by Regan Walker
Sitting on the edge of the seat, pistol aimed at his carriage door, Martin pulled back the window curtain and peered out. John did the same on his side. As he did, Kit heard a man shout, “Step out of the carriage with yer valuables, sar.”
It sounded as if that voice was very close. Another man outside John’s door added, “Ye also, laddie. I want ta see what sweet baggage lies within.” Kit couldn’t tell if he was talking about her or any goods they might carry. Either way was a terror.
The man began to open the door, and Martin whispered, “Now!”
Gunfire exploded from the two pistols simultaneously. Kit covered her ears, but the sound was deafening even so. Smoke and the sharp bitter smell of gunpowder filled the coach and her nostrils, nearly causing her to gag.
Martin flung open his door and jumped out, holding ready a knife he had pulled from his boot. John scrambled out his side, and Kit rose from the floor to peer through the door Martin exited. One highwayman lay on the ground; another sat atop a dark horse flailing with a pistol as he tried to control the rearing, screaming animal. A knife sailed through the air and the rider fell, his pistol firing wildly and dropping from his hand. Martin’s knife was lodged deep in his chest.
Kit could hear the carriage horses snorting as they strained restlessly against their traces and the coachman’s soothing words as he attempted to calm them. Martin encouraged the driver to hold steady. Through the open door, Kit looked again at the man Martin had shot. He lay on the ground, a dark liquid seeping from his chest.
My God. Kit’s heart pounded at the carnage in front of her, every nerve on end. Martin helped her down just as John asked the coachman, “Did you see any others?”
“Nay, only the three. Ye dispatched them most remarkably. I am grateful.”
Holding her close to his side, Martin studied Kit, concern in his eyes. “Are you all right, Kitten?”
“Yes, just a little shaken. I think my ears are still ringing from those pistols firing so close.”
“I’m sorry, love, but there was no other choice.” Then Martin turned to the coachman and his outrider, a young man sitting very still. “You have some damage to your carriage you did not have before. You must forgive us for that, but it was necessary. I was taking no chances the bandits would see our pistols.”
“Not to worry, sir,” the coachman said. “You saved me life. ’Tis in your debt I am.”
Martin addressed John. “Help pull the bodies into the brush, and tie the rider’s horse behind the carriage. The two other horses are likely close.”
The outrider climbed down from the carriage to join John as the two hurried off to complete the tasks. Martin turned back to Kit and drew her more tightly into his arms and kissed her hard. Even in the moonlight she could see worry in his furrowed brow as he broke away. “Truly, you are fine?”
Breathless, she said, “Yes.” Staring at him with disbelieving eyes in the light of the moon she added, “You were…amazing! I still cannot believe you fired at the robbers through the coach doors.”
“Well, I expected we could encounter a highwayman or two, and I might have preferred not to kill them, but with you along I was taking no chances.”
“You killed them because of me?”
“Do not fret, Kitten. They would have hanged if I had brought them to a magistrate, but they might have wounded us before I accomplished that bit of work. I refused to risk your life.”
“I am…thankful.” She was also in awe. What kind of a man had she married? Skilled with both pistol and knife and prepared for highwaymen? He had reminded her of a general in command of his troops as he dealt with the sudden attack, both fierce and calm. In fact, she realized, staring at him, he still appeared calm, his only worry seeming to be her welfare.
The outrider and John returned, leading two more black horses. “I’ll tie these two and the other to the carriage, sir,” John said. “We can use them in Derbyshire.” He headed to the back of the conveyance, reins in hand.
“A splendid idea, John. Oh, and I’d like you to ride alongside on one of the horses or on top of the coach for the rest of the trip.”
“Aye, seems best,” the young man agreed. “I think tonight I’ll sit atop. Tomorrow I’ll ride alongside.”
“Fine,” Martin allowed. “As soon as you have the horses secured, we’d best leave. I shouldn’t want to linger long under the full moon. The devils might have comrades lurking about.”
The coachman was ready to depart, hands on the reins, and Martin turned to him. “I am anxious to stop at the next coaching inn as soon as you can get us there.” Returning his gaze to Kit he explained, “We can change horses and get a bite to eat.”
The coachman tipped his hat, John climbed up top alongside the outrider, and Martin helped Kit into the carriage, now even colder for the holes blasted in the doors. Shivering, she pulled the lap robe up to her chin, but Martin joined her, drawing her close and whispering, “I’ll get some heated bricks for tomorrow, and once we’re at the inn, Kitten, I have ways to warm you.”
Chapter 13
“Ahhh,” Kit sighed, letting out a long breath as the heat from the bath permeated her weary bones and soothed away the knots in her muscles. The entire journey had been cold, and though they’d made frequent stops to change horses, no stop brought the relief she now felt. For the last leg of the trip, even with Martin’s warm body beside her, she had felt iced over. The air blowing through the blast holes was almost intolerable. When she’d seen the name of the public house Martin chose for the night, the Sun Inn, she thought it might be a good omen. As it turned out, she was right.
Wiggling her toes, she sank contentedly into the hot water in front of a fire in a clean if sparely decorated upstairs room. Martin had gone to see the local magistrate about the highwaymen, and John was making arrangements for the horses. Because of that, Kit’s mind wandered to the man she’d married. How mysterious he sometimes appeared, like she was only seeing a costume he chose to wear. He could be very British, with a gentleman’s manners and speech, then in an instant change into the seductive Frenchman. She liked both, but which was the real Martin?
When the highwaymen attacked, he had taken control in a way that surprised her. She could still see the dead men lying on the side of the road, their blood glistening in the light of the moon, and she shuddered. Their faces were not ones she would be sketching. Three men dead because of their own avarice? What wasted lives. Did the men have families? She wondered.
Her new husband was obviously comfortable with violence. There had been no panic in his voice, only calm words and well-laid plans when the highwaymen stopped the carriage. And then it struck her: He had been prepared for the highwaymen, prepared to fight. Surely he had some military training, and yet she continued to believe he had never worn a uniform. She had never met a soldier who did not mention his regiment.
John followed his lead as if they’d fought together before as a team. Martin had called the younger man his assistant, but surely Mr. Spencer was more than that. The calm both men displayed was unlike other men. Her father had told Kit of the composure some had before battle, a control others did not share. Not for the first time, she wondered at her husband with his almost beautiful face and indigo eyes, the charm of an English rake, the sensuality of a French lover, and the skills of a trained warrior.
What were they doing here? It seemed to Kit that Mary had been purposefully vague when explaining this trip to the Midlands, and the young lad who’d brought up her bath when they first arrived and the woman who followed with the tray of food now sitting on the table next to her had called her ma’am not m’lady. Not that she was offended. She had, after all, been just Miss Endicott to Pen and Pris, but the address suggested Martin had not properly explained their identities to the proprietor. Ah well, she was too tired right now to ponder all that could mean.
Rising from the tub, she reached for a drying cloth and wiped away the water from her body and freshly washed hair. It felt good to be
clean, free of the road dust and the smell of gunpowder and a body too long in a carriage. Donning her nightgown, she sat by the fire eating the lukewarm stew, which was hearty and tasty, and she was so hungry that the temperature was of little concern. She hurriedly drank from the tankard of ale, combed out her long tresses, slipped into bed and thought no more.
* * *
Aware of the possibility of highwaymen on the road, Martin and John had discussed what measures they might employ, though Martin had of course hoped none would be needed. Though he was prepared he had still been shaken by the danger to Kit. Once again, he was protecting a wife while acting the spy. At least this time he had been successful.
Mulling over both his past and their future, he’d left Kit to her bath and joined John in the common room of the inn for a late supper of mutton stew and ale, good country fare though it would not have been his preference. Living in France had taught him the value of well-prepared food and good Bordeaux, but he accepted that it was ale not wine that was the staple of the local English farmers, and he appreciated it for that reason.
Having finished his meal, Martin ascended the steps to his room, thankful for an understanding magistrate. Of course he’d had to present himself as Sir Martin Powell and accept the official’s gratitude for ridding the countryside of the bandits who’d been plaguing it, but soon thereafter he was three horses richer and free of any suspicion.
He was unsurprised to open the door and find a dying fire and Kit curled up in bed, her hair streaming across the pillow like dark red ribbons. His groin tightened at the prospect of stripping naked and sliding into that bed; it had been too long since he’d shared anything more with her than a comforting hug and a quick kiss, and he was desperate to take her in his arms, to lose his body in hers. As long as Ormond had talked him into this marriage, he might as well have the pleasure of it. But he’d made a bargain, one he was coming to hate. Then, too, she was surely exhausted and emotionally spent.
Standing at the edge of the bed, watching her sleep, he felt another surge of worry. What he had heard in the common room proved that unrest was rising in Derbyshire. The prior year had seen a hard winter with snow lingering into late spring. Many crops failed and families faced starvation. Men at the large ironworks in Ripley had lost their jobs now that the war with France was ended, and some were openly speaking of rebellion against the new laws, some urging another march on London in protest. The Midlands had become a powder keg waiting to explode, and he wondered if Oliver might just be the match that lit the fuse. He was taking his new wife into the center of that storm.
Wife. The prospect of having one made him feel vulnerable, but now that Kit was his he had to admit he wanted to keep her. Every night in his bed. But not in the middle of a revolution being purposefully fueled by a government spy. Since Oliver had said he could be found at the Talbot Inn in the town of Belper, north of Derby, Martin would keep Kit far from there. It was too close to the flame, too dangerous. Instead, they would stay a few miles farther north in Pentridge. Perhaps he could protect her by confining her to the inn and the village. He and Ormond had discussed it.
He washed, doffed his clothes and pulled back the cover, and had to restrain his hand from lifting the nightgown that covered Kit. Her beauty tempted him beyond reason. Naked, Martin crawled into bed and curled his body around her warmth, drawing her close. She was soft and her hair smelled of roses. A part of his anatomy longed to join them together, but his drooping eyelids told him he needed rest as much as she, and then there was that silly promise.
As he drifted to sleep, a thought crossed his mind. He had not even told her they were registered as Martin and Katherine Donet.
* * *
Kit woke early to find Martin again gone from their room. She was certain he’d come in last night, as she recalled his warm chest at her back and his arm draped around her. The thought made her smile. His presence brought not only the desire she had tried to suppress but comfort, for while their marriage had a strange beginning, she was pleased with the tenderness he had shown her. Given their passionate first night and his words since, she knew such restraint came dear.
With a smile on her face, Kit washed and quickly dressed in a cerulean day gown, pulling her hair back into a knot at her nape. Someone had left her a tray of food, and she greedily ate the coddled eggs as she looked forward to a last day of travel and to finally being settled in one place for a while. Packing her things in the small valise and taking up her cloak, she went in search of her husband.
Not seeing Martin in the main room of the inn, she stepped outside to find him talking to the coachman. As she approached the carriage, he greeted her with a broad smile.
“Sleep well, Kitten?” He took her valise and handed it to the waiting coachman.
She could feel herself blush. “Yes, thank you.” The name always reminded her of the intimacy they once shared, an intimacy she knew he was anxious to share again. But she supposed she was his kitten now, and the thought made her smile. “Are we to leave soon?”
“Almost ready,” said Martin. “I was letting you sleep, but I would have been up to check on you in a moment. You will be happy to see the carriage doors have been repaired and I’ve added some warm bricks to the floor. It should be much warmer inside.”
It wasn’t yet very cold out, but the day was damp and she was grateful. “My toes thank you,” she said, smiling just as John approached the back of the carriage with the horses. “Will one of these three be mine?”
Martin raised a brow. “You ride?”
“I do. Perhaps not like Lady Ormond, but yes, I love to ride.”
“All right, but I don’t want you riding around the Midlands alone, not without one of us along. Promise me.”
A ride through the countryside each day was something she’d look forward to, but she would expect to be accompanied. “Of course.”
While the rest of their baggage and the food they would carry with them was loaded, Martin went into the inn to settle their account. This left Kit with the coachman, who was from Derbyshire and happy to share his knowledge of the area in response to her questions.
“Aye, the gentle hills of Pentridge could tell you a story if they could talk, ma’am. ’Twas the site of an old hill fort at one time. The village has been there as far back as the Romans. On the steeper slopes, there are even remains of Celtic fields. Why, the very name Pentridge was borrowed from the Celts. Some say it means the Boar’s Hill. There’s an old church ye might want to visit—St. Matthew’s. It goes back to the time of the knights. O’ course, the coming of the turnpike and the Butterley Ironworks in nearby Ripley changed many things.”
“Ironworks?”
“Aye, since the Conquest the land around Pentridge has been known for its coal and iron veins. Though farming is still much a part of the village life, many of the men have taken up the job of colliers or miners.”
Perhaps the village of Pentridge had much to teach her. With somewhat more optimism than before, Kit looked forward to their arrival. She thanked the coachman just as Martin, finished with his tasks, came to help her into the carriage. John mounted one of the horses and tipped his hat to her in greeting.
The day proved long and the ride bumpy. Still, she found the passing hills and cloudless blue sky beautiful. The late spring sun lit the green valleys dotted with small farms and sheep, and the country road was such a contrast to the congested and dirty streets of London that to Kit her surroundings appeared something out of a dream.
She turned to watch Martin stare out the window at the lands bordering the narrow road they traveled. His hand held hers, so perhaps now was a good time.
“Can you tell me something about your family?”
Martin took a deep breath and turned to face her. “Must I? Speaking of one’s beginnings can be so tedious.” But he offered that rakish grin which implied he was not truly averse to sharing with her.
“Are you are flirting with me, husband?” she whispered.
/> “Yes, and I’d like to do more.” Pulling her into his arms he said, “I’d rather kiss you.”
He did, gently at first and then more forcefully, entwining his tongue with hers. She was swept into the feel of his masculine body wrapped around her. It seemed she had little resistance to his charm. “Kitten,” he murmured, trailing kisses down her throat. “I want you.”
Her body responded to him as it always did. Tempted to let him have her right there in the coach, she nonetheless resisted, wanting to know him in more ways than just this.
“Martin,” she said in a breathless whisper, “can we just talk for a moment? It’s part of the reason I wanted to slow our…coming together.”
He sighed and released her, but he kept her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Besides,” she continued, “how am I ever to know you if you do not enlighten me?”
He quirked a smile and let their joined hands fall to his side. “Just living with me would tell you much, Kitten.” He peered at her out of the corner of his eye and let out a breath. “Ah, well, I can see you’re determined.”
“I am.”
“Let me see. You met my brother Nick. Jean Nicholas.”
“The sea captain.”
“Always and forever. Only one year older than me, he takes after our father more than the rest of us. Quite the adventurer. He’s named after our grandfather, the French pirate Jean Donet.”
“A pirate! He reminded me of such when I met him.”
“I doubt it not. There have been times in the past when he appeared the pirate to me as well. He certainly lived like one for a while. Our grandfather was the younger son of a French count. Nick has stayed on the right side of things, but privateering, even in the Crown’s name, can be a fearsome endeavor.”
“I daresay it is. And…you have other brothers?”
“Yes, two younger, the twins Robbie and Charlie. They are the jokers of the family, and they compete for everything. Both are good sailors.”
