparations to leave. “I do not think I can. Wyling called for me.”

  “For my sake.” With a formal motion, he gestured to the settee.

  The fire popped, the lone sound aside from the ticking clock in the chamber. The only sound in the house, it seemed. Someone had shut the door behind her. Shut her up, alone with Tavin? She perched on the end of the settee, her mouth suddenly dry.

  He sat beside her, swallow
ing against his neck cloth. “Gemma. You are a...fine woman.”

  “Thank you.” It came out more like a question. Was this his awkward way of bidding her farewell? “You are a fine man. Do not ever forget how much the Lord values you. How much I esteem you.”

  If she could give him just that one gift, she could be satisfied. She prayed so, at least.

  His hands were hot, taking hers. “Knowing of our mutual estimation and respect, perhaps our friendship could be something more.”

  His knee edged the settee, as if prepared to hit the floor. The memory of Hugh in a similar posture robbed her of breath.

  Was he proposing marriage?

  A liquid thrill pooled in her stomach and gushed through her bones. Marriage between them seemed impossible, with his profession and her commitment to the boys, and yet...

  I love him. I love him. I—

  Tavin’s eyes darted to the door, to the ticking mantel clock, to their joined, damp hands. And the thrill in her stomach twisted into something nauseating and cold.

  Just like another rainy day, in another drawing room with another gentleman. She had perched on a settee, expecting a proposal, ignoring the discomfiture on a man’s face—and she’d looked a fool. She’d not disregard the signs now. She pulled her hands away.

  His gaze lifted, his eyes wide.

  “If you would consent to be my wife, I should be most happy.” He did not sound it.

  She had not dared admit to herself how much she wanted this. Wanted a life with this man, even though such a prospect suffered so many obstacles it could never work.

  Nor, did it seem, that he actually wanted to marry her, anyway.

  She licked her lips. “Why do you wish to marry me?”

  His hand flapped on his lap. “I could better protect you.”

  The rain hit the window in sheets. Its dull sheen was safer to look at than Tavin while she muddled together a response. “You wish to marry to keep me safe?”

  “It’s a good idea, you must admit. You would no longer need Peter’s permission for anything. I would send you to Portugal with Wyling and Amy. Warm clime, and you would be with her when the babe came.”