“I am not at all sure the shot was for us. It’s probably someone out for a day’s sport, shooting wood pigeons.”
“Then why,” Hilary managed, “are we lying here like this?”
“Better to be safe than riddled with holes.” He gazed down at her, and a hint of his customary good humor returned. “Why, Miss deVere,” he said, his piratical mouth curling at the edges. “We really must stop meeting like this.”
* * *
Another shot sounded. Farther away, this time. Probably a couple of local lads out bagging fowl, just as he’d told Honey.
Davenport cursed himself. He’d overreacted. If the man who followed him had wanted him dead, he’d have had ample opportunity well before now.
He was so keyed up, he hadn’t taken the time to enjoy the feel of Honey beneath him. Now that the perceived danger turned out not to be danger at all, he did.
She must have seen some change in his expression, for she squirmed a little in an attempt to get up. The action sent deliciously tantalizing sensations through his body.
Truly, he must stop torturing himself like this when he knew nothing would come of it. They needed to get to that inn and make sure nothing else happened to slow their journey.
“Is it safe now?” Honey said, pushing at his shoulders with her palms. “That shot seemed farther away.”
“You smell of violets,” he said, drawing a deep, appreciative breath.
“You are making that up,” she said impatiently. “Is it safe to be on our way, do you think?”
He cocked his head to listen but heard no more shots. “We’ll wait five more minutes. That should do it.”
And then he set about not kissing her. He brushed a long, curling tendril of deep gold from her face, tucked it behind her ear. As if he wished to clear a path for his mouth to follow.
He imagined pressing his lips to the pulse point in her graceful neck, feeling her responsive shiver. He thought about taking her pretty, lush mouth, possessing it in the same way he burned to posses her body, plunging deep.
She could scarcely mistake precisely what he wanted. The size and hardness of him pressing against her stomach must be impossible to ignore.
Something heated and softened in those brown eyes. “Don’t look at me like that,” she breathed.
“Like what?” Stupid question, but all of the blood had deserted his brain. Stringing more than two words together was beyond him.
“Like you want to, oh, to devour me.” She gave a choking gasp and thrashed a little. “For pity’s sake, let me up.”
To his regret, another faint sound of a distant shot finally settled the matter. He let her push him away and wriggle out from beneath him.
After a moment or two, he rose and followed her as she marched off toward the village.
“You are incorrigible,” she complained, increasing her pace. “I believe you knew they were hunters all along.”
He hadn’t, but he now felt foolish for his overreaction, so he said, “You can’t blame a scoundrel for trying, Honey.”
“Stop calling me Honey!” she yelled.
He grinned. “But it suits you so well.”
She made a noise between a cry and a growl and stalked off, even faster this time. He had no trouble keeping up with her, of course, with his longer stride. That seemed to infuriate her more.
They soon reached the inn. Too soon for his liking.
The establishment was a small one and the only carriage available for hire that day was a gig, so he hired it and ordered the horses put to.
He didn’t find the servants in the stables or the yard, but the carriage horses were there, so Trixie, Billy, and the coachman must have made it here and be somewhere on the premises. He ordered Honey’s bandboxes to be transferred from the horses to the gig.
“The servants are probably in the taproom,” he told Honey, heading for the inn. “At least Trixie won’t have gone far.” He hoped not, or the game would be up and Honey would be furious with him.
There was no private parlor at this small commercial establishment, so he commanded Honey to wait in the vestibule of the shadowy, dark-paneled inn while he went to the taproom to find Trixie and the men.
When she protested, he pointed out to her that ladies did not frequent taprooms and besides, she’d wanted to maintain her anonymity, hadn’t she? Wouldn’t it draw attention if she went in there with him?
For once, she did as she was told, pulling her veil down over her face while she waited for him. The entrance hall to the inn was dim and full of bustle. He didn’t think anyone would notice her there.
The hostelry clearly did a roaring trade in merchants and prosperous farmers passing through on their way to the metropolis and back. Even at this hour, the taproom was full to bursting, noisy with good cheer. The scent of spilled ale, sweat, and dung filled his nostrils.
Davenport’s presence garnered a few startled and curious looks. They were not accustomed to seeing noblemen in full evening kit at a little after three in the afternoon, it seemed.
Well, and who could blame them for staring? Honey was right to avoid appearing in his company. He looked what he was, a wealthy scoundrel out for a spree. One that lasted days, not just one evening.
A swift reconnaissance told him Billy and the coachman weren’t present. As a sop to expectation, he ordered an ale and asked the landlord if he’d seen men of their description and a woman of Trixie’s. “Too busy to notice,” was the answer he’d expected and the answer he received.
If they weren’t here or in the stables, where were they? If he was to keep his promise to Honey to get her to London tonight, they needed to get moving. He’d leave the men to wait for the carriage to be fixed and return it to the Grange, but Honey wouldn’t go anywhere without Trixie.
Only, where was the chit?
CHAPTER EIGHT
The most peculiar sense of apprehension overtook Hilary when Davenport left her. When he was around, she was by turns exasperated, shocked, and infuriated. But there was no doubting the fact that having a big, strong man at one’s side made one feel safe from the rest of the world.
She marveled at the way Davenport had taken command back in the stables, giving orders and demanding a vehicle and a horse with utter assurance, despite having no more than a few coins in his pocket.
His manner alone was enough to convince staff that he was, indeed, the Earl of Davenport, an aristocrat whose credit was good anywhere. No matter that his face was bruised like a prizefighter’s, nor that even Trixie’s ministrations could not make his evening dress pristine again.
There was an air about him, a force of personality that could only spring from a background of privilege and ease. But more than that, a bone-deep confidence and a knack for command, when he chose to exercise it, brought him instant obedience.
Hilary perched on a little wooden stool against the wall and looked about her. She’d never been in such an establishment as this bustling inn. It was not a hostelry that catered to ladies, or females of any description, for that matter. Commercial men—tradesmen and farmers, bankers and city clerks—seemed to frequent the place.
The noise that spilled from the taproom was loud and often punctuated by obscenity. She winced every time another raucous burst of laughter rang out.
She supposed she ought to be glad it was laughter she heard and not a brawl. One guess who’d be at the hub of any fight that came his way. Though she had made Davenport promise not to punch anyone during their journey, she wasn’t confident he’d keep his word if it came down to an affray.
She recalled how he’d looked, standing over her two enormous brothers, fists clenched, feet planted wide. The fierce light in his eyes had faded as soon as he realized she stood there, but she’d caught sight of it for all that. And she’d known then, if she hadn’t suspected all along, that the Earl of Davenport was not a man to be trifled with, however easygoing his general demeanor.
Hilary sat in the corner at the edge of a row of chairs a
gainst the wainscoted wall, trying to look inconspicuous and succeeding fairly well, she thought. She folded her hands in her lap, cast down her gaze, and waited.
Some time passed before she felt someone’s attention upon her. No mistaking that feeling, although she’d be hard-pressed to explain or justify it.
Much as she wanted to, she couldn’t resist looking up.
That was a mistake. A big, florid-faced man with a mustard waistcoat gave her a knowing grin that had a cruel edge to it.
“Well, now, and ain’t you a pretty little thing?” The words were loud, slightly slurred.
Hilary darted a look around, hoping the man did not address her. But of course, that was a vain hope.
According to the rules of etiquette, no gentleman would dare approach a lady to whom he’d not been introduced. Not unless he wished to be snubbed, that was.
But those rules only applied to gentlemen, not to men of this man’s ilk. Nor to scandalous earls, she thought dryly. And being herself without a maid or chaperone to lend her respectability she was fair game.
“Oh, come on now, love. Give us a smile.”
Unease dripped down her spine like cold molasses. She ought to give the man a blistering set-down. He was probably some ordinary merchant, a bit full of himself, hopeful of setting up a flirtation with a young woman who appeared to have no one near to protect her.
To him the encounter was a harmless distraction, but it wasn’t to her.
She kept her gaze lowered, regarding the man’s mud-splashed boots, willing him not to come any closer.
Another pair of boots joined the loud waistcoated man’s. “Cor blimey, what have we here? You all alone, sweetheart? Need some company, eh?”
Now there were two of them! The second man was even larger than the other, with a bushy black beard that seemed to emphasize his wet-mouthed leer.
Refusing to answer their rude questions, Hilary sat up straighter. She disliked feeling cowed. She wanted to give the men a piece of her mind. Yet, she reminded herself, to engage in any manner with these strangers would draw attention and she needed to avoid that at all costs. Besides, if she reprimanded them, they’d read it as either a challenge or an invitation. She wished to give them neither.
Cravenly she longed for Davenport to return. He might be an unprincipled oaf, but he’d dispatch these fellows in the blink of an eye.
She lowered her gaze again, staring at the men’s boots, doing her best to ignore their jibes, until one of the men muttered, “Toplofty bit o’ muslin, ain’t she?” and came several steps closer.
She was about to spring up when another set of feet—these clad in battered evening shoes—fetched up in front of her gaze and Davenport’s rich voice accosted her.
“Here you are, Honey. Just where I left you,” he said cheerfully, having no notion of her predicament or how her stomach churned.
She lifted her gaze to his impossibly handsome, lividly marked face and relief broke over her like a king tide. She shot out of her seat and only the good breeding she had drummed into herself restrained her from casting herself upon his broad, manly chest.
I could kiss you, she thought recklessly. I could throw my arms around those big shoulders and …
But of course she didn’t, because well-bred ladies never kissed a man to whom they were not related, married, or betrothed. And certainly not in a crowded inn.
A big hand clapped Davenport on the shoulder. “’Ere, I was talkin’ ter the lady first.”
A diamond-bright hardness entered Davenport’s eyes. He turned, shrugging off the meaty paw. Ranging himself beside Hilary, he faced the two men.
“The lady is with me,” he said in a mild voice that belied his expression. “Now, if you two gentlemen will step aside, we’ll be on our way.”
Hilary glanced at Davenport, impressed with how civilized he sounded.
The look on his face was anything but civilized, however. She’d never seen him like this before. When he’d fought her brothers, there’d been a hard light of excitement, enjoyment, in his eyes. Now there was cold fury.
The other men scented a fight. Ignoring his request, they stood their ground, alert and ready. The bearded man went so far as to cross his arms over his barrel chest, making it clear he wasn’t going to budge.
Davenport sighed and turned to her. “Would you mind stepping aside, my dear?”
She needed no further persuasion, scuttling back into her corner like a mouse. She knew from bitter experience she’d be in the way if she stayed and that Davenport might be distracted if she tried to help.
Davenport’s elbow shot out, clipping the bearded man on his furry chin, sending him reeling back. A swift strike of his heel connected with the other man’s knee.
With a howl, the fellow crumpled on the spot.
The bearded man recovered quickly, boring in again.
Davenport leaned forward, picked up a chair, pivoted, and crashed it down on the bearded man’s head. The chair was flimsy. It splintered and cracked and flew into pieces. The big man shook himself like a dog and kept coming.
“Honey,” Davenport panted, “I’m doing my best not to use my fists, but it’s getting damned difficult.”
That stupid promise! How could he think she would hold him to it?
“Never mind that,” cried Hilary. “Hit him!”
The florid man had screamed with pain over his knee, but he was even now staggering to his feet with murder in his face.
It was two against one, but without his hands tied by his promise to her, Davenport fought like a god, with strength, power, and a strange fluid beauty. Other men, drawn by the commotion, took sides and came in swinging.
From what Hilary could see from her place flattened against the wall, things turned riotous from there. More men piled into the fray and soon these respectable farmers and merchants were a teeming melee, rolling and crashing about and punching one another with no earthly idea why.
Davenport fought on, all the while wading through the roiling mass of bodies toward the yard entrance. Hilary abandoned her post and darted to the doorway, ready to escape with him into the yard.
Then she saw them. Her brothers, Tom and Benedict, entering the inn from the other door. They’d followed her. Not only that, they’d very nearly caught her, too.
“Davenport!” she yelled over the din. “Look!”
He ducked a flying fist, then glanced around. When he saw her brothers, who were even now piling onto the fight with their customary gusto, he muscled through the mass of flailing limbs to her.
“Hurry!” Gripping her hand, he pulled her out to the stable yard.
She stumbled a little as she tried to keep up with him. That cold, hard look had not left his face.
“Did you have any luck in the taproom?” she asked, belatedly recalling the reason he’d left her alone in the first place.
He shook his head. “They probably went to the smithy. No time to find out. We have to get out of here before your brothers see us.”
“I can’t believe they’ve followed me,” said Hilary, running to keep up. They wouldn’t have troubled themselves just for her. There must be some other reason.
Davenport practically threw her into the seat of the gig that stood, ready and waiting for them. Climbing up beside her, he flipped a coin to the ostler who held the horse’s head. “I’ll need someone to find a broken-down coach about two miles from here on the north road, repair the broken axle, and return the coach to Wrotham Grange, hard by Stamford.”
If the ostler thought this an odd request, he didn’t dare argue, just tipped his hat and said, “Aye, your lordship.”
“What about Trixie?” Hilary clutched his arm as he set off at a spanking pace, weaving around other carriages and pedestrians in the yard.
He waved off that objection. “I’ll send someone for her when we get to London.”
“But—”
“Do you want your brothers to catch up with us and drag you home?” he demanded.
/> “Of course not. Only—”
He glanced at the enormous stable yard clock. “And you want to be in town tonight, don’t you?”
“Well, ye—”
“Then we must be off. We’ve lost far too much time.”
She didn’t know what to do. “But I feel awful leaving Trixie with her sore ankle.”
“Well, it’s either look for her and risk running into your brothers or press on.” He shot her a glance that was full of challenge. “What’s it to be?”
Her desperation to get away from the Grange overcame her fears for Trixie. The other servants were with her, after all. Besides, Trixie, of all people, would understand the urgency of Hilary’s flight. “Yes. All right, let’s go.”
But Davenport treated her answer as a foregone conclusion. They left the inn and her brothers in their dust.
Or at least, that’s what she hoped. They’d traveled many miles before Hilary stopped casting wary glances over her shoulder.
As the immediacy of her fear faded, Hilary became acutely aware of Davenport. The gig was no slender sporting vehicle. It could seat three people quite easily. Yet Davenport’s muscular thigh continually pressed against Hilary’s as he drove the equipage as fast as the hired horse could go.
Davenport’s touch made her edgy and hot. She didn’t like it one bit.
“I wish you would stop doing that,” she said crossly, drawing herself farther to the edge of the seat. “Really, this is exactly the sort of thing I wanted to guard against when I insisted on bringing Trixie.”
He grinned. “You’re not afraid of being alone with me in an open carriage in broad daylight, are you? Honey, even my superior skills with the ribbons wouldn’t permit me to make love to you and drive at the same time. Although…” He trailed off, tilting his head as if imagining ways of accomplishing both tasks at once.
Her stifled gasp made his smile broaden.
“Besides,” he added, lowering his voice, “when I make love to you, I intend to give it my full, undivided attention.”
Why did she keep blushing like this? She ought to be accustomed to his outrageous remarks by now.
London's Last True Scoundrel Page 9
