Gail Eastwood (22 page)

Authors: An Unlikely Hero

BOOK: Gail Eastwood

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The earl used his voice and presence to clear a path just wide enough to squeeze through, leaving Archie to follow in his wake. “I believe we might be of some service,” he said, inclining his head as he approached the pair.

They turned to him, the tall one’s face eager with hope and surprise, the short one’s frowning with suspicion. Brinton thought they were as mismatched a couple as he had ever seen.

“I realize we are not known to one another, but my friend and I have decided we should place our room at your disposal.”

“Your room?” responded the blond youth in some confusion. “You are very kind, indeed, sir! But will you not be needing it? Surely you are not thinking to venture out in this maelstrom!”

The earl chuckled. “I am not sure whether the maelstrom outside is any worse than the one in here, but I can assure you we are not going out. I meant that, as gentlemen, we could manage to share our quarters!”

Brinton couldn’t help the slight emphasis on the word “gentlemen” any more than he could resist stealing a quick look at the smaller traveler to see if there was any reaction. Those blue-green eyes were fastened on him for a moment, and he thought he saw the cheeks pale before the face turned away.

The tall youth stretched out his hand with enthusiastic gratitude. “Would you really do that, sir? That’s uncommonly kind!” He was interrupted by a sudden jerk on his arm that pulled his hand down. His small companion was attempting to become a barrier between him and the generous gentlemen, shaking his head vehemently.

“What’s the matter?”

“We cannot do this, Gilbey.” The voice was low and soft.

“Yes, we can,” the blond traveler hissed back.

The two stared at each other for a moment, locked in their dispute and unmindful of their audience.

“Why on earth not?” insisted the tall youth. He was attempting to whisper. “Do you want to spend the night in this hallway or back out on the street? It is our only other choice.”

The one called Gilbey turned back to the earl and Spelling with an apologetic look. His heightened color betrayed his embarrassment. “My brother doesn’t like to accept charity,” he said quickly, dropping his eyes. He fidgeted with a button on his coat. “He didn’t realize that of course I mean to pay for our share of your hospitality—oww!” He cringed and cast an agonized look toward his companion, who had quite deliberately kicked his shin.

The earl hid his amusement. These two were a far cry from the usual besotted lovebirds who sought marriage over the border.

“Why don’t we remove ourselves from this rather public situation,” he suggested, inclining his head toward the stairs. “I am sure we can come to an agreement over the details.”

Without waiting for an answer, Brinton began to move off in the direction he had indicated.

***

In two hundred years of service the Ram’s Head had acquired a weary but comfortable crookedness that permeated everything from the window frames to the wall timbers. Spelling led the way down a dimly lit passage as narrow and twisted as the stairs.

“Aha! At least we have a fire,” he exclaimed as he unlocked and flung wide the door to their room. “Perhaps you’ll believe me after all when I tell you this inn is usually top notch.”

The little procession filed into the room with Brinton in the rear. Depositing their burdens, they regrouped around the welcoming warmth of the hearth.

The room was small, with a low ceiling, a large fireplace, and one small diamond-paned window. Candle braces on the mantel supplemented the flickering light from the fire. Most of the space was taken up by a huge, heavily ornamented canopy bed swathed in blue damask. Not very generously endowed with quilts or pillows, it was at least neatly made. A small table and two chairs stood in one corner. The room smelled mostly of candle wax and stale pipe tobacco, but from somewhere there was also a scent of lavender.

“They always scent the beds here,” Archie disclosed proudly. “It’s one of their trademark touches.”

“Beats changing the linens,” Brinton commented under his breath. Addressing their guests he said, “This may be a bit cramped, but it is definitely a more suitable setting to make one another’s acquaintance. However, I think our first order of business should be to see you out of those wet things and warm by the fire.”

The smaller traveler had turned toward the hearth and seemed to be soaking in the heat, hardly aware of anyone else. The fire threw its rosy glow on a delicately pointed chin and cheeks that were like flawless ivory.

Brinton was certain now that his guest was female. Coming up the stairs he had positioned himself behind her in order to better observe her. Although the heavy traveling cloak concealed its wearer admirably, it could not disguise her posture or the way she moved, which seemed decidedly feminine.

Shivering and wearing gloves far too large for her, she had also had trouble carrying the meat and the kitchen knife Spelling had handed to her when he had picked up her leather satchel. Now she had removed her wet gloves and was rubbing hands as small and white as Rafferty had suspected. At his words she clutched at her cloak and pulled it closer around her.

The one called Gilbey seemed relieved that introductions were not going to be the first order. He, too, was warming his hands and shed his coat gratefully. As if sensing his partner’s reluctance to follow suit, he turned to assist her.

Brinton studied the two carefully.
His hands don’t linger the way a lover’s should—the way mine would
, he caught himself thinking. As soon as the thought crossed his mind he chastised himself for it. But the young man’s tender concern seemed to meet hostility that was almost as tangible as if the girl had slapped him. She glared and pulled away from his touch.

The earl couldn’t help smiling, although he wasn’t sure why that amused him. As the girl’s cloak slipped from her shoulders, he exchanged a telling look with Archie. Wet, her ill-fitting male clothing only emphasized her unmistakably female shape.

As if he could cover her by conversation, her partner turned to Brinton. “With all due respect, sir,” he ventured, “couldn’t our first order of business be to have a bit of that mutton?”

Rafferty opened his mouth to reply and promptly closed it. Damned if the boy’s eyes weren’t an exact match for the girl’s! He hadn’t noticed it before, but now he looked closely to be sure it wasn’t a trick of the poor light. “Of course, forgive me!” he said, covering his thoughts. “I thought you would be hungry—that’s why we brought it along.” Yes, the eyes were that same aquamarine. The lad’s blond and alabaster coloring differed from the girl’s as dramatically as their opposite statures, but on close inspection his face showed a finely sculptured nose and chin very much like hers.

Ha! Not lovers at all
, the earl thought happily.
They are some sort of relations
. But he could not reflect then on why this discovery put him in such good humor. “Sit, eat,” he said, gesturing toward the table where Archie had placed the meat.

The tall youth took the shivering girl by the hand to lead her to the table, but she snatched her hand away. As they sat down, he glanced back at the earl with a wry grin. “You must forgive my brother. He’s not prone to indulge in small talk.”

Brinton replied to the boy with an impishly raised eyebrow and a sidelong glance that included Spelling as coconspirator. “We are not offended, are we, Archie? We have noticed your brother has his own less subtle way of communicating with you, and I think I may say we are glad to be spared!”

Both Spelling and the young man laughed. The girl, who had already tackled the mutton hungrily, stiffened her spine and turned her back to all three men.

“Allow me to make the introductions, since we have no one else to do it for us,” Brinton said more seriously. “I am Julian de Raymond, Lord Brinton.” Only his closest friends knew him as Rafferty. He bowed, an impeccably correct and graceful movement. “This is my associate, Mr. Spelling. We are at your service.”

The young man called Gilbey paused before answering. “Lord Brinton, Mr. Spelling,” he repeated. “It is an honor indeed, my lord, and I’m quite sure it is we who should be at your service as we are most certainly in your debt.” He did not, however, offer his own name or that of his companion.

Brinton decided not to push. He thought the tension in the room fairly crackled. He stopped Spelling from speaking with a very readable eyebrow movement and said instead, “Some cheese and port would be an admirable accompaniment to that mutton. Mr. Spelling and I were just thinking we would go in search of some. It shouldn’t take us long.”

With a slight bow he turned to the door, ushering Spelling ahead of him almost forcibly. They gained the hallway before Archie could utter a syllable. “Forgive me for hastening your steps,” Brinton whispered. “I could feel the heat rising, and I quite believe we were sitting on a powder keg!”

Gail Eastwood is a former journalist and rare book dealer. Her books have won several awards including The Golden Leaf for Best Regency, three
Reviewer’s Choice
nominees, and two Holt Medallion finalists. Twice nominated for
Romantic Times Magazine
’s Career Achievement Award, Gail lives with her loving husband, two sons, and the family cat.

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