Gail Eastwood (13 page)

“I do not know where he could have gone,” she said innocently, “but I suggest we should not stay standing here.”

Gillian could not hide her dismay when she realized there were only two horses.

“Orcutt’s questions had, of course, stirred up everyone’s curiosity,” Brinton explained. “We had to make it clear that there were only two of us traveling together. The vehicles available were too slow for two men traveling by themselves in a relative hurry.” He smiled. “I have gleaned from your brother that you are a tolerable rider,” he continued, stroking the bay mare’s neck.

“Tolerable!” Gillian looked at her twin indignantly. “I could probably outride you both!”

Brinton laughed. “Perhaps someday we can put that to a test. But today it is sufficient that you can handle riding astride.” He positioned himself by the mare’s stirrup, ready to assist Gillian. “Shall we?”

Gillian knew sitting in front of him would be a mistake. With his arms around her and his body pressing against her back, she would never be able to preserve the aloofness she was determined to maintain. But she realized with a sinking feeling that she would have to ride with Brinton. Gilbey’s ribs were probably too sore to tolerate any pressure against them.

“I shall ride behind, thank you,” she said stiffly.

“No, you will not,” growled Brinton. “The back is too wide for you.”

“Ahem!” interrupted Gilbey. “If we could get on with it? I have no desire to still be here at midday. Do you?”

They maintained an easy canter at first, striving to put distance between them and Bewdley. Gillian found riding behind Brinton no easier than riding before him would have been, for she could not hold her body stiffly away from his once the horse was in motion. She had no choice but to clasp her arms around his waist, and as the natural rhythm of their motion relaxed her, her slight weight pressed against his back.

The trio stopped to rest just beyond the village of Billingsley in the shade of some trees where a brook crossed the road. While the men took the horses down the small embankment to water them, Gillian paced under the trees. Her thighs ached from stretching across the horse’s wide back, but she was not about to admit her discomfort or change places with the earl. She was determined to walk off the pain and afraid that she might stiffen up if she stopped moving.

“That’s not very restful,” Brinton observed as he led his mare back up to the road.

“I’m all right.”

The earl opened his saddlebag and took out a battered silver drinking cup. “Can I get you some water?”

She nodded, her throat suddenly swollen with road dust and thirst.

He filled the cup at the brook and returned to her, the dripping vessel in one hand and a daffodil in the other. His ungloved fingers brushed against hers quite intentionally as he gave her the cup.

She took it in both hands and drank greedily. “Thank you,” she whispered when she stopped for a breath between sips.

“You are quite welcome,” he said softly, laying the daffodil’s great golden blossom against her cheek. With a teasing glint in his eye he said, “I can see you like butter.”

Gillian couldn’t help laughing. She ducked away from the tickling petals. “I thought that game only worked with buttercups!”

“Not so, dear lady.” He took the cup from her hand and replaced it with the flower, closing her fingers around it. Without taking his eyes from hers, he raised the cup to his lips and drank deeply.

There was something dangerously intimate about the moment they were sharing. Gillian found herself easily caught up in the spell of his hazel eyes, and she was relieved when Gilbey’s arrival broke it off.

“Found a straggler, eh?” her brother said, nodding toward the blossom in her hand. He wiped a drip of water from his chin with his coat sleeve.

“Lord Brinton found it,” she said. Absurdly, she began to blush. She hoped he wouldn’t notice.

“A lone latecomer,” Brinton explained. “All the others have withered, but this one was trying valiantly to defy the passing season.” He looked at Gillian. “It seemed appropriate.”

His open expression altered abruptly, as if a mask had suddenly been slipped into place. He turned to his horse to put the cup away.

“Our horses will be worn out by the time we get to Bridgnorth. We will have to change them there, and see what other transportation we can hire. I also think it will be time for Gillian to resume her natural form.” He looked at her, once again a model of politeness and control. “You have some appropriate clothes left in the satchel? Orcutt is looking for you disguised as a boy. We will need to throw him and any other agents he has notified off the scent any way we can.”

Chapter Thirteen

Ominous clouds had begun to gather in the afternoon as the three weary travelers swayed and bounced in their hired carriage over the roads toward Shrewsbury. As darkness came, they had sought shelter at a farm and now prepared to spend the night in the farmer’s barn. “She be dry ’n warm enough,” the ancient owner of the barn assured them as they sat in his kitchen, eating bread and stew.

Gillian had shed her boy’s clothing at the inn where the trio had stopped in Bridgnorth. The problem of getting out again unnoticed in her new identity had been solved by a quick exchange of confidences with a maid in the hallway. Gillian had convinced the maid to help her escape the dishonorable advances of a fictional gentleman by slipping down the servants’ stairs and out the back of the inn. When Brinton and Gilbey left via the front, they had merely explained that their servant had already gone out ahead of them to prepare their carriage.

Sitting now in the cozy farm kitchen outside of Shrewsbury, Gillian felt awkwardly out of place in her elegant walking dress. Nonetheless, she was certain that the simple meal served by the farmer’s wife was more delicious than anything she had consumed in weeks, possibly months. She was extremely grateful to sit on something that wasn’t in motion and was more than ready to haul her aching bones out to the barn with Gilbey when they finished their food. Brinton stayed behind for a few minutes to talk with the old couple.

Gilbey led the way to the barn, carrying a lantern. As Gillian spread her cloak over a mound of sweet-smelling hay, her brother approached her.

“Gillie, have you confronted Brinton about his uncle?”

“About his uncle?”

“You know, about why he chose not to tell us who he was! About why he is helping us, or his feelings about the betrothal?”

“No,” Gillian answered slowly. She smoothed a wrinkle out of the cloak and sat down on it. “There never seemed to be a good time to bring it up.”

“You notice he has said nothing more about it himself, even though he must know that we heard Orcutt address him.”

She could have asked the earl, Gillian knew very well. There had been opportunities, if not good ones—last night, for instance, or during their stops along the way today. Why had she avoided it? Was she afraid of angering him by bringing it up? Or afraid to hear what his answer might be?

“Perhaps we should both ask him together when he comes out,” she offered without enthusiasm. She could not even begin to try to explain to Gilbey her hesitation. How could she explain what she did not understand herself?

The rattle of rain began then on the roof of the barn. From a gentle patter it quickly developed into a full-fledged roar. The twins heard Brinton’s running footsteps and his “Devil take it!” just before the barn door swung open and he dashed inside.

“Shouldn’t do that,” he gasped, looking at the twins apologetically as he clutched his chest. He coughed and gulped for air. Finally, as the spasm passed, he sighed. “Sometimes I forget,” he said. Still looking shaken, he sat down in the hay.

His clothes were wet. His hair was wet and dripped over his forehead. Although he brushed it back absently, it fell forward again, making him look rather forlorn and bedraggled. To Gillian he looked boyish and very vulnerable. At that moment she wished very much that Gilbey would say nothing.

Gilbey, however, wasted no time. “Brinton, my sister and I would like very much to know why you chose to conceal from us that you and the Earl of Grassington are related.”

Brinton’s shoulders seemed to sag. Gillian looked away, then down, suddenly finding the toes of her slippers quite fascinating in the way they peeked out from under her skirt.

“Oh, that,” she heard Brinton say. “Yes, I suppose I knew you would be asking me about that eventually.” He paused, seeming to search for the proper words. “At the risk of offending you, I must say that at first I did not believe your story. Or at least, I was not certain if I did. The coincidence of our meeting in Taunton was rather remarkable, I am sure you will agree. And quite frankly, the story you told me directly contradicted what my uncle had said.”

Gillian risked a glance in Brinton’s direction. She found he was looking directly at her. In a soft, deep voice, he continued.

“Despite what either of you may think, my uncle is an honorable man. He told me himself that his bride-to-be was eager and willing. What was I to think when I met up with you two and learned that Gillian is supposedly this same bride-to-be, fleeing from a future that is clearly abhorrent to her?”

He did not wait for an answer. “I thought the best course would be to say nothing of my relationship until I could somehow verify one version or the other. You did not seem to know who I was, so I thought it would do no harm.”

“I can see that you were in an awkward position,” Gilbey said generously.

Gillian, however, was incredulous. “How could Lord Grassington have the nerve to make such a claim? It is absurd! He never even spoke with me!”

“You never met with him?” Brinton asked sharply.

“No! He is a most reclusive neighbor. I have met him only a few times in the past at obligatory social functions.”

“I told you how he refused to receive me when I tried to call on him,” Gilbey added. “We have had no direct contact with him at all.”

“Uncle William,” whispered Gillian with sudden, final comprehension. “He handled everything.”

“I am afraid that must be so,” agreed Brinton. “The baron must have told my uncle that you favored the match. It is not as inconceivable as you might think. My uncle is, after all, an earl, and exceedingly wealthy. He is also your nearest neighbor—your lands abut, I believe? For some, that is more than enough basis for a marriage.”

“Not for me,” Gillian said hotly. Then, suddenly shifting the focus of her thoughts, she asked, “I wonder how Uncle William explained to Lord Grassington my running away?”

“Perhaps he did not tell him,” suggested Gilbey.

“But Lord Grassington is a magistrate! Could Uncle William have brought in Bow Street without his backing?”

“That is a good question,” Brinton answered, rubbing his fingertips together thoughtfully.

“What made you decide to believe us?” Gilbey asked him.

To the twins it seemed a simple question, but Brinton hesitated. He got up and paced a few steps into the shadows, then came back into the circle of light cast by the lantern. “I am not aware that I ever actually decided,” he said slowly. “While we were in Bath, I had some discreet inquiries made about you, but nothing confirmed or disproved your version of the story. I suppose our friend Orcutt helped to convince me.”

He stopped, but Gillian sensed that he had left a great deal unsaid. “Even if you had believed us, it does not explain why you helped us,” she prompted.

“At first it was only a gentleman’s gesture to fellow travelers in distress,” he said, adding with a small smile, “Perhaps there was a measure of curiosity as well.”

Was that all it had been
?

“When I learned your story in Bridgwater, I felt obliged to continue until I could get to the bottom of the matter.”

“And now?” Gilbey asked.

“Now that we have come this far together, how could I in good conscience abandon you?”

Such a tidy answer,
thought Gillian. Why did she feel such a sinking in her heart? What answer had she hoped to hear?

There was a momentary silence, filled only with the restless stirrings of the animals in the barn and the thunderous pounding of rain on the roof.

“Have you no qualms about crossing your uncle?” asked Gilbey finally. “It appears that he desired the marriage, regardless of the role our own uncle played in arranging it.”

Brinton sighed. “No, for I believe the results of our actions will be in his best interest, as well as yours.” He looked at Gillian. “He wanted the marriage based on erroneous information. He would never force a young woman into marriage against her will.”

The earl turned his gaze toward the lantern, as if he might find some sort of answer in its warm glow. “Assuredly there is some scheme afoot. Pembermore must have expected to profit by arranging the match, but for my life I cannot see how.”

Gilbey smiled. “We thought that, too, Gillian did an admirable job of browbeating our solicitor into trying to unravel that. Unfortunately, we could not stay to find out whether he succeeded.”

“You browbeat solicitors, too?” Brinton said, turning back to Gillian with a low whistle. “What a versatile young woman you truly are, Miss Kentwell!”

Gillian was not sure if he was mocking her now or simply teasing. She felt the color rising in her face and hoped the lantern light was dim enough to conceal it. “I did not browbeat poor Mr. Worsley, I merely reminded him that my brother will reach his majority soon, and that Gilbey will have more power and wealth than our uncle once that happens. I simply suggested that Mr. Worsley should take care to see on which side his bread was buttered.”

“I gather that this solicitor serves both you and your uncle? We may untangle this coil yet.”

Gillian could not seem to shake off her low spirits or soothe the undefinable ache she felt as the trio proceeded to settle in for the night. She supposed she ought to feel relieved; she had not wanted to believe that Brinton was moved to help her and her brother only out of interest for his inheritance. Yet somehow, she must have been hoping for something more—some revelation of a personal interest in her and Gilbey’s fate. Brinton’s marriage proposal had quite clearly been prompted by guilt and a slavish devotion to duty. How right she was to maintain a distance from him now! Obviously, a few kisses under the stars meant nothing.

Gillian wrapped her cloak around her tightly and tried to get comfortable in her bed of hay. The barn was surprisingly warm, thanks to the body heat of the nearby animals and the soft protection of the hay. She was exhausted, but still she did not manage to sleep right away. Her mind was too full.

Later in the night she awoke to hear Brinton coughing. She heard him get up and move about. A little light slipped into the barn when he opened the door, and then it was dark again as he went out, closing it behind him.

Listening, she realized that the rain had stopped. She could hear Brinton’s coughing continuing faintly somewhere outside. She fought the urge to go to him.
He does not need comfort from me
, she told herself sternly. She burrowed deeper in the hay, biting her lip. She would keep her distance. After a long while of waiting to hear him return, she fell back asleep.

***

In the early morning they took their carriage into Shrewsbury. The little city was already bustling with traffic rattling through the narrow cobbled streets, splashing muddy water onto unwary pedestrians. After parting with their vehicle at the busy Lion Inn, the twins and Brinton carefully made their way to the New Raven in Castle Street. There the earl booked outside seats on the next available northbound coach for “Mr. Bradbury and his niece and nephew.”

When it came time to depart, their beefy coachman was only too happy to hand “Miss Bradbury” up, giving her a pinch and a lascivious wink. Brinton and Gilbey put Gillian between them to protect her from such depredations by their fellow passengers.

“I cannot see any advantage whatsoever to traveling in proper dress,” the girl grumbled between clenched teeth, linking her left arm through her brother’s with some idea of preventing him from tumbling off in the event of erratic driving by their coachman. She was intensely aware of Brinton on her other side, pressed against her by the crowding of other occupants of the roof seats. Finally, there was the crack of the coachman’s whip and with a sudden lurch and a jingle of harness, they set off.

The day’s journey was long and wearying, covering some ninety miles measured by the passing hours and stops at tollbooths, stops at inns, and the continuous march of mileage markers all along the turnpikes. At every stop Brinton and the twins watched guardedly for suspicious strangers asking questions or any other indication that they were being sought.

Gillian secretly believed that it would be impossible for anyone not to remember Brinton if he were described to them, as he cut such a dashing figure. She prayed that Orcutt might not pursue their case, although even such a sheltered country lass as she was knew the reputation of the persistent Bow Street Runners.

Ignoring the unavoidable pressure of Brinton’s body against hers used a great deal of her energy as the day progressed, adding to her worrying about Orcutt. So did ignoring the behavior of their coachman, who seemed to relish every opportunity he had to handle her. She was relieved of that burden, at least, when they changed drivers.

The new coachman lacked the jovial good humor of his predecessor, but he appeared to find young women reduced to riding outside seats on coaches common and quite beneath his notice. Indeed, the fellow seemed interested only in speed. He missed no opportunities to spring the horses on straight stretches of road. His solution to deep mud was to run up on the roadbanks, tipping the coach so that passengers and luggage all hung in the balance for long seconds until the vehicle regained the flat ground and righted itself. Gillian found herself clinging to Gilbey with both hands, while Brinton held tightly onto her.

It was dark before the coach stopped for the night at the Green Man in Preston. The sensation of tilting, rocking, and bouncing aboard the coach for an entire day followed Gillian to bed. There she dreamed that she and Brinton were careening down an unknown road in a coach with no driver and no horses.

No one questioned the identity of the northbound passengers in Preston, and the travelers started off again in the morning with somewhat lighter spirits. Another good day’s traveling would see them to the Scottish border.

Their new driver was a singer with a taste for drinking songs and bawdy ballads. He encouraged the lusty enthusiasm of his rooftop passengers, inviting them to join him on the choruses. Their lively tunes floated out across the countryside as the coach bowled along, flirting with the Lancaster canal that danced close to the road at times and then dodged away, only to return again.